Time Upon a Hill: A Halloween Poem

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Time Upon a Hill

I lay upon the ground at night
Upon All Hallow’s Eve
And set my ears and eyes aright
So that they would perceive
The spirits walking through the sky
Or roaming ‘cross the ground
With eyes shut gently by and by
With ears shut to all sound
I waited there so patiently
Out on the grassy hill
But not a soul came near to me
The air was light and still
Alas I realized too late
Why I was all alone
I came to recognize my fate
I saw my aged bones
Through empty and unseeing eyes
I heard with deafened ears
There’d been a lack of mournful sighs
For the past thousand years
I lay upon the ground at night
A thousand Halloweens
Just waiting till the time was right
For my spirit to be seen
Perchance you’ll be the lucky soul
To see me when I rise
And dance upon the clouds that roll
Across the purple skies
But luckier I think you’d be
To die and rot away
Then you can come and dance with me
Until the end of days
But fear not me, nor death my sweet
You’re young and full of time
So go and carve and trick-or-treat
And I will pause my rhyme
For I remember well my rest
Upon the hill of green
Someday perchance you’ll join me
On a blessed Halloween.

Your Grouchy Old Cat

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Your Grouchy Old Cat: Form 1

Old man, old man, sitting in the dark.

Eyes wide, teeth tucked,

Waiting in the dark.

Old soul, old soul, eight times out of nine.

He will not beg or whine-

Eight times out of nine.

Old tom, old tom, death’s a callin’ you

You hear it in your whiskers.

An old soul’s callin’ you.

Old man, old man, the mice have run away.

The birds have gone to branch.

The prey has run away!

Old soul, old soul, I see it in your eyes.

Confused, upset, resigned,

I see it in your eyes.

Old tom, old tom, death’s a callin’ you.

Soon you’ll be the hunted.

The old man’s callin’ you.

 

Soon you’ll be the hunted.

Death’s a callin’ you.

 

 

 

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Yeah, it’s a bit of a downer. This cat is an odd mixture of understanding and anger. He can tell he’s old – he’s lived a long life for a cat. I think he gets the sense that he should be dead and is not, and yet he also thinks he should not be dead because no animal wants to be dead. Then again, he could just be a bastard.

 

I like to give cats the benefit of the doubt.

 

Anyway, here is the other way I saw this idea going:

 

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Your Grouchy Old Cat: Form 2

He doesn’t hate me,
He doesn’t hate you.
He’s looking at his ending
And wondering what to do.

Could we ask for humor?
Could we ask for purrs?
A gentle snuggle fluff ball
Of warm, inviting fur?

How could we be so callous?
How could we be so blind?
He’s got his end before him –
Death is on his mind

He’s wrestling with the cosmos.
He’s fighting tooth and claw.
He’s blood and pulse and claw marks.
He’s no widdle thing at all.

So before we go pass judgment
On his twitchy tabby ass
Let’s recognize his struggle
And give those bites a pass.

Yes, feel free to be a bastard,
It might be just as well
That you get a little practice,
Before you go to Hell.