"RESURRECTION"
Nine months ago, I scattered our cat, Nummy’s ashes. She inspired …. For this week’s poem I am reflecting on how Nummy’s life and death stirred my desire to live creatively. Here is “Resurrection”.
RESURRECTION
Four deer visited your gravesite at dawn
heads bowed in reverent appreciation.
Nine months since we scattered
your ashes.
At your leaving a deer had galloped
up the bank behind the place of ceremony.
Nine months on I needed a reminder that
your departure marked my real work’s beginning.
Your leaving came suddenly and left
me empty. Time since has shown
there was a gap that you filled.
A life within your death conceived
vision now birthed amid spring’s blossoming
within this extinction-driven world.
You lived your life uncompromisingly
going where you willed no matter that
it was inconvenient. You taught
that life is joy when not endured.
Each day is a choice of building truth
or living a false life driven
by other’s desires impressed upon
me from those who would make
me conform to small dreams on
a faraway island, in pretence
the centre of the world.
Now a black cat visits daily
and sits contemplating beside
a green shrine marking your translation;
tomb of my resurrection.
You are not gone
you urge me on to the work
done and yet still undone.
Spring sun penetrates morning’s cloud;
leaves return to trees in this season.
Standing at the place where I scattered ashes;
I died here, I rose again.
© 2024 Phil Kemp
#spring #poem #cat #resurrection
"April Apocalypse"
This week, Little Feline Press celebrates nature's glorious creations. Recently Phil encountered two low flying hawks on a walk behind his house. This mystical encounter inspired our poem, "April Apocalypse".
APRIL APOCALYPSE
Two hawks soar over my head
as I walk this path between life and death.
Safety of ordered garden;
wildwood demanding exploration.
Two hawks drift on today’s breezes
moving as breath fills them.
With rising and tilting wings
making winds serve their destination.
Two hawks powerful over creation.
Animals scurry and hide
from these multidimensional eyes.
No prey easily escapes.
Two hawks master the skies
uncovering all in peripheral sight
while this supposed pinnacle of creation
possesses only single vision.
Two hawks rulers in the heavens;
all perceiving like divinities.
Who will challenge their dominance
over this natural realm?
Two hawks regard the earth indifferent.
When you rise above limits of ground
seeing into mystery’s heart,
you perceive eternity’s revelation.
Two hawks I offer you awed homage;
your powers draw worship.
You witness eternal futures,
open portals beyond my sight.
Wildwood demanding exploration;
safety of ordered garden.
I walk this path between life and death.
Two hawks soar overhead.
© Phil Kemp 2024
#poem #nature #spring #Iowa
"SHADOWED"
This week, Little Feline Press marks the coincidence of yesterday's total eclipse with the Easter season. Here is "Shadowed".
SHADOWED
(I)
Standing on the headland,
under a cloudless sky;
I gaze upon these ancient pillars;
blink and see coming worshippers
to Poseidon's temple.
A virgin clad in white
leads a garlanded goat
towards the altar where
a laurel-wreathed priest
awaits this day’s sacrifice.
All life is sacred;
its taking an event
in which all participate;
death and life strands of cloth,
a loom upon which all must sit.
Clock creeps towards this hour
roads have led here as
a faint black disk begins
eating away sun;
even so must youth give way
to old age and decay.
The wise have seen it all; make
ready for all too soon this day
is done, night sweeps in;
universal fate for prince and peasant.
Here is the offering
the crowd groaning
as the hungry moon
devours the sun;
goat’s blood pours.
That was a memory
returning home to a day
when shadows lengthened
the sun vanished.
Am I prepared for life’s end?
(ii)
This moment
when invading moon
turns midday to night;
unseasonal chill heralded
this dark coming
as if it were a doctor’s diagnosis
“I give you, at most, six months”.
A walking corpse inhabited
days endless procession;
recitation rendered meaningless.
Eggshell awaiting its breaking
life pouring out into the
unsympathetic void. Tell me
what stories does the grave
give. Who listens?
A road unknown and unwelcome
into a black abyss.
This hole from which no light escapes,
forsaken one cast aside;
is this the only ending?
Here lie all the worshippers
their doom written in afternoon blackness;
the beautiful wither and fade
abandoned to the lapping tide;
broken temple on the headland.
Our season seems everlasting yet
too soon oblivion cocks its skeletal finger
dissolving the essential to earth.
Poseidon’s statue fallen;
temple pillars alone remain.
(iii)
It’s over.
