Of Lions and Wolves by Amy Cotter

The sunlight dances on the window sill

forming rainbows that begin to spin by

during the late afternoon of summer.

The rare black lion awakes from slumber,

with a wide yawn mimicking a harsh roar.

One paw at a time she reaches them out

elongating her slim figure with ease.

Looking out the window to see what’s on,

disappointed that birds were not programmed.

She had picked this window for the TV,

for which her minions will feel her great rath.

No effort is shown as she bounds on down,

to the earth below, her dominant land.

She struts through her kingdom with style and grace,

eyes on the watch for her minions at bay.

From the corner of the room, free from sight,

a quiver of a tail avoiding her.

The wolf had been prisoner so long,

that he knew his punishment would be big.

He scurried along the ground to the wall,

heading towards his usual spot.

As he dragged his belly along the floor,

he checked from all angles to be secure.

With a sigh of relief his guard came down,

for he reached his spot, no lion around.

Circling in place, nestled in the dark,

appeared two great eyes of neon yellow.

With one last effort, the wolf tried to flee

But the lion swatted, and out came a yelp.

A win for the queen, her kingdom now back.

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Poem of the Day: Chez Jane

BY FRANK O'HARA

The white chocolate jar full of petals

swills odds and ends around in a dizzying eye   

of four o’clocks now and to come. The tiger,   

marvellously striped and irritable, leaps   

on the table and without disturbing a hair   

of the flowers’ breathless attention, pisses   

into the pot, right down its delicate spout.

A whisper of steam goes up from that porcelain   

urethra. “Saint-Saëns!” it seems to be whispering,   

curling unerringly around the furry nuts   

of the terrible puss, who is mentally flexing.   

Ah be with me always, spirit of noisy   

contemplation in the studio, the Garden   

of Zoos, the eternally fixed afternoons!   

There, while music scratches its scrofulous   

stomach, the brute beast emerges and stands,   

clear and careful, knowing always the exact peril   

at this moment caressing his fangs with   

a tongue given wholly to luxurious usages;   

which only a moment before dropped aspirin   

in this sunset of roses, and now throws a chair   

in the air to aggravate the truly menacing.