poems by Aidan Stickles

Cat’s Act


I spend my time in a tavern

named the Lemon Melon,

overlooks Sunset Inlet,

sits next to Craven’s Caverns.

A beloved troupe is passing through

dubbed the Cat’s Act.

I was eighteen when I first saw the spectacle

now I’m nineteen, and a real expert after I won

the act’s Cats.


How’s the show?

Some downers may wonder.

One must watch to know

or hear me talk more.


They dance the wolf flow,

display art with tar overlay

then put on a play

they called the real fun funeral.

They love to say

Nag a Ram!

After counting lambs.

When they recite the story

Of the Night Thing

even the Cider cried.


Yet everyone mopes and moans

when they recite their poems

don’t take note of the tones.

The crowd inevitably drifts off

to sleep during the one about fritd’s peels.


When the crowd awoke from their drunken stupor at dawn

the Cat’s scat.

It’s like they were never there

just listen, It’s silent.




The Lug Bugs


A bug

the size of a lug

nut strutted:

head butting every



lady beetle.


Soon all lice and mites

and cluster flies

spied the pie

on the window side:

The Lugs slugged any bug that came too close. So,


Remi and Demi protested

in the Garden Square but

they were bested by ants

that pranced over their exo-

skeletons which turned them into

gelatin. Then


when the rest of the hungry

bugs organized

they lost their lives

to the hives

of hornets

and wasps;


Stingers—the bringers of

order and patrollers

of the border—are allowed

great quantities of grape-flavored

pleasers from the freezer.


In the Capital under

the steps; the Representatives of

Red Caterpillars,

and the Council of Crickets and

the Board of Butterflies

appealed to the Congress of

Cockroaches and the

President of Praying-Mantises:

no one

could get

a word

in over the

Senate of



Finally!The Directorate

of Dragonflies asked why?anyone needed pie,


and the meeting adjourned

before morning!




Train of Thinking


Crazy. Punctuation anD

indentation, however.


Nothing is so disjointed as the train of thought.



derail to arrive at the station.


Have you ever thought

sidewalks and clouds are similar in

that they can both be

seen ? And


loud noises are like bright colors

because they both

corroded the railway.




Pendulum Swings


The pendulum swings, sways

back and forth,

ticking tocking

clocking days

pass before hours,


hours pass before minutes,

and the pendulum sways

forth and back,

never stays


in one spot for a second

longer than it must,

and the hands move

over the face with gust-


o’mocking those who

dared ask the pendulum to henceforth

cease its oscillating

motion and measure the worth


of immobility,

of stillness,

of quiet and understandable willingness

to remember that the back and forth, and back again

of the pendulum must someday halt

(Then swallow a pill filled with salt)

Surely, that would kill time.






Sitting outside an unlocked door

on porch steps afraid to knock

(no one will answer).

The entryway seems miles away

(but it’s only a couple of feet).


Stamped a foot for inaction.

I’ve jumped through flaming hoops,

hopped over angry cobras,

and stooped to the lion’s maw


but stolling up to someone’s

threshold is a feat I’ve yet to



I believe the homeowners will accept a

bad house guest or, slam

their mahogany portal in my face.

(Both situations are

statistically likely).


So instead, I look to the east and

west of me and see no solitude,


(and perhaps millions)

of others sit on porch steps

unwilling to knock on

unlocked doors.


And we hear hundreds

(if not billions)

of people behind the plaster

and stone alone, too



(of inviting

someone in)

poems by Aidan Stickles

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