Poetry by Betsy Mars

Today I forsake the company of people

for the easy conversation of cats,
and dogs who keep me on my toes,
warm my feet, speak with ears 
cocked, the better to show me 
their attention is transfixed.
What more do we want
than scent, well-placed scratches, 
a full stomach? 
To be content with only touch --
with not talking or thinking 
overmuch.
The silent gaze and knowing 
tongue, the kneading, the instinct
to understand when play is needed,
and when just being is enough --
a sigh, a stretch, 
a soft rumble of cat happiness.


​*First appeared in Your Daily Poem



Driftwood
 
The wind chime pendulums 
on the porch
were once tossed
driftwood on this beach -
 
here among the rocks and lost socks 
and bits of sea glass
I wander the length of the shore
 seeking the perfect shell –
 
to the right the sea grass waves
to the left small swells –
and in the distance 
sailboats and kite surfers.
 
Instead I could sit still
on a square meter of beach
and find, if I look closely or dig
deep, every piece I seek –
 
the smooth stone perfect 
to palm or skim across calm waters,
the rough rock with striations 
like rainbows, the abandoned 
shell once home to dinner,
the glass shard of a bottle
that held minerals and sugar -
sun and soil magic for the tongue 
in grief or celebration, 
 
or solace on a lonely night 
when I try to sort, seeking 
home in a handful of beach.

*First appeared in Alinea
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Betsy Mars was born in Connecticut, but has spent most of her life in the Los Angeles area. A two year stint in Brazil as a child made a lasting impact on her in terms of her early awareness of language and culture, socio-economic differences, and left her with an abiding love of travel. She is an educator, mother, and animal lover, and is striving desperately to make up for lost time after decades away from the serious study and writing of poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Writing In A Woman's Voice, The Rise Up Review, and the Peacock Journal.