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Scat the Black Cat
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This is a poem I wrote the year my mum passed away. Even though Christmas has passed, I thought I would share it again as a special tribute to her, my little bird!
Now the clock is ticking
Santa is drawing near
We’ve put up your Christmas decoration
Since you won’t be here
No struggling, cursing, crying
To get you through the door
And the happy sense of achievement
When your wheels touch the kitchen floor
We won’t choose the meal together
Since last year’s meal was your last
No fighting over whose house to visit
Now that you’re in the past
I’m going to try not to miss you
When I don’t see you sitting there
Children reaching to open their presents
They’ve kept back, so that moment, with you, they could share
Every minute of Christmas this year
Will breathe in for a new tradition
As you, dear Mum won’t be there
Since you’ve taken a life-long intermission.
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Threads dispersed, tendrils drifting,
Cross stitches holding my heart together
Fragile grips for forever
Like kisses on a broken organ.
Undisclosed attachments to materialistic grips
Patterned designs meant for purpose
But, oh, giving me goose bumps of joy
As I blanket stitch them together.
Expressing my toxic insides
Filtering them with padding
Slip stitch my lips so nothing escapes;
Shh! Here comes the blunt truth…
Nothing can hold back the black and white
No shade. Backstitch that bad stuff,
But the running stitch won’t erase it.
The stark truth prevails like a blind stitch.
Consume my physical receptacle
Pool your passion as you will
Favour the inevitable
As I swallow the bitter pill
Of realising your incompetence
Of being more than a physical presence
Leave me yearning for more substance
In my search for a soulmate’s essence.
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