In many places they
are a symbol of
have been birthed
around the owl
In England it was
believed that if you
cooked an owl's egg
Until it was ash, it
could be used as a
potion to improve
In India, if you ate
an owl's eyes you
would get the same
Witches were often
linked to owls
That witches could
turn themselves into
And provoke humans
Some believed they
were messengers for
sorcerers & witches
Or if you heard the
hoot of an owl, it
meant a witch was
I believe they are a
symbol of guidance
I think they should
be considered sacred
I have one posted in
my back yard, at
night when I can’t
I sit in my
favourite lawn chair
and watch the moon
Beside my special
I don’t give a hoot
I think they are
Be a Bee!
the gray cat, Tempus, in doldrums
lazes, purring, stretching.
I have watched him:
cunning eyes half-closed,
he stalks bright birds in the garden,
near day lilies.
Wings wet from flights
through the sprinkler's sweeps,
the birds swoop, glide, flutter.
They light on dry grass,
strut and shake themselves,
are lulled. Then,
Tempus pounces on one bird.
The rest are routed…
And Tempus fugit.
My dog is full of life and glee
But gentle and kind as should be.
She sits beside me day and night.
I have no fear that she will bite.
When troubles come we see them thru.
We live in a house of silvery white and golden hue.
And then she died.
Oh such a day.
The sorrows were heavy.
The tears they ran.
I am now alone in our golden span.
Remember her well.
Forget her not.
To honor her memory I chose this spot.
Remember her well.
Forget her not.
The joy she gave.
The love she got.
This was the 1st poem I wrote for school at 11 years old. My 1st dog
and constant companion had just died.
Now 50 years ago. By Carol Eastman
Contest: Small poem II: Motif: Epic
I slip down through sparkling depths,
Gliding silently toward my mystic castle.
I always find peace there within,
Sheltered from the chaos all around me.
Hidden from prying eyes and evil intentions,
And worse, indifference that leaves me no purpose.
They cannot see the tears I weep
Nor care about my solitary existence,
Until someone is reminded
To feed the goldfish.
I see her still in twilights shroud
At visions edge she’s standing still
She lives on for me, but makes no sound
Her presence felt , a loving glow.
She watches me with sightless eyes
The look that speaks but makes no sound
Where shadows spill she lingers now
But when I look I cannot see, just feel.
She should be here if fate were kind
My partner in the quite times
I miss the things she needed that I gave.
That giving soul that has now passed.
She waits, I know she does.
The bond that held will always be
She was my friend, my love, my charge.
Now my pain, my loss, my memory’s dear.
Cassie came to me
damaged and afraid
“just let me hide in this corner”
it was like she prayed
“I’ll be fine if left alone
with food and water
I’m not sure she wanted
to even be alive
I forced my love on her
for I wouldn’t settle for this
forced gentle caresses
warm hugs and a kiss
though I knew
she couldn’t be expected
to understand any of this
day after day
I fought the war to win her heart
night after night
I seemed to be losing the battle
waiting for love to start
one night I felt
her tiny, precious head
nestled against mine
curled up in my bed
her fur so soft and fine
heard her quiet, contented sigh
and that was when I knew
Cassie was finally mine
Freshly baked every morning,
Even at noon and in the evening,
In different shapes and colors-
Some dense, some light
Some like desert manna
Some flat, some leavened
Some long and whole
Or sliced in small pieces
Some cooled, some hot
So soft and then some hard
With such Heavenly aromas
Served at the Master's Table
Of chairs, booths, benches
And cushions for tired knees,
Healing is the children's bread.
They hunger no more for worldy feasts.
Even their dogs eat the fallen crumbs,
Sometimes portions from their hands;
As the children drink Living Water,
They thirst no more for bitter fountains
And sources of a soul's diseases.
On earth the Master tabernacles
With us for many days of Heaven.
Within without we are healed
And given our daily bread.
It all started when Mr. Pie was a little bugger,
Just a wisp of fluff in the palm of your hand.
"Oh, isn't mama's little man the most handsomest EVER?!"
Not a day has gone by when he has argued that point!
"Be careful with all that encouragement" I prophetically warned,
"It may go straight to his head!!"....and what a head it became!!
Grey, dignified, regal....a lions mane with white marbling.
2 golden eyes piercing you with that casually bored stare one may give to one's shoes.
Every morning at 8 am and every night at 10 pm he demonstrates his knowledge of time.
Head-butting the door and SCREAMING the words "MOM!!!
MAAAWWWMMMM!!......NOW???!!???.........MOM??? NOWWWWW??" (for real!!)
Needless to say, he's got us trained pretty well,
But we're still working on house-breaking me!!!!!
He still has yet to teach us PROPER portion control,
And I get the impression I'm not so popular when I give less than expected.
Maybe it's the "Death-threat" stare, or maybe the Kitty Log in my slippers, I don't know!
All I can tell you is don't EVER make the mistake of addressing him as a "cat"
Or you may come to know the justice of King Pie, The Terrible........just a warning!!