Cat Russell's Blog
November 21, 2025
POEM: “The Osbournes”
“The Osbournes”not -mandias but rock godi remember the way the boysidolized him despite the stage-body and -hair drenched in sweateyeliner running down a facefrom nightmares and tales ofhim biting heads off rubber batsi mean, where was the appeal in thatexcepthis music utterly rockeddecimated the competitionhe was iron manhe barked at the moontook shots in the darkruled his rock stage like a monarchsent from the pits of hellfor showmanship alonenow his slurred British accentcurses not time nor establishmentbut tiny dogs fluffy as bedroom pillowsas he stoops, picks up each pieceof excrement left behind, pleads with the help to help pick them upas he steps in another brown mess,his slurred English accent not poshbut sounding inebriated and oldlike the family uncle that simply can’t put down the bottle, swearing he needs their BLEEPED-OUT helpbc his wife’s immune system is compromised,he can’t stand the thought of her loss, of her illness, so despite paying staffand lecturing his teens on the valueof cleanliness around her, he droopsdown, curses, and picks up each chunkon the floor of their palatial homewhile in another room, his wife sits,laughs, slowly strokes the doghe curses to himself his BLEEPING“drug addict kids” returned from rehabyet welcomes them into the family bedwith him and his wife of many yearsfor familial embraces, teens mouthing off yet cuddling with their motheras though afraid she’ll shatter and be forever gone, daughter bitching about her curfew and boring life as her private stylist does her hair the week of her rock concert debut, the same daughter conquering the stage that night crooning she’s not daddy’s little girl anymore--yet follows daddy’s footsteps, later leans her head on her mom’s shoulder, her mother strokes through her daughter’s multicolored locks, tells her she’s so BLEEPing proud of her, cursing her like a lullaby, her father far away yet connected via screenand flying electrons.he calls from the couch to his familyhow they must BLEEPING know how muchhe BLEEPING loves them in words censoredfrom those outside spying into their lives through camera lens eyes--and yetwhen he returns to the stageto belt out his greatest hits,still composing yet more to screamat screaming crowds that flock to worshipat the altar of another rock god, he STILL is Ozzytime may have stooped himbut he’s stayed the course with the woman he loves and children he adores,true to who he is, who he always has been:loud, crude, and uncensored despite their tearing out his every other word--we know exactly what he means--devoted husband, rock idol, picking up shitin his grand palatial home, dealing with brattyteenage kids--adoring them, adored by othersthe years between my childhood days and today’sgive and take from us all--rock idols and middle-class housewives alike. The girl I was trapped in this menopausal bodyweighed down by years, lifted by experiencehe doesn’t give a rat’s ass--or a bat’s head--what anyone else thinksDo I?# *inspired by an episode of “ The Osbournes ” I caught streaming one sleepless night two months before his death. RIP, Ozzy. **image “ Ozzy Osbourne Portrait: Portrait of Ozzy Osbourne with Union Jack flag background ,” courtesy of Crimson Rose via Public Domain license and PublicDomainPictures.net
October 24, 2025
POEM: “Reprieve”
“Reprieve”
–reaction poem to “Oasis” by Arthur Sze from “Into the Hush”
My fingers crawl rapidly across the keys like a creeping spider
on my laptop: what do I make of this world? He stomps into his
office, as I set up a table, window-dressing my wares. Another
sleeps in another day, turns over in his room beneath thick
covers behind thin walls. By afternoon, I wonder what the sky
will be like. Will clouds race across the blue and grey, rain
spill like water splashing from the fountain we both sat facing
yesterday, wetting the stones at our feet?
#
*Thankyou for visiting my blog. More of my writing can be found on my Patreon . Stay safe, be kind, and read often!
September 20, 2025
POEM: “Resurrection”
“Resurrection”
We’re bringing back apex predators
–not from the brink of death but death
itself, their fossilized bones
birthing new warm bodies that breathe
fresh air, pump blood beneath fur
long as a sigh, white as fallen snow:
a family of bright eyes, lolling tongues
dripping with delight. I recognize
the lilt in their loping run, the pure joy
of being alive. The males play until
their sister, hiding within the shade
of logs scattered to the side, is ready
to join their game. Yet as I watch
these fellow creatures frolic on this,
their first day together–one girl
and two boys romping
supervised and somewhat free
(if only from extinction),
they don’t seem to notice the wood
with metal mesh limiting their land;
they range and run on bright green grass
beneath a brilliant shining sun casting beams
they were never destined to see.
And I wonder, maybe
we need to be reminded
we could fall off the face
of this swiftly spinning world.
In ten-thousand years,
will they return the favor,
bring us back into the light?
