Webs Beyond this World

 On August 9, 1973, NASA requested that Skylab astronauts share a housefly-sized piece of their filet mignon with two spiders on their mission, named Anita and Arabella, so that the arachnids could continue their experiment spinning webs in zero-G.

 

Webs Beyond This World

Anita and Arabella’s very floaty adventure

Two spiders blast off
eight shoes apiece, none tied tight
Earth waves from below.

Which way is the floor?
Arabella twirls twice more
Skylab has no down.

Anita flings silk
it loops, wiggles, tickles space
then it lands—ta-da!—somewhere.

Dinner drifts nearby
a tiny steak moon sails past
catch it if you can.

Soon their webs gleam bright
two proud spiders bow in space
stars demand encore.

 

Meaning on the Loose

 Meaning on the Loose

Meaning has slipped its leash again—
metaphors never knock;
they tumble, laughing, from the roof
and leave the garden shocked.

They’re trolls with fairy wings,
with pollen on each shoe,
who leave the poets wondering,
“What did those creatures do?”

Once loose, they follow poets’ home
and scribble on the walls;

 

We watch the sunset spill its gold,
then cheer a friend at night:
“That scope is just a spelunker
with a helmet full of light.”

Then we mend the economy
while politicians graze;
we button jokes in wisdom’s coat
and lose them in the haze.

By now the metaphors have roamed
from garden beds to news,
with sunset gold upon their wings
and headlines on their shoes.

So if the meaning slips its leash,
just smile and let it rain;
the metaphor will shake its wings
upon your roof again.

 

 

 

 

The Lantern Belongs to Us

 The Lantern Belongs to Us

Not the hammer.

The bell.

The sound that says,
come together.

Every vote
is a hand reaching through the dark.
Every voice
strikes another spark.

The light is ours to carry.

Democracy
is not a fortress.

It is a table—
long enough
that another chair can always be pulled close.

It is bread,
broken until no one hungers alone.

It is a lantern,
passed from hand to hand.

Our leaders do not make the light.

They carry it
only because
we filled the lamp.

Our votes are the oil.

Our voices are the flame.

The light is ours to carry.

Hope does not bloom
because the ground is easy.

Hope roots beneath stone.

Hope learns
the language of cracks,
the patience of rivers,
the courage of seeds.

And when we stand together,
we become the weather—

not the storm that tears apart,
but the rain
that wakes forgotten fields.

The light is ours to carry.

Morning does not simply arrive.

It is opened.

By hands willing to build.
By hearts willing to listen.
By neighbors willing to stay.

The road ahead
is not waiting for heroes.

It is waiting for us.

One lantern.
Then another.

Until what seemed impossible
becomes visible.

Until what seemed distant
comes within reach.

Until the dawn
discovers
it has been walking toward us all along.

The light is ours to carry.

 

Empathy Isn't Toxic

 Empathy Isn’t Toxic

 

Toxic currents rise

a heart sealed behind mirrors

empathy stays clear.

 

Coins scatter like treats

power waits for praise and flags

truth unlocks the cage.

 

Empathy listens

without swallowing the harm

kindness keeps its spine.

 

 

 

Katya's Last Journey

 Katya's Last Journey

There came a day

when Tiki did not untie the boat.

The tide waited.

The wind waited.

Even Time,
who had learned patience
at last,
waited.

Tiki poured two cups of tea.

One for himself.

One for the silver cat.

"You know," he said,
"there are no more assignments."

Katya blinked.

"No lost children?"

"They have been found."

"No broken hearts?"

"They still break."

She lowered her ears.

"Then why don't we go?"

Tiki smiled
the way old fishermen smile
when speaking
to the sea.

"Because they no longer need
us."

She did not understand.

For a long while,
neither of them spoke.

The tide came in.

The tide went out.

Finally Tiki reached
into his weathered bag
and withdrew
the little brass compass
they had carried
through centuries.

Its needle spun once.

Twice.

Then became perfectly still.

"There," he whispered.

"It has found you."

Katya looked down.

The compass
was pointing
at her heart.

Not north.

Not south.

Home.

Tiki laughed softly.

"I wondered
how long it would take."

"What does it mean?"

"It means you've become
what you were searching for."

The silver cat
closed her eyes.

She remembered

every frightened child,

every lonely widow,

every stranger,

every sunrise,

every impossible crossing,

every lie
that had failed
to make her cruel.

All of it,

every step,

had been carrying her
here.

Not to a place.

To herself.

The old fisherman
stood slowly.

His wooden joints
creaked
like the hull of a faithful boat.

"I have another tide
to follow."

She pressed her forehead
against his hand.

"Will I see you again?"

He smiled.

"When someone
casts a net
with kindness,

I'll be there."

"And me?"

"You?"

His eyes sparkled.

"You'll be wherever
someone chooses mercy
instead of fear."

He stepped into the boat.

There were no oars.

The sea itself
carried him.

Farther.

Smaller.

Until the horizon
forgot
he had ever left.

Katya remained
on the shore.

Alone.

But not lonely.

She looked up.

The stars
had begun appearing,

one by one,

like old friends
lighting porch lamps.

She stretched.

Not because
there was somewhere to go,

but because
there was nowhere left
to run.

Then something extraordinary
happened.

The silver in her fur
did not fade.

Nor did it shine.

Instead,

it became transparent,

as though every hair
had learned

to hold light
without keeping it.

Children still saw
a silver cat.

Old souls
sometimes saw
a young orange kitten.

Those who had forgotten
how to hope

saw only
a warm place
in the sun
where they suddenly wished
to sit.

Katya had become
exactly enough
for whoever
needed her.

Years later—

or perhaps yesterday—

a traveler,
lost beyond measure,
would feel
something brush
against an outstretched hand.

No words.

Only a quiet certainty.

Keep going.

You're closer
than you think.

The traveler
would never know
why courage returned.

History
would never write
her name.

Time
would never catch her.

Yet the world
would keep turning

ever so slightly
toward kindness,

as if nudged
by the softest paw.

And on nights
when the moon
hung low
over the sea,

fishermen would swear
they saw

an old wooden boat,

a laughing master,

and a silver cat

crossing water
that reflected
not the stars,

but every good deed

that had ever been done

without anyone
asking
for credit.

That was enough.

It had always been enough.

…

THE END

The Tide Beyond Time

 The Tide Beyond Time

Freedom did not change Katya.

It simply removed
the collar.

She was still the cat
who paused
for lonely people.

Still the traveler
who noticed
small sorrows
before great disasters.

Still the one

who would trade
an afternoon
to spare someone
a lifetime
of regret.

The difference was choice.

No summons.

No invisible ledger.

No voice
claiming

it knew
what history required.

If she answered a call,

it was because
she wished to.

The universe,
it turned out,
asked more politely
than people ever had.

She was not alone.

Waiting on a weathered pier
where no map
could quite remember
the shoreline,

sat Tiki.

Carved from ironwood.

Salt-worn.

Patient.

An old Indonesian fishing master
whose eyes
had watched tides
long before clocks

learned to count.

His little boat
floated
on impossible water.

Some days
it crossed oceans.

Some days
it crossed centuries.

Neither journey
required explanation.

"You are late,"
Tiki would say,
without looking up

"I arrived tomorrow,"
Katya replied.

"I know."

He always knew.

Together
they accepted
only the quiet assignments.

Not kings.

Not wars.

Not fortunes.

Those things
made too much noise.

Instead—

a child
who almost gave up
drawing.

A widow
who needed
one last dream
of her husband.

A sailor
who chose kindness

instead of revenge
because a silver cat
sat beside him
through the night.

A scientist
who looked up
at exactly
the right second
and asked
a better question.

A librarian
who found
the misplaced page
that changed
a single sentence—

which changed
a single life—

which quietly
changed
the century.

They repaired
frayed threads.

Never the whole tapestry.

Only enough
to keep it
from unraveling.

"Big heroes,"
Tiki liked to say,
mending a net
that somehow

caught memories,

"always want
to save the world."

He tied another knot.

"The world
is too large.

Save breakfast.

Save a promise.

Save one frightened heart.

The world
usually follows."

Katya listened.

Cats,
despite the rumors,

are excellent listeners.

When the work
was finished,

they returned
to the tide beyond time.

Sometimes they fished.

Not for food.

For forgotten songs.

For misplaced courage.

For the names
of people
history had thanked
without ever remembering.

On calm evenings,
they released them all
back into the current.

Nothing,

Tiki insisted,

should remain lost
forever.

Katya would watch
the ripples widen
across impossible water.

She no longer wondered
whether the universe
was ruled
by secrets
or by love.

Perhaps,

she thought,

both existed.

But only one
was worth
helping.

So she followed
the kinder current.

It had never once
failed
to find
the sea.

 

When Time Came Looking

 When Time Came Looking

At first,

Time was annoyed.

Everything
had its place.

Mountains.

Stars.

The rise
and fall
of kingdoms.

Even grief
kept a schedule.

But not Katya.

She had slipped
between the seconds
so often
that her footprints
no longer agreed
with one another.

Time searched
the obvious places.

Yesterday.

Tomorrow.

The afternoon
she first opened
her amber eyes.

The evening
she became silver.

Nothing.

Only the faint scent
of rain
and cedar.

So Time
did what it had never done.

It slowed.

It wandered.

It began asking questions.

An old woman
feeding sparrows
remembered
a silver cat
who stayed

until she laughed again.

A fisherman
remembered
sharing tea
with a wooden master
and a cat
who knew
where the fish
would be tomorrow.

A little boy
remembered
finding courage
because something
soft
had leaned
against his leg
when no one else
believed him.

Time gathered
their stories.

None of them
were important enough
for history.

Together,

they outweighed

an empire.

Finally,

Time found Tiki
mending a net
beside impossible water.

"Where is she?"

asked Time.

Tiki smiled
without surprise.

"You are asking
the wrong question."

"What should I ask?"

"Ask
what she became."

Time waited.

Tiki tied
one more knot.

"She became
a place."

"A place?"

"A refuge.

Whenever a soul
believes
it has reached
the end
of kindness,

it stumbles

into her."

Time looked
across the water.

"I cannot see her."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because
you only measure
what passes.

Katya
became
what remains."

Time had no answer.

It had measured
the age
of stars,

the heartbeat
of atoms,

the slow dance
of galaxies.

Yet it had never learned
how to measure
a single act
of undeserved mercy.

Then,
for the first time
since the beginning,

Time
removed its shoes.

It sat
beside Tiki.

They fished
until dawn.

Not for moments.

For hope.

And somewhere
beyond calendars,

beyond prophecy,

beyond every clock
that had ever chimed,

a silver cat
slept beneath
a moonlit tree,

dreaming
of someone
she might help
tomorrow—

though tomorrow
would never again
be able
to catch her.