Among forty-four fabulous felines,
only our black cat ambled with
a galumphing gait, under her

And she was Mayhem. Cats with
orange striped coats or those with
pure white fleece were eclipsed

By her black velvet fur. Her gleaming
eyes paralyzed the innocence of lizards
while hypnotizing the snakes sunning

On stones along the garden path.
Mayhem persevered nearly seven years
through storms under bed covers. She could

Read secret signs and stoically endure.
A black cat is One unto itself. Mayhem
was She who was One unto us all in

Charge with her golden eyes of splendor.
I loved the arrogance of her demeanor
and the indifference of her stretching.

Mayhem would pace past the crowd
at our house concerts, her flair in
majestic moments in the month of

May, grandly ruling our rituals.
A circle of madrone trees with barks
of brown would shade the ground with

Red berries transforming into blossoms.
The soul of Mayhem, crossed over right
there – to and fro the place on the hill

Above our labyrinth where Spirit took her
To immerse in energy with other species.
From that day, Mayhem moved within a

Heavy silence alongside the clan of cunning
coyotes who would break a neck in an instant
left only a ball of inky mane, had led us in a

Grueling march only to hold on our altar,
oh we who long for animal spirits,
Why do we moan so piteously?

If we would only stop a moment,
we might feel how the purring of
Mayhem pulses through our breaths

And the radiant vital blood of those we love.
I knew the mighty midnight madness
of Mayhem toying with the rodents’

Delicate frames and her frantic morning
haunts as she flipped flailing in her fantasy
of the stems of leaves mimicking mice tails.

Yet, Mayhem to this day is in my soul.
As the sparks in Mayhem’s crazy eyes aimed
their beams at emptiness in Geoff’s ample lap,

She would jump to claim her rightful throne.
Together, they would create a timeless shape —
something ancient, stunning in that boundary

And at the vision of Mayhem’s heft leaping
onto Geoff’s keyboard, even the grandchildren
of the Internet lifted their eyes in wonder.

The soul of Mayhem ambled in at night
to the sound of his deep voice leading
to the startling cool yellow of butter

On the edge of the table knife.
Outside a sliver of the moon slipped

Behind a shadow in the knob cone tree.
Clouds are silently shifting.
Mayhem must be sleeping.

The sun sets in the mist of love.
Wet garden grass weeps anew.
The air is soft, sad enough to shower

On Mayhem lurking in the mimosa tree
Among seed pods, rocking its branches.
This time, she will not complain of rain.