Poetry by Lula Belle

Beach Cat


Kingfisher (Photo credit: Sergey Yeliseev)

Walks along at middle eve after a still hot

fried-egg day.


next to some scrubby beach grass

oblivious and warm

beneath a swarm of dive-bombing Kingfishers.

This cat worries not for the birds

and finds the perfect spot to squat.

Kingfishers dive and worry–

Beach Cats do not–



View of the Dan River in Danville, Virginia.

View of the Dan River in Danville, Virginia. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I follow you into an August river

somewhere in Virginia.

You take off your shirt and toss it

careless to the side as you enter

still glassy water.

I follow behind (a clumsy entrance)

disrupting things

scaring off the small fish swimming beneath.

We wait for minutes

or hours

feet sinking in the sludge of riverbed.

You are ahead of me scanning the water

while slivers of light slice through the Ash canopy

highlighting your sinewy arms, your strong back.


You are perfect.

Then you turn to look at me

giving the signal

it’s time to move now.

Here I am standing waist deep in a river somewhere

chasing you

chasing your fish

soaking wet–


He Brings His Work Home

He brings them home again tonight.

Waxing Crescent Moon Waxing crescent moon at dusk.

Waxing Crescent Moon Waxing crescent moon at dusk. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I watch them follow his heavy feet to our door beneath a laughing crescent moon.

Hoping to let in only him I open the door just enough,

but he swings it wide open wide and they all come inside.

Working through a crowd in the kitchen

I heat up some leftovers while he removes his lab coat,

which often arrives with blood and vomit and God knows what else on it.

We all gather round the table–

to not eat–

but most of them cannot stay in their seats.

Instead they float up and out of their chairs

or in and out of the china cabinet

or even straight up through the table.

They hover above us like human clouds.

I shoot him a look–

he shrugs, as if to say

What can I do?

We try talking to each other beneath the only light

that is on inside the only house

with a light on

on our street

but it is no use talking over a chorus of mourning.

We give up and go to bed,

but they follow us there, too.

They do not sleep while we sleep:

they poke his feet and tug my hair,

some even slide in between us

trying for one last touch of what it is

to be alive.

They will be gone in the morning.

I imagine it is because sometime tonight

in the dark quiet of our room,

while we are breathing deeply and dreaming,

some thing will open up–

like a celestial vacuum

or a great circle of light–

to take them where they ought to go–


All of Lula Belle’s poetry is copyrighted material © 2011 Lula Belle

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