A most unfortunate event
has occurred at our house.
It's embarrassing to admit,
We have a resident mouse.
The elusive little devil
has avoided every trap.
Though set in various places,
we've yet to hear a snap.
We have a playful tomcat
who loves his toy mouse,
carries it clutched in his teeth
to flip, toss and pounce.
Unfortunately, he performs
the same with a live one.
I'm urging, "Get it, kill it,"
he's too busy having fun.
Again and again he turns
it loose, enjoying the chase.
The mouse runs for his life,
hopeful of winning the race.
The crafty little victim
eludes the slothful brute,
scuttles down a heat vent,
leaves Tom to other pursuits.
Whereupon he saunters around,
searching for his toy mouse.
We're left with a useless cat
and a mouse in the house.
Copyright © Cona Adams
"Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key..."
There was a time when Jess was young, that we thought we were going to lose him.
It all started with recurring headaches he would have. These headaches became more frequent and intense over a few months. Next, tremors on one side joined the headaches.
Countless trips to the Doctor and days of having to leave work to go to his side at school to help him through the episodes. I blew a gasket. I demanded a CAT scan. I think that the only reason that the Doctor agreed, was to shut me up. But I knew in my gut, that these were not migraines as diagnosed.
The day of the CAT scan came. I sat in an area that allowed me to see my son and hear the technicians. At first, the techs were very chatty among themselves. Then, stark silence. As if a tomb door had been shut. Then the words that still haunt me were said..."Oh shit" on of the technicians whispered. I closed my eyes and felt my heart cry out in its pain.
I sat in the Doctors office, waiting for him to come and tell me my son was fine. That there was an error in the reading of the scan.
He entered with his nurse, who was carrying a box of tissues and cup of water.
"Your son has an arachnoid cyst. The left temporal lobe of his brain is not there. In its place is a fluid filled sack. The pressure of the filling fluