Found

There are dozens.

Unearthed.  Scrappy.

I open the door.

Some try to get out.

Casanova figure-eights,

makes love to my boots.

Fat one naps in a hammock,

another watches from the eaves.

Then there is you.  Waiting.  

I practice this moment in my head,

half-remembered.  Silent.

Nostalgia draws us, deliberate,

as if we have always.

I hold you, feel the scratch.

Look in your melancholy eyes.

Tell me everything.

I like to be sad.

tk/July 2014


Beautiful poignant read from R.A.D. Stainforth... 

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Jealous Cat

Make noise.

Lots of jangle.  Bang.

Strut about.  Headbutt. 

Protected only by persistence.

Phone.  Splat of postie's drop.

Arouses more than catnip.

Dinner.  Feign disinterest.

Hope for eager pitch.  Sale.

Evening fare coaxed.  Bowled.

Listen for full exhale.  Then?

Lap is occupied.  Go.

Curl the coat.  Sleep.

Dream unused lives. 

tk/April 2014




R.A.D. Stainforth calmly considers a pussycat: 

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*The King of Cats, 1935, Balthus

The Cat's Pyjamas

Body swerve corners,

curve neck to kneecap,

roll the reds.

Your eyes button perfectly

in their buttonholes.

The way you bat at the gear shift,

leave certain things unsaid,

dislodges everything.

Purring at the light

has something to do with it.

You know they gave you a license

because of your short skirt

and outrageous hair.

Somehow you always land

on your feet.

tk/September 2013

I coaxed R.A.D. Stainforth into a delightful mid-week read...