WHY WALK

I like to walk, although sometimes doing so poses a problem or two.

The first poem, George, was a suggested assignment by his parents, who approved the result

while understanding my preference for felines, as these poems will illustrate.

George (photo included)

Sunset Date

I Walk A Lake

Ode to Crockett Roads

(Berkeley Poetry Walk)

GEORGE

Not Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ & Pie,

kissing the girls and making them cry,

not Curious George, the adventurous monkey,

this George is a barker, a dachshund that’s spunky.

Protecting his parents

(they’re named Bud and Bev),

George pickets their white fence,

short legs in full rev,

’til I, who daily trespass on his block,

must give up my pitiable efforts at talk

to amble away, nearer cats who don’t bark,

who silently creep except when they’re parked,

curled up in their fur balls, their feline sleep deep,

undisturbed by far sounds, George’s barks, soft bird cheep.

--Meet George--

SUNSET DATE

Late in the day

I walk or jog

for movement's sake.

I carry spray

against bad dogs

who have escaped,

but none for cats.

Felines I pet,

and one awaits.

Now I am back.

The calico

was by her gate.

I got her head,

her ears and fur

fluffed up like so.

I am her slave.

I'm old, she's spayed,

so we behave,

but we both know

I'm not inured

to cat allure.

Just as I go,

she paws my toe

to hear me purr.

I WALK A LAKE

I leave a barking wake

of sound waves as I walk

my neighborhood's long lake

of hard, dry, black asphalt.

Both banks are lined by dogs,

each setting off the next one.

I pity those who jog

through waves of canine tension.

Protectors of their turf, these

dogs lack calm cat poise.

They push me down the street

in howling Vs of noise.

I like unruffled felines

who pose on painted porches.

Their engines purr; their clean lines,

sure --like sailboats, docked, they’re gorgeous.

ODE TO CROCKETT ROADS

In neighborhoods where autos park

on sidewalks, I’m no easy mark.

While strolling you, I hear, then see

most vehicles aimed straight at me

and jump between parked cars, intact

despite the fact they’re tightly packed.

Whatever guzzles gas will pass,

its noise and stink, a noxious mass.

However, hybrids hardly hum.

Sometimes I do not hear them come

so silently behind me that

my body could be smartly smacked

unless the driver, on the ball,

detects a trekker, fairly tall,

whose carbon footprints, hard to see,

land on your roads where wheels should be.

Published in the December 2007 Crockett Signal

For BERKELEY POETRY WALK,

please see WINNERS page, and thanks!