*inspired by the article “ The 3 Dire Wolves Who Were Brought Back from Extinction Meet for the First Time in Captivating Video ” by Moná Thomas published at People.com on August 12, 2025.
August 22, 2025
POEM: “I spot a leg beside the pool”
propped against the bolted-down cobalt chair
used to lower swimmers into the pool’s
cool depths, its owner already midway
through a lap before I noticed he’d need
-ed assistance. I'd been too busy in
the backroom picking out orange foam fake-weights
whose buoyancy would work my arms. I’d eyed
the few in the center’s hot tub as they
chatted among brightly humming bubbles.
I’d watched the two red hands of the giant
stopwatch propped up against the room’s pale wall
speed away the seconds we spent in space
so empty between us that the gentle
swish of man-made waves echoed like a stream
within this concrete cave, each slight slap of
water on skin became a thunderclap.
Empty space framed each slim sound, echoed loud,
rebounding throughout the room, yet merely
feet away inclined that abandoned limb
--shoe still attached while its owner left it
behind, a better swimmer with one leg
than I was with two.
We were both buoyed
by blue water, sheltered by it, only
our upper torsos visible as we
bounced and swayed upon waves we made ourselves:
me shivering in my one-piece, he with
one piece missing,
and were it not for the
prosthesis standing beside that mounted
cobalt blue chair,
I never would have known.
#
*inspired by a visit to the YMCA pool
July 17, 2025
POEM: “Volcano Girl”
POEM: “Volcano Girl”
if life is a journey, yours outshone
so many–lived beneath blue skies
in distant lands, sunlit days
followed by neon nights,
betting on your dreams, your warm skin
browning before each rising sun, lit
by each luminous electric twilight,
you exceeded them all–from rise to set,
dared dazzling green mountains
beside waves of azure blue, explored
coral- and salmon-colored caves,
met saffron-robed monks of twinkling eyes
and sparking grins, traveled sacred waters
to witness sharp-pointed palaces
embrace their shores, boated green rivers
flowing serpentine as a dragon, viewed
tulip-hued temples tipped with gold
blooming before an eruption of forest green.
And yet, you also leapt
into secluded lakes bordered
by boulders worn smooth by wind and time,
your eyes traced white water falling deep
into the unknown, you rode on motorbike
over muddy trails through sun-filled lands
with friends and a smile wide
as each horizon.
Did that rock-bound lake foreshadow
your tomb? Your leap into the unknown
prelude your fall?
You were
active as the Mount you dared climb,
lived more in your years
than many twice your age. Yet
you had to have that view:
crater’s rim toppled your trip
of a lifetime cut all too short.
Did you face death without fear
–as unflinching as you faced life?
Did the fog clear
enough for you to die beneath blue sky?
Did the stars themselves say goodbye?
#
*Thankyou for visiting my blog. More of my writing can be found on my Patreon . Stay safe, be kind, and read often!
*inspired by the Brazilian hiker, Juliana Marins , who fell into an active volcano, miraculously survived the fall, but did not survive the four days it took rescuers to reach her due to treacherous weather and terrain.
June 22, 2025
FOUND POEM: “The Doomsday Clock”
FOUND POEM: “The ‘Doomsday Clock”
ticks self-annihilation
this year a situation
of risks all rising
We cannot hide our head
to curb their spread
we walk into disaster
to sustain peace We unleash war
win just a Little more time
to move the Clock hand back
89 seconds to go
before That time is up
#
*Thankyou for visiting my blog. More of my writing can be found on my Patreon . Stay safe, be kind, and read often!
*Inspired by yesterday’s dropping of bunker buster bombs on Iran’s nuclear facility to prevent their development of nuclear weapons–as well as the article ‘Sleepwalking into nuclear disaster’: The ‘Doomsday Clock’ ticks forward by Elizabeth Weise and Davis Winkie , published via USA TODAY on January 28th, 2025.
FOUND POEM: “The ‘Doomsday Clock”
FOUND POEM: “The ‘Doomsday Clock”
ticks self-annihilation
this year a situation
of risks all rising
We cannot hide our head
to curb their spread
we walk into disaster
to sustain peace We unleash war
win just a Little more time
to move the Clock hand back
89 seconds to go
before That time is up
#
*Thankyou for visiting my blog. More of my writing can be found on my Patreon . Stay safe, be kind, and read often!
*Inspired by yesterday’s dropping of bunker buster bombs on Iran’s nuclear facility to prevent their development of nuclear weapons–as well as the article ‘Sleepwalking into nuclear disaster’: The ‘Doomsday Clock’ ticks forward by Elizabeth Weise and Davis Winkie , published via USA TODAY on January 28th, 2025.
May 27, 2025
POEM: “The Rise and Fall of a New Camelot”
“The Rise and Fall of a New Camelot”Your kingdom built upon the power of belief in purity of soul and mindwith justice impartial and truly blindreaching toward the highest good, becausewhat mattered most was everyone believedwithout limit, what human might achieveddid reality matter or the dreamof a better world where your lady’s trueand your best friend lies not with her to you?your faith in their basic decency mortar enough to build a better world,yet not enough to keep it --once the dreamproves wishful thinking --Camelot, perched upon clouds with linings of silver and gold, its heavy bricks come crashing down to crush us all beneath their weight yet for a time, the vision WAS enoughLet's build that better worldnot founded on cumulus clouds of unblemished white like newfallen snow we fashion into images of our own making, but with foundation deep and stronggrounded enough to survive the harshest quakes, with lightning rods and thick walls to withstand the most bitter tempests,tall enough to shelter against malignant waves that churn like tsunamis to batter buildings, threaten to drown us,numb us beneath their deluge trapped alone with all our doubts with all our fearsBut high above leave window enoughso when the storm clearsit lets in the lightso when the storm clearswe see the dove, thin green leaves of the olive branch gripped within its beak, so we may stillat least try to escape outdoorsto a once-more world of wind and sun to escape our drying refugeto try againso we may rise once moreon firmer footing than beforeonce the waters recedethe earth beneath our feet becomes mudwe must tread with caremindful of each treacherous stepfor some stains tarnisheven the best armorsome stains never come outwe know the storm will passas all storms mustwhether or not wesurvive *
*Thankyou for visiting my blog. More of my writing can be found on
my Patreon
. Stay safe, be kind, and read often!
**Inspired by Tennyson’s Idylls of the King (a poetry collection of tales of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table).
*image “
Stormy Ocean
,” courtesy of
George Hodan
via
Public Domain license
and
PublicDomainPictures.net
April 21, 2025
POEM: “The Fairytale Ends: A Tale of Gawayne and the Green Knight (Part I)”
Since my beautifully illustrated chapbook, The Fairytale Ends, launched on Good Friday, I thought I’d share the first part of the narrative poem as a teaser.
My ballad sequel to Charlton Miner Lewis’s modern retelling of the 14 century (Middle English) poem continues the tale of Sir Gawayne after he returns from his adventures and reunites with his love, Lady Elfinhart. Don’t worry. You needn’t read the previous work to enjoy this one!
I
The noble Sir Gawayne, loyal knight
of lofty Table Round lived for
adventure, honor, and liege lord,
but (maybe) loved his lady more.
The maid was Lady Elfinhart,
a beauty like few mortals knew,
and this made sense because the maid
was raised by fae–who knew to choose
what fashions fit the human form
to entice men–and women who
know they are judged upon their looks,
the first thing that their knights do view.
So Elfinhart was schooled in charm,
her glamour of a mortal sort.
She kohled her eyes–and for her lips
and cheeks a cherry worked its art.
A beauteous thing may be a joy
forever; that the poet knew.
But there’s no rule that says that joy
is not enjoyed by fairies too.
And so I tell the tale again
of Sir Gawayne and lady fair.
You may or not know of his feat
with the Green Knight, but here I’ll share
a portion of that prior tale
in my own words–to catch you up.
The knight’s adventure I’ll relate,
yet move the tale still farther up
to follow after Elfinhart,
her motives, and her union to
the noble knight who braved the Green
encouraged by his lady’s cue.
*
*Thankyou for visiting my blog. More of my writing can be found on my Patreon . Stay safe, be kind, and read often!
*image “Knight Charger Horse Rider: Knight Charger Horse Rider Vintage Art Illustration,” courtesy of Andrea Stockel via Public Domain license and PublicDomainPictures.net (modified for this post)
March 28, 2025
POEM: “like birds”
as I view the birds outside my window
separated by mere inches of glass,
as I view their vibrant dark silhouettes
and bright reds against the snow like drops of
blood, as I view the yellow and green false
flowers on my windowsill. I always
light three candles just because I love them,
the way they light the darkness. he pleads, bring
them back, bring back my light.
I wonder if
these three flames serve a double purpose on
this day, if these birds that survive winter
to live, feed, and sing despite the freezing
cold--dare I say it when I can barely
bare to think it...
do your souls fly high as
these winged messengers in the bright blue
above my home?
will you return to yours
by way of something other than a box?
#
*Originally written in the hope that the beautiful Bibas brothers, 9-month old Kfir and 4-year old Ariel, would be returned home alive. Since they were not, it now serves double duty–like the candles themselves–hoping for the safe return from Gaza of over fifty hostages–among them the only American left living, 21-year old Edan Alexander.
*Thankyou for visiting my blog. More of my writing can be found on my Patreon . Stay safe, be kind, and read often.
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