Tempestuous Fortuna,

Be gentle with me.

I yield to the gusts of your bellows; buffet me not too hard.

I bend to the strength of your touch; do not break me.

I commit my vessel to the throes of your ocean; see me home.

Even-handed Fortuna,

I entrust myself into your keeping.

Give to me and take from me in turn.

Give me a chance, that I may have a hand in my destiny.

Take from me all sense of entitlement.

Sweet Fortuna,

Be my advocate to the Fates.

Pray that their hands be supple with my thread.

They know me for what I am.

You know me for what I might be.

To the Cat God:

Perhaps here, in a linen city beside a river of indigo

Set in sugary sands that cloy like the touch of velvet,

Under wisps of numen woven ’round a bone button moon,

Wearing your banner, the color of crocus,

I shall find another no less than you in stature,

One just as kindly, to lead astray.

From a lab rat.

Oh, it’s strange to be written a poem,

by a guy when you don’t hardly know’m,

and he only just barely knows you.

What a muse-unexpected to do?

If they’re cute, and he knows how to crank’m,

it’s enough to decorously thank’m,

by enjoying and being amused,

even if he’s a little confused.

For a poet ain’t much of a lover,

in a bed with a girl under cover,

but he knows one good trick: he can rhyme “limerick,”

whether he’s underneath or above’r.

To the Cat God:

This is the poem I never wrote for you.

Would that I could write it twice; I would write it anew.

Listening with ears, looking with eyes,

feeling almost human, to my surprise,

though not unlike a shrew in cat’s disguise.

The object of my ruse, the greatest of my fears

is felinity in fox couture, wild despite five-thousand years.

Sing; dance–speak, perchance.

Strike a pose, and show me how you feel.

Stay. Play. Take your scales and weigh.

Only say the word, and I shall be healed.

This is the poem I never wrote for you.

Would that I could write it twice; I would right it anew.

From a church mouse