A Cat’s Concern
Bella is the abandoned cat rescued
by our dear late friend Big John and his spouse
who cleaning his jacket asked why cat food
treats pocketed when it’s not a cat house?
John tells her in preparing their new home
a little cat comes from the undergrowth.
Neighbours say she was left behind alone
when old owner sold house and loath
to see her starve have been feeding her scraps
but sorry they can’t take her in themselves.
He knows some cat lovers who will perhaps
take her in and care for her as themselves.
John and spouse renewed vows dressed as Beauty
and Beast so Bella does her nurse duty.
Rough tongue to soft feet
you heat-bask in the fireglow,
paw-sing to watch flames.
~ by Polly Oliver
Ricky Ticky Tabbi Woo …
Look! Don’t look at me like that.
Head to one side, eyes wide.
You usually blink away.
You must be narked.
Doh! You silly cat,
It’s not my fault,
I didn’t do it!
It was the vet.
I just took you there.
Look, I’m as sorry as you.
Oh don’t look at me like that.
The tooth had to come out – right?
Look, come back here!
Come back now!
Listen, I’m talking to you.
Oh God! Don’t sulk away
And turn your back on me.
Miaow. Tail in the air.
Don’t strut away and
Sulk, slink, sulk.
The vet said you were a friendly cat,
Talking to them all day.
You were purring later
When she checked you over
And sent you on your way.
But now you are home
Is this what you think of me?
Well go and sit in the greenhouse
And see if the tomatoes care.
I’ll put your box away
And have a nice cup of tea.
So now you’re back.
Rubbing for your dinner.
You’ve made your point,
Well there you are.
We’ll say no more.
Washing over your ears.
Are we friends again?
Yes, she blinks.
Yes, she thinks.
Nice to be back home.
My life-long friend.
Ricky Ticky Tabbi Woo
-Jim the poet
My cat is eating fuzz again.
We ask him, ‘Does it taste like chocolate?’
He has yet to answer, but his eyes glaze over,
as though he’s swallowed a catnip truffle.
Sometimes he chews electrical cords
as though they were liquorice swizzles —
or licks melting mango ice cream from a plate.
Au jus from the remains of David’s steak
is a favourite, though not as tasty as moths
or Huntsman spiders which demand a lively
pre-prandial chase, before delicate removal
of wing & leg. A forensic examination
of these serial flings reveal fascinating things
about this predator; but none so enigmatic
as the slaying of the fuzzball, and the intensely
Cheshire pleasure that transfigures
that whiskered face.
–Gayle J. Greenlea
The Other Pet
The other man’s pet
mewls near Tim’s icebox.
Hush. Tim hisses.
The feline rubs
its now fluffy, now coarse pith
against the purring machine’s door.
The other man’s pet,
Tim cannot harm it.
He wants to soothe
its hunger and murmur,
“My apology, but see
human heart projects these shrapnel,
and your man
used to sleep with my wife.
-Image and poem by Kushal Poddar
-Kitty Connelly (Cat image by Dans)
-Image and poem by Rachel B. Baxter. (Previously appeared in Through a Pet’s Eyes. A Seeing Sonnet | by Rachel B. Baxter | Poetry in Form (poetry-in-form.com)
Today our cat died—
the one that liked to sleep
on my chest, head by my chin—
and I’ll have to take the shovel
out back and start digging.
One love of my life sat at a window
and we watched each other one
last time as the bus took her away
and left me to go find my gate.
From birth to two, our first cried
for hours every day. Novels stayed
shut on the shelf. My typewriter
poked at sheets of paper
like a bored bird in its cage.
Our two babies are gone,
twenty years turned them
into men who have moved
two thousand miles away.
Where was that apartment
we shared our sophomore year?
Did the train take one night, or two,
to go from Deland to Chicago?
I wish I could remember everything
we said on our first date. I wish
I could remember details from the births
of our sons. I wish. I wish.
Sometimes you have to dig a hole,
put what was dear to you in it,
cover it up, then go inside and wash
the dirt off your hands and splash
a little cool water on your face.
the one that needs me,
I know because she tells
me so. I run and sniff,
cross meadows and
rivers, she makes
paths for me, always
She says I`m a good boy
and all the tasty things
just prove it
This year, she cried a lot
into my fur
(I´m not complaining),
but I want her to know
it`s no use crying over spilled
milk (I can help with that)
dead people, pain.
I want her to know
she`s a good girl,
I want her to smell the
love, the pee, the
published in the DREICH chapbook, Things to do with love: