My film, Dying for a Baby was included in Lifetime’s
Don’t Mess with Mommy Movie Marathon.
KIKA AND SNIFF: ADVENTURE IN THE BELOWLANDS
by Kat Sawyer, illustrated by Brandon McKinney, independently published, 186 pages, $15
The faithful pear tree drips with nubile fruit.
Around her barky leg, a squash vine twines
and zigzags like a hungry cat.
Fat submarine zucchini lurks
half-sunken in a sea of dust and leaves.
Along its leathery back,
a lusty, lawn-green mantis cha chas
toward a trove of snow white treats.
of magpies –
One two three four five –
Piano keys against a cobalt sky.
And from inside a snug adobe tucked beneath
grand poplar trees, her turquoise door and windows open wide,
Bach and Brahms.
Bright laundry hangs like prayer flags in the warm September breeze.
The month of May's a wayward time.
We may have rain. The sun may shine.
It may be cold. The wind may blow.
We may have sleet or even snow.
If it's frigid, you can bet
your goosebumps may begin to sweat.
Picnicking brings without fail
a dump of ping-pong ball-sized hail.
Annuals you planted early
may turn limp or black and curly.
Sunbathing may not seem so wrong.
Just wear a parka with your thong.
Musing on this fickle season,
though in rhyme, there's hardly reason
to heed what weathermen might say
because it may not or it may.
Tucked between two briny rocks
a lavender anemone contorts and waves
her fleshy arms
in rhythm with the sea.
The ocean rushes in to claim my feet -
her sandy, foaming fingers
vainly hissing in retreat.
I troll the strand for gifts
presented by the tide:
A tennis ball
A lobster claw
A plastic shovel
intertwined with kelp and fishing line.
A gull strolls nonchalantly near to me –
his clever eye considering the possibility
of sharing in my noon repast.
He opens wide his beaky lips
and with a shrill, indignant screech,
he wings away along the beach
to raid some unsuspecting bather’s
bag of pita chips.
Pelicans patrol in fine formation
breaking rank to plunge face-first
into the herring-rich lagoon.
A barnacle-gray giant
breaks the far horizon
bounding on to colder waters north
to feed and breed,
then, south again to tropic calving grounds.
The tang of sea wind tangling my hair
A tropic ocean pulsing through my veins,
I walk the shore.
My feet sink deep.
Two footsteps pause for one brief life,
then wash away and are no more.