Mona Gould

“ Life is a rose
And life is a thistle -
And life is the screech of a steamboat's whistle
But nevertheless - if you asked the Dead
They'd probably choose to be in your bed!
Letter from Paris
You write of Paris like a man
Telling of the woman he loves.
There is love in the lines that draw the city under rain;
The higgeldy-piggeldy garrets
That climb crazily against the tender pink of the sky;
Montmartre, with the cafés, just as you'd read they'd be!
Everything just as glamorous . . . just as exciting
A gay ... a mocking . . . a shining, shimmering place
A feminine city! ”

“ And one blue heron lifts himself with terrible beauty
Into the evening.
I cannot say why Islands do this to me.
I only know that putting out into the open gap
Bound for the Mainland
Is like loosing hands with one you love
Too much!
Photogenic
It must be nice to be photogenic;
To not have to get in to a panic
When you "see the birdie".
To just sit there . . . smug . . . ”

“ You always want to hit them with a hammer!
But when your own puts on this spring display
You almost always wonder "Should we spay?" ...
Or "Shall we add another to our flock
And just have kittens, all around the clock"?
O isn't it a thing both true and queer
That one cat's "calling" falling on the ear
Is troublesome . . . ”