Mad Dogs

by Catherine Heath

Coffee cup

I kind of enjoy
The silence of the night,
While still-warm coffee cups
Mark up the days.

Like the fit of old shoes,
I’m used to you–
Just animals walking,
Two by two.
Primal instincts
The distinct feel
Of your hand in mine
Is fading–

But perhaps
It’s not too late.

The weight of
Romance lessens,
Teaching us
A sleight of hand,
But mad dogs make sure
We reach for stars

(Scared of what
Tomorrow brings,
We’ll hide our sorrow).

Crying, grasping–
Everybody goes through
Their own pain.

Here we are,
And so it goes,
The pose of people,
Playing games.
All we ever get
Are famous lines,
And divine lies
Brought a surprise–

But counter-attacks
Of council tax
Brought us down to earth.

I don’t know
How you feel,
Though, that doesn’t mean
This isn’t real.


Yellow petals
On pavements
Stave off the guilt,
While strong winds blow
On fields of mud.
The harder
It is to go,
The harder we’ll try
To show our colours.

Dogged by
A feeling of dread,
The distant sound
Of sheep and cows
Is more profound

(A little longer now).

Searching for the answers,
Jumping over streams
Of mud and stones–
So far from home.
We’re locked in our own kingdoms,
Though I’ll let you in
Some time.

The tattered clink of rhyme;
Recurring themes of life
Capture fragments
Of surreal existence,

Making sense of


Cold, lonely stars–
Fireballs and clouds of dust
Abandoned us.
Odd tales of mighty gods,
Now fodder for the
Debating chair.

The vacant stare
Of heathens breathing,
(But not living),
Scared of our misgivings–
A brilliant wonderland of
Horrifying tales,
A living corpse.

Hormones are quicksand,
A dirty sleight of hand,
And we’re afraid of hurting–
Averting our own crises
As we fight our basic urges–
Diverging and distracted

(And emerging from a taxi,
Just a short way from home).

Creation and destruction,
Hanging on to lifebelts,
Melting into rivers
Of old bone and cold meat.

The feet that trod this towpath
Were rather faster than our pace,
In a race to beat our morals,
While feral beasts of innocence
Slaver at our backs.

Distracted by the cracks of logic,
We’ll fumble and decide
To ride the wave,
Until it dies–

Then, either cry,
Or laugh with triumph
(It hardly matters which).

We’re itching to caress,
And make a secret
Pact or two,
But the act is merely whimsy,

(Lasting for eternity).

Preserving youth in glass–
We once were vast.


Read more poetry by Catherine Julianne.