Wings

Death flies on wings of moonlight,
Poisoning dreams in the course of its flight.
Life comes on wings of the sun,
Bringing balance when the night is done.

Dawn breaks on angels' wings,
Casting grace onto all living things.
Dusk falls on ravens' wings,
Carrying a banner of fallen kings.

Discord arrives on the wings of fancy,
Taking a risk on words that are chancy.
Peace draws near on the wings of a dove,
Bringing an olive branch and teachings of love.

Noon soars on eagles' wings,
Strong and steady as it sings.
Midnight slips by on skylarks' wings,
Finding dreams to which it clings.

And lastly, I, on wings of light,
Soar in the breeze and bid farewell to the night.

From Muffin With Love

Tuesday had begun in an alarmingly normal fashion. Judy had sent her alarm clock to the floor with a fist, sat up, yawned, and gone to brush her teeth. Muffin, her beloved companion, had shown his love for her by leaving a half eaten lizard on the kitchen floor. The cat himself was nowhere to be seen, which was typical. Only when he was hungry did he deign to show his face indoors.

The cheap coffee made her choke a little on the first sip, but she forced herself to swallow. At least it was hot, caffeinated, and heading for her bloodstream. She quickly opened the door to snatch the paper from the porch before the chilly wind could leech the warmth from inside the apartment.

When she turned back, an envelope sat next to the lizard. Crisp and white, it hadn’t been there two seconds ago. Her name was in black ink, the envelope was sealed, and she didn’t know anyone who could do calligraphy like that.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, a letter in the same elegant script.

That’s when her normal day ended.

My Dearest Judy,
I’m writing to get a few things straight with you, and I cannot in good conscience return home until I have said my piece. I hope you like the lizard. It took me all day to chase him down. I feel that it is my duty to explain what humans seem to consider “typical cat behavior.”
Firstly, I believe I speak for all cats when I say that Muffin is an utterly humiliating name. My true name is far too complex to explain to a human. You simply would not comprehend it, but you may call me Tessercat. And just because I am a cat does not mean that I am inferior to you. If anything, the opposite is true.

Consider this: I don’t have to feed myself if I don’t want to do so. You do it for me quite happily. I can leap several times my height, and I (like all cats) walk with a proverbial paw in another world.

You poor bipeds have your three dimensions and your tiny sliver of visible light in the spectrum. You live in houses of wood, stone and glass, and you wonder why we consider ourselves the better species?

The ancient Egyptians had it right for the most part. We are above and beyond you in almost every way. I cannot easily explain my world to the human mind. In essence, I can see space. Every dimension at once. Your world is so small, and comparing it to mine would be like calling a child’s stick-figure sketch equivalent to a Greek statue. There is simply too much scope and detail in the statue to make a comparison.

A face from your perspective consists of two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and perhaps you can see the hair and a bit of the ears. In my world, my dimension, I see all of it. Face, hair, bald spot, the back of the head, everything at once, and this is normal.

When I look at you, my dear human, I see every hair, every wrinkle, your back, your legs, hands, palms, knees, and everything in between. What you see of me is not my true shape, only that single part that dips into your three-dimensional world. I can’t even begin to explain what I really look like, because there are simply no words for it. No human has seen the fourth dimension, so how can you describe it? How would you describe the concept of “up” to a scribble on a page? Would you even try?

This is my universe. I see space, time, and everything in between. I taste music, feel smells, and hear flavor. This is the existence of a cat.

My purpose therefore, is to ask that you change my name to something less humiliating. Signing this letter “From Muffin with Love” just seems silly. Judy, I would not ask this if it was not important to me. You’re my human, and I love you (as evidenced by the lizard), so please end my torture. I am the laughing-stock of my associates.
Regards,
Tessercat

Judy stared at the letter for several minutes. Was this a joke? She was halfway to the trashcan before she noticed Muffin sitting on the lid, head cocked to the side, whiskers twitching, and with black ink stains on his right forepaw.

She blinked, and Muffin blinked back.

Feeling irrational, she asked him, “Did you write this?” She held the letter tightly and at arms length, as if it might bite her.

She almost fainted when her cat nodded. This was ridiculous.

“Muffin?”

His reaction was to sniff disdainfully and twitch his tail.

She started to giggle. Honestly, who could blame her? She had just received a letter and half a lizard from her fourth-dimensional cat. She picked him up, rubbed his tummy, and decided that Tessercat was a fine name indeed.

Lydia

In the end, we all discover the futility of life.

Dora Anderson sits in the window seat. Bright sunbeams struggle through the tiny seams between the blinds, dust motes swirl and scatter like honey bees at the end of summer, desperate to cover as much ground as possible before winter swallows their precious flowers.

Opaque white eyes see none of it. In withered old hands is gripped a stuffed penguin, once bright green. Mr. Apple is the affectionate moniker given to him by Lydia.

She would often see Lydia and Mr. Apple walking--no, stalking--down the hallway with a flashlight, on some grand adventure. Whether it was an African safari in the kitchen or exploring an Egyptian tomb in the living room, they were inseparable.

Mr. Apple's fur had been soft and bright, then. Now, Dora can feel patches where the soft fur has rubbed off completely, and he is missing a button eye. Who knows what color his plumage is now?

Stiffly, slowly, she rises from the window seat, penguin in hand. With the aid of a guiding stick, she easily navigates through the small town. She counts her steps. One hundred and twenty down Main Street, make a left, and walk thirty-two more. A gate and latch are easily dealt with before fifteen paces right and nine forward.

She drops the pole, reaches out, finds cold, smooth stone.

Lydia Anderson
Beloved Daughter
1981-1989

She knows the inscription well. Her fingers have traveled over them for almost twenty years.

She leaves Mr. Apple leaning against the headstone, wishes Lydia "happy birthday," and picks up her guiding stick. It's time to let go.

Hold Me Close

Winds blow strong and menacing
The earth shakes beneath my feet
My thoughts are scattered and wandering
I am about to concede defeat

Hold me close in your arms
Cradle my fragile heart in your hands
Close to you, I'm safe from harm
There's no better place in this No Man's Land

Hold me as I weep
Hold me till I'm strong
Hold me and keep me
I'll have to let go before long

I don't want to face the night on my own.

copyright 2008 H.J. Hanauer

Meant for More

Why do we stand
In the middle of the stream?
Why don't we take
A chance and lead the team?

We are meant to live
For so much more.
We are meant to be
More alive than ever before.

Don't just stand there,
Live out loud, dream it up.
You'll never know
Until you take the plunge.

Do you want to live
Your life in stagnation
Or do you want to feel
The breeze caress your face?

We are meant to live
For so much more.
We are meant to be
More alive than ever before.

We are meant to be human.

copyright 2008 H.J. Hanauer

Don't

Kiss the rain
Sing to the skies
Don't bother with drying
The tears I see in your eyes

I'm there for you
When life carries
You away in a deluge
Of fear, of pride, of failure
We all make mistakes

Don't hide away
Don't lower your eyes
I want to see you
I'll help you learn how to fly

Mine?

Given breath, given life,
Given sorrow, given strife,
Knowledge learned
Through work and life,
Is anything truly mine?

Father's eyes, mother's chin,
Sister's laugh and brother's grin,
Face defined
By blood and bone,
Is it even mine?

My own mind, my own sin,
My own voice, and my own skin,
What good are they
In my life
When nothing's truly mine?

Lessons learned and put to heart,
Even though it's torn apart,
These things are mine
And mine alone.

And none shall take them from me.

Rain: A snapshot of reunion.

It was raining. Again.

Sarah McKinley hated the rain. The sky became gray and dreary, the moisture falling from the sky was frigid, it soaked you to the skin almost instantly, and it made everything muddy and slick. The only thing she liked about the occasional desert rainstorm was the smell: cool and clean, drifting up from the pavement and whispering in her ear about far off places and scattered dreams.

In Arizona, rain was rare, and she didn't believe in dreams anymore.

She shuffled over to the couch to grab a pair of slippers. She needed to check the mail, and there was no way she wanted to get her feet wet. When she opened the door, moist air and musty fragrance flooded the living room. Her cat looked up briefly from his nap on the recliner, vaguely curious, but too lazy to investigate the change in the air.

Sarah walked out to the driveway, shoulders hunched against the cold wet spatter that still fell from the sky. She heard someone down the street belting out an off-key rendition of "Singin' in the Rain," and decided that they needed to be shot. But not by her. She was too cold and wet and miserable. I should have been born as a cat, she thought.

When she turned, mail in hand, to go back inside, she screamed. No! That couldn't be...

"Sarah?" The ghost by her front door smiled wanly.

Even though she knew it wasn't possible, she let the whisper fall from her lips. "Brian?"

His vague smile turned into a full-blown grin. "What can I say, 'lil sis?" He chuckled, "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

In the next instant, the mail lay forgotten on the soaked concrete driveway, and Sarah McKinley was sobbing in the arms of her assumed-dead brother.

It was still raining. Large drops of cold water fell from the sky onto the siblings, and Sarah decided something in that moment: She loved the rain.

Pen & Paper

Here I am again,
Alone with my thoughts
Wandering the depths
Of my mind.

Two candles are lit
By the window.
The flames sputter and twist,
Giving me light and warmth.

Pen touches paper,
Glides on a black streak
Through a boundless sea
Of white perfection.

Symbols soon form.
Letters convey thoughts,
Not blemishing the
Inimitable page,
But enhancing purpose.

From these simple words,
A story unfolds
Telling of beauty and pain
Of sorrow and joy.

A catharsis of thought
From a pen
And a page
And a candle-lit room.

This is peace.
This is perfection.
This is purpose.

copyright 2008, H.J. Hanauer

On the Shores of Shattered Dreams

Far away
On the shores of Shattered Dreams
A small, lone traveler
Learns that nothing is as it seems

Promises fade
Love is buried
The only constant things
Are death and decay

On the shores of Shattered Dreams
That one small traveler
Knows that no one can hear him
Even when he screams

He wanders on the shore
Made of sharp, jagged, unforgiving stone
The waves beat an angry rhythm
On that cold black stone

The sky is dark with stormclouds
Lightning cracks across the sky
Causing our young traveler
To look up and scream to the sky
"Who am I?"

"Am I just another face
You see as you walk down the street?
Am I someone you've met face-to-face
Or is that just another illusion from my tormented mind?"

The wind does not answer him
Nor do the waves
The sky still crackles with bright fire
They do not listen to his cries

The wind carries his words away
To be lost in the storm
As if they had never been spoken

And the traveler
Weary and lost
Sinks to his knees
On the shores
Of Shattered Dreams

copyright 2005 H.J. Hanauer