Crowds that have driven
in camper vans across the country
to stand in
Awakening
Little Feline Press continues the Easter season with a poem that celebrates the resurrection of everyone and everything as a manifestation of divine, eternal and all-encompassing love. This is "Awakening".
AWAKENING
He was dead,
cold stone locked him around,
young man cut down.
The mourners had left;
his beloved remained weeping
Waiting to join him in the grave.
He did not hear the crunching feet
of the unaccountably-delayed healer;
only a thunderclap shout
commanded his still body to motion.
Standing on puddled ground
heaven’s waterfalls poured down
drenched his rebirthed body
returning from earth’s womb
soaking him, this wonder
for the story he would tell
prefigurer of this miracle.
Is this a destiny for all?
For a moment, stunned silence;
then rough workingman’s scarred hands
gently unraveled his traveling clothes.
His eyes blinked and saw the people;
standing next to him, his Savior.
She was there too,
who had cried and loved;
who greeting him with a passionate embrace
led him home and into their bedroom
where now his nakedness could be no shame
drew him down into sacred union
birthed new life.
© Phil Kemp 2024
#easter #poem #spring #lovepoetry
Happy Easter from Little Feline Press to all our friends and followers!!
#cats #easter #spring #publishing
MESSIAH
This week's poem encapsulates the events of Holy Week, from Jesus' dramatic entrance to Jerusalem to the horrors of crucifixion. It speaks to the One whose life still changes lives even after 2,000 years. This is "Messiah".
MESSIAH
My father told me many years later
of the one they called “Messiah”
how he entered our devastated city
led on a donkey
with cheering crowds surrounding,
hailing him.
Outside the walls, crosses stood;
he had never seen fatter crows;
so much to feast upon;
this Messiah was one of them.
My father told me in his last days
before journeying where no
man living may know
Messiah gazed upon him.
It was a stare as if the sun itself
shone on my father’s face;
he trembled
like a tree in a breeze.
My father clutched his garment tightly
in that moment he felt naked his
exposed self spectacle to the crowd;
then the gaze turned away;
Messiah went up the hill
on his way.
After I heard father’s story
I imagined Messiah’s gaze upon me.
Messiah was a man like no other;
mystery, enigma, shadow;
I dream he comes to me
and casts my exile’s chains into the sea.
Today, where I now reside,
in the marketplace of ideas
a speaker invoked the unknown god
and named him this Messiah,
declaring him risen from Sheol.
He the one philosophers sought
true, beautiful and good.
I blushed, ashamed but proud
of the secret love I bear.
Messiah’s kiss upon my brow
is my treasure secretly desired
arriving here and now.
© 2024 Phil Kemp
#easter #poem #holyweek #jesuschrist
"Darkness Edge"
This week's poem from Little Feline Press is about grief, loss and heartbreak. May it be comfort and a balm. This is "Darkness Edge".
DARKNESS EDGE
Dreams died. Piled stained dishes
fill a sink where thin-filmed brown
water slops. Someday, they’ll get
washed.
Do I think you ever loved
or was I just fooling around?
These streets are boring. I want
out.
You say you’re restless;
want a fresh start; new
reason to wake and corral
meaning.
Enter darkness, winter winds
mock spring bring back dullness;
life of unfulfilled possibilities again
gray.
I came along an empty jar
stale wine and long sought adventure
ventured towards a lip brush
kiss.
You walked with me to
the chip shop on the corner
the night rainy and my purse
empty.
a couple of gestures;
well meaning hand
laid upon my shoulder;
statement.
Intention or promise a
wish to overturn a life
doesn’t work any more;
over.
This is the story
of one that died
in descending red fire
sunset.
Enter darkness, winter winds
mock spring bring back dullness;
life of unfulfilled possibilities again
gray.
© 2024 Phil Kemp
#death #breakup #northofengland #iancurtis
Phil and Little Feline Press would like to wish all our friends, families and followers a very happy St. Patrick's Day 2024!! #stpatricksday2024 #stpatricksday #ireland #irish
"THE RISING"
Little Feline Press is marking time's movement and the warming earth. It's time for creative imagination to liberate the world to new, healing possibilities and this is the theme of our poem, "The Rising".
THE RISING
Come all dreamers,
come all seers,
come all visionaries,
come, spring forward.
Pulling aside winter’s thick curtains,
stretching limbs, making the day our own,
smell new grass fragrance,
open to warming sun.
Whispering winds stir up life,
birds chorus unending melodies;
spring’s gales sweep away winter’s lies,
hope flowers amid tumbled trees.
Embracing our dignity
we become victory;
we are the people we were created to be,
human diversity, glorious, free.
Love’s lava river bursts asunder,
all barriers placed in its way,
swallows fear and doubt,
overturns limitation, ignites imagination.
Speakers of everlasting truth,
celebrants of human majesty,
children of sun and stardust;
this is our time.
We are, we are, children of sky;
we are, we are, people of earth;
we are, we are, glorious in unity;
we are, we are, revelators of eternity.
© 2024, Phil Kemp
#vision #poem #spring #timechange
"It Thundered"
This week, Little Feline Press is reacting to the first thunderstorm we've had in 2024. Here is "It Thundered".
IT THUNDERED
Distant rumbles amid dusk
as we return from our labours
in this anonymous city to the
suburban castle, this home world
that we pretend to order.
The storm’s noise is comfort and
also disturbance. We expect nothing
less in the spring, but the first storm
is always welcome. There is something
awaiting us, something we cannot yet see
or name but it crouches in the white
thunderhead that towers into the evening.
We have known many storms. Some have
passed with damage and downed trees, others
have feinted to deceive. Of this storm it
will be said it passed and left no visible trace;
you, though, are melting my heart.
Is this the verdict on my life or is
there something more? Will what we
have seen in lightning’s flashes prove
enduring in daylight? Must I search
for meaning or does the thunder say
all that needs saying? What is
the decision? Will I follow the path
or shall I decide
to turn aside
let others walk into rain and hail
stand under trees and allow all
this noise and light
to reveal a day wholly new
fresh sun and greened lawns
dew drying and a heatwave coming.
From these dark violent shadows
illuminating flashes reverberate.
I am small, and you are great;
in these collisions, what shall we create?
© 2024 Phil Kemp
#thunderstorm #poem #iowacity #spring
St. David's Day/Dydd Dewi Sant
Happy Saint David's Day!
(Image Generated by AI)#wales #cymru #dragons #daffodils
SOUNDTRACK
Little Feline Press is putting on its dancing shoes this week. Phil is celebrating the influence of music in his creativity, especially when linked with the divine feminine. Here is "Soundtrack".
SOUNDTRACK
She’s a warm voice of liberating possibility,
wild child now free, laced with empathy,
knife slicing open my complacency,
Challenging me to refuse their narrow destiny.
Car stereo classic rock conformity;
rebellion tamed by call center monotony;
sitting in my cube I made money,
discharged middle-class responsibility.
Male self chained up willingly,
Believed career path the only way;
All that matters material prosperity.
Song of youthful love played,
unlocked memories. I’d walked away
zealously denying inward integrity.
Arise, sing out your identity,
now is the age for certainty,
now is the time to rage intensely,
express my vision of eternity.
Prophetess of what could be,
joiner of every song stream into harmony,
unite my words into the big river’s melody;
most popular album throughout history.
© 2024 Phil Kemp
#poem #music #woman #voice
TRAVELLER
Little Feline Press gets back to basics this week with our poem "Traveller". Enjoy!
TRAVELLER
Early evening moon stands high;
sun descends between bare branches.
Entangled within trees knotted roots;
stirring primrose comes to flower.
This path walked every season,
crowds pass by to different destinations;
warm winds whisper songs long buried.
Path ever known,
standing between moon and sun,
holding space for time’s mingling.
On a branch, magpies build their nests
using dropped shiny things
left behind, worn down emotions,
feelings remaking a new home.
She comes into focus, a girl long gone
returning in present day guise;
old feelings arising
for a world desired
where art is life.
Though we parted, I never left;
dreams of meaning kept recurring.
Here I stand in a plentiful place
yet there are heaving seas within
drawing me backwards
to the days by the harbour
where we walked in the evening
watching wave-ribbons of setting sun.
Our lady of the breakwater,
statue standing where two rivers meet,
you call everyone to journey,
to that place of meeting
of land with ocean.
Now my time is come
to pay the ferryman;
open the wounds,
bring out hidden desires,
take journey across the heaving sea;
revealing treasure
lying far beyond the western horizon.
© 2024 Phil Kemp
#magpie #aberystwyth #aberystwythuniversity #Romantic
Most Excellent Word
Romance is in the air at Little Feline Press! This week's poem is about the "Most Excellent Word" in our vocabulary - watch the video and find out more!#valentine2024 #valentines2024 #lovepoetry #poem
MOST EXCELLENT WORD
Love, a short syllabic spurt
sprinting from depths of animal likeness
to sugared sentimental foothills
with snow-peaked mountains yet distant.
Sprinting from depths of animal likeness,
birdsong barrier barred my path;
with snow-peaked mountains yet distant
long buried dreams are stirred.
Birdsong barrier barred my path;
knowledge of my every betrayal;
long buried dreams are stirred;
“I have come again.”
Knowledge of my every betrayal
to sugared sentimental foothills.
“I have come again.”
Love, a short syllabic spurt;
emboldened I choose the terrible way,
await on the pinnacled summit;
yet what attractive delights
befall, beset, suck me under.
wait on the pinnacled summit
where wilderness met us;
befall, beset, suck me under,
meeting of unutterable longing.
Where wilderness met us
dare I speak this holy name?
Meeting of unutterable longing
sacrificing all to this purest height.
Dare I speak this holy name?
Yet what attractive delights,
sacrificing all to this purest height.
Emboldened I choose the terrible way.
© 2024 Phil Kemp
ACCUSTOMED
Little Feline Press is enjoying this warmer beginning to February. While spring's hints are welcome we know that winter is still close. This week's poem marks the tension between experiences and promises. Here is "Accustomed"-featuring an Iowa City landmark!
#February #poem #wintertime #spring
ACCUSTOMED
I am accustomed
to snow banks lining the streets
cold, grey, unyielding skies. I
expect northern steel winds
to break down every layer, chill
even my heart. The same
unmoving scenery parades in front of my window.
Every word is unoriginal. Reflexes glue-tight.
I anticipate that same ceaseless uselessness
that marked our ancestors toil. I walk through
the graveyard, seeing their stones,
life’s emptiness; and the wind remembers them
no more.
I am accustomed
to the rituals of futile anger,
to railing against life’s unfairness:
I plead victimhood. My leaders speak sallow
crafted evasions of vacuous words and this
year’s promises that are feather-light and
which they’ll dispose of without conscience.
I have seen it all and have no room for hatred now.
But who alone is true? The same end awaits us all.
I walk through the graveyard; lovers and unloved
clasped under the black angel’s wing.
I am accustomed
to self proclaimed nobles descending into mud
where they wrestle selfishly; those proclaiming ideals
jettisoning them as their balloon ascends;
theirs are the chariot wheels shredding every paper promise.
Words upon words, homes of finest folio offer nothing substantive.
Who are their gods? At whose altar do
these powerful kneel? Their end is the same, all they seek:
remembrance of their name. I walk through the graveyard
recognizing the names of those once influential
that still whisper, “Once we made something mighty.”
I am not accustomed
to see a stream rushing between snow banks
or hear birdsong resounding on a winter-spring morning.
My eyes have not ascended to ready made nests
enduring life amid bare branches.
Nor had I believed that a son of h
This is the week Little Feline Press becomes political. The poem "Call To Duty" is a poem about resisting war and defending democracy. #war #politics #democracy #elections
CALL TO DUTY
I
Birth was in the poppy-blood
charred mud desolation of unfarmed
fields; rain roads carried the rutting
mechanisms that created metal slaughter;
fire-ravaged villages speak of torched
loss; white crosses proclaimed
not salvation, but holocausts to come.
Death is drone’s dispatch,
impersonal foes missile sword
on our nightly news movie screen
(with surround sound screams).
On dusty roads, shawled mothers
squawling infants, abandoned homes
where only broken walls remain. Dying in streets
women and children are enemies
young conscripts are taught to fear and kill.
They are collateral damage, unfortunates
whose lives don’t matter to prophets of greed.
Do we want a world of domination
built on bones of a new generation?
Can we pause in 2024
ask what’s worth fighting for?
II
There’s a war we need to win
against revived corpse fascism;
fear of stranger, fear of other
fear of people of different gender.
Power of choice is in our hands
we can act with confidence
elect rulers who serve community
value human beauty’s diversity
build in love a true democracy.
All we have to do is get involved
march down to a voting booth;
remind these politicians
they represent ordinary people
not monied corporations.
Rise up and do this duty
great ones of this 21st century.
Give power to those who seek liberty;
make all free, make all wealthy.
© 2024 Phil Kemp
Little Feline Press decided to take a walk on the wild side with this week's poem, "A Tiger in Suburbia". Also, check out @littlefelinepress on YouTube for a special bonus feature! #tigers #poem #suburbs#suburbia
A TIGER IN SUBURBIA
TV newscaster said “Don’t go out.
Police have reported that a tiger was
seen in this neighborhood.
The public should stay indoors.”
I went out. It was a summer’s day.
I wanted to meet this feline,
learn what it had to say.
What did I know of tigers?
When a child, my school
visited a zoo. We saw
bored beasts lying on straw behind
tall wire fences;
monarchs in exile awaiting
return to their rightful station.
I walked between these suburban houses;
each home two up two down;
a front garden, grass with a flower bed,
behind a brick wall. Predictable life
spoken in whitewashed facades.
The striped cat came loping
along the middle of the deserted street.
It made no sound as it drew near
but at each step muscles rippled like a breeze
about to turn into a mighty wind. Behind, the tail
swung leisurely from side to side.
It stepped inexorably forward;
creature of power held in balanced poise,
Pulled back its ears,
displayed eternity’s eyes.
Waking that next moment
in my darkened house;
my black ceiling
streaked with orange.
Is it the alarm clock I hear,
Or a distant roar?
© 2024 Phil Kemp
The Field
This week, Little Feline Press is thinking about the beauty of winter country walks in the snow and how long a month January feels! Here is this week's poem, "The Field". #winter #january #countryside #walking
THE FIELD
To walk, you have to make
each step, deliberately lift
your foot as you progress across
this field. Your way is marked
with deep imprints in the snow. Your life,
a succession of stumblings
towards a horizon where
land and sky join together.
What are we traipsing towards?
What future hope beckons us forward,
we who have asked questions of life
who desired new birth only to
see the same wilderness as that
we first set out to cross. Surely this
is not the journey promised?
We believed for an answer to
satisfy all our questioning, one
to resolve the mystery of
what lies beyond this featureless field.
All we see is the same fixed point that
draws us on while everything around
remains the same.
Where else can I look except down
at my feet, where my footprints
indented and broke snow’s covering.
In the cracks, I see streaks of
dark earth. Somewhere deeper, water is
released to fill the ground.
Is that life enough
for breaking apart earth’s clods,
germinating seeds within the soil,
making this field fertile?
© 2024 Phil Kemp
We received our first significant snowfall today. This week's poem from Little Feline Press is therefore, a poem about snow. Here is "First of the Year". #winter #january#snowfall #Iowa
FIRST OF THE YEAR
This is a poem about snow.
Wind-blown flakes swirl
dancing down, creating
white-covered world,
blanket of innocence,
hiding place,
sanctuary of childhood memories.
I am thankful for the snow.
Snow and youthful energy;
a cornucopia of happiness,
of rides down a steep hill
in a field beside my home
our sled stopping just short
of a thin-iced river.
A day away from harsh schooling.
I am thankful for the snow.
What brings out the best in neighbors
is the camaraderie of snow.
A car stuck in a drift;
several strong men
Red-faced, pushing behind.
Then final release, joy of
accomplishment, friendship forged.
I am thankful for the snow.
Bare-branched black trees
now clothed with crystal
diamond rainbows in after-storm sun
signal a life within
that grows deep in the heart
even while the whiteness falls.
I am thankful for the snow.
This unexpected joy, a reminder
that even harshness breeds beauty
trudging through unbroken snow
slows-soaks me and makes
me appreciate that climate’s power
brings forth spring’s flowers.
I am thankful for the snow.
© 2024 Phil Kemp
Little Feline Press has returned from its winter break. Our first poem for 2024 celebrates a vital writers tool-the desk! Here is "Desk". #desksetup #writers #writing #poems
DESK
In the window of my first house,
distanced from the Christmas
tree and other presents,
red desk stands apart.
What was that desk to me?
the first place I wrote my own
words; the top lifted up and
I could store all my writing
in its interior compartment.
Sitting there, words composing
own thoughts forming
a journey of becoming
a self not conforming
to expectations constricting
society’s ties breaking
my eyes slowly turning
to the larger life within.
All my life I’ve spent at a desk;
much of that was not my choosing
but fruit of economic necessity,
until last year’s unexpected whirlwind.
Desk and computer,
weapons of imagination
deployed against forces of domination
that diminish the human person.
This year, I’ll write of worlds I long to see,
poetry and prose shaping humanity,
weaving as in a factory,
words into tapestries,
until the whole creation’s free
from the lash of corporate tyranny.
So from my desk to yours
blessings for this New Year
that in it you may find the power
to become all that you are!
© 2023 Phil Kemp
