Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Age Cat Poems | Age Poems About Cat

These Age Cat poems are examples of Age poems about Cat. These are the best examples of Age Cat poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Rhyme | |

Disposable Wisdom

Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?

Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace

More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry

Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage

Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience

Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing

In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby

She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II	
Annie received little compensation

This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty

To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home

With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse

Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009

Details | Free verse | |

Jimmy, El Nopalero

Nopalero = one who deals with/sells nopales [edible prickly pear cactus leafs/pads]

Aiiiii, Jimmy --
what shall we say, now that you've gone,
worst fear realized:  your body discovered,
days later, in your filthy Mexican rooms,
amid the soiled paper littering the floors,
reeking of cat urine and layer upon layer
of dried and fresher feces.
These feral cats were your most faithful companions.
You thought yourself their benefactor and, perhaps, their savior.
We were told that, after your demise, when the door opened,
all 21 fled, never to return.  You left us,
unbathed, smelly, shunned, just weeks before 
your birthday, having almost (but not quite) 
suffered through 80 years, the last 30 
spent in bordertown Mexico.  You, daily, crossed
the bridge to claim your mail -- which (for a fee)
promised to guarantee you would be a winner
of lotteries, sweepstakes, miraculous windfalls.
You subsisted on senior coffees at McD's, 
on your pitiful government assistance.
You blamed your life on abuse by brothers
(all dead long before you) and you could not
understand why richer acquaintances --
virtually everyone -- were unwilling
to share with you their bounty.
In the plazas, you were a familiar sight,
selling whatever you could: you were "el viejo gringo,"
"el Jimmy," "el nopalero," and other less generous
(but, perhaps, appropriate) names.
You knew animals, had some expertise with birds.
Your chief preoccupation was yourself,
and your main complaint was 
that you never got your just desserts.
But no one deserves to end as you did -- unclaimed, 
a foreign body, interred in Mexico
in an unmarked pauper's grave: 
a "fosa comun."  You only wanted to be loved. 
RIP my friend; I did not mean to be unkind.

James Milford Pierson, 27 February 1934 - 2 February 2014.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse | |

Return Of Your King

Reflections of imperfections have shown me a way that I can move mountains through my power of faith even though I can't see him I know he is real through the power of prayer and a Love that I feel It's growing inside me like a flower in bloom shall I reveal my powers or is it too soon I am reading the signs through my darkness I find a reason for belief in the light of mankind that I know shall overcome the greatest of odds the Love I seek amazes me especially through the flaws because now I am inspired through the hero's that bring my throne through the darkness on which I return on as your King.

Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme | |

curiosity killed the CAT

Unleash the kitty
The little boy thought of himself witty
Locked up in his room infront of the screen
Submerged in the screams
A lasting string that will follow him to his teens

Internet tasted like mint, to him
Abundant and innovative, yet aromatic to
His flaming desires
And that national geographic! 
Oh my oh my
Exotic women in their little strings
Covering their little things

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse | |

Love And Pricks

I Love the elderly so full of history I love my generation who kept me a mystery I love the children who's future, now bright for I have died for them to capture the light for i understand pain more than ever once I released it the anger got better as it went away from the people and into my music without a single reason to prove it without a reason to let Love's light in I didn't, it found me and lesser I sin God and my father both let me know it would all be okay so very long ago even tho the road would be full of pricks even back then I'd tell them you can all suck my dick. -Bj Fard

Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative | |

Final Journey

With grace he jumps upon my lap,
deep humming in his throat.
He licks his soft, white mitten'd foot 
and grooms his midnight coat.

Then settles down and settles in, 
like many times before:
in all those springs and winters
since he came to my front door.

He’s never wrought an unclean act 
inside my house . . my home.
He's shed a bit, but never even
dragged a dead rat home.

He's lazed about inside and out, 
while others did not last.
His years pile up alongside mine, 
with nearly nineteen passed.

I sadden thinking of the friends 
that left me through those years.
His time as well, grows shorter now,
along with mine, I fear.

But he knows nothing of this truth, 
as he settles in my lap.
No dread upon his whiskered face, 
this loving, gentle cat.

And as he holds sly death at bay,
for as long as he can fend;
I hope and pray a peaceful trip,
escorts him to his end. 

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse | |

Bear

Big blundering beast
Poor fish have no chance whatsoever
Neither does the slowest runner in your group

Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013

Details | Imagism | |

Brown

A cat sniffs the crooked brown dough of the sullen moon;
The tempting smell of warm bread seems held by a glass sky
Old age, carefully steps on the glass, always ready to cry
 Like they`d learn again to walk,holding an invisible balloon.

With glassy eyes looking at the strange baked moon,
The large dynasty of the unemployed and ex-miners,
Ecologists and readers of Bible, embarrassed beginners
Cannot "hear at a little distance", in the brown afternoon;

But a short-sighted misanthropist, observed while acting
As a conductor of the strike`s syncopation turned in syncope:
“Even the doctor with infinite awkwardness used his stethoscope;
I think, -because, no one can communicate only through feelings”

The brown cat in the street, shining eyes round about;
All cars seem gathered in the same frozen town;
The only birch tree from the hill was cut down;
Mourning neighbors live in their permanent doubt

To protest against solitude, and so many noisy cars;
And obviously, too many accidents in the town;
“Wait on the zebra…Don`t cross Mr. Brown!”
Lonely crowds, picture of still life with cellulars…

Seasons buried the face in tired brown fountains,       
Long dirty brown drifts of snow and brown sensations
Step with ugly brown clay, and let traces for generations,
Because, cyanide used to pull gold from Red Mountains;
       
Everybody is in such a brown hurry towards nowhere.
Halt!Mr. Brown looks for his cat; the firemen help him to sit.
The cat climbed the moon, ready in a hurry to taste it;
Winter and cat stay with claws out;silence and the brown vault.


Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2014

Details | Quintain (English) | |

Age Unto Its Self

Age unto its self 
is like a cat to a bird- 
belly low to ground- 
without a warning heard. 

Surprise found in my eyes 
is the same for all old men- 
same look that’s on the bird 
that the cat  comes drags in.

Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2008

Details | Free verse | |

Moments Relived

infectious decay
of old age
promising ritual
but I can't comprehend

why you left so fast
parted your bony corpse
that precise fur
gleaming fall coat
the black and orange-
a contrast so unique
so perfected

why does age creep up-
eliminating your organs
toying with your mind
into accepting the fate-
death

and though each death withholds happiness
smiles are forgotten
we use the muscles to avoid tears-
those that are supposedly helpful to endure

my friend my pet, my sidekick
waking me up throughout the nights with a purr
4 am tortured me

but now I lye awake at 4
awaiting your purring- your presence
How do you move on when they become a part of you-
an pure unconditional love

Copyright © Sarah Casey | Year Posted 2014

Details | ABC | |

Ayrshire

A beautiful day in Ayr
Because its so breezy and fair 
Chasing seagulls and sand in my hair

Copyright © jimmy mccurdie | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme | |

Cat Had A Pet

Cat had a pet;
Some old dude
He met, while on patrol
His many backyards
A territorial feral;

Opportunist:
A lap was empty,
Well used
But warm enough,
Some sandwich unfinished
Surprise!—It was tuna!
(A match seemed
Made in heaven)

Cat had a pet,
Some old dude
He met—an opportunist:
Quickly he laid claim
Though the find sat
Quite lame—
Unable to speak
Yet attentive;
Having tasty treats
Pocket full unending—
How inventive!
Quite the incentive,
Seemed a match
Made in heaven—

As seasons passed
Their relationship grew
Till the old dude due—
His chair
Now empty;
Well, not always…
An occasional cat-nap
Keeps the heat on…
Purring while dreaming
His incentive:
A warm lap
And a pocket full of treats

Surely a match
To be continued
In heaven—

Copyright © Joe DiMino | Year Posted 2016

Details | Blank verse | |

the gone is a fantasma

The gone is a Dream 

I drove passed my Savannah this afternoon mist covered yet,
 the sun rays got through and bathed my dream in
wondrous mystic. I haven`t been here since last summer
my piece of Africa with tall grass and lion pride.
Every summer for twenty years I rode my scooter here and
knew ever blade of grass, olive trees and vines and I was
never attacked by any animals, not even the crocodiles in
the ditches bothered to make a splash.

Only once when I had strayed too far where the mountain
range appears the gypsies had a camp hidden behind 
cypresses, their dogs gave chase, and I had to drive for my life.
Perhaps, it was not quite like that but the Savannah was there  
a place to dream and be a boy again when summers lasted
forever and trees where for climbing to the top and laugh
at the funny looking adults.

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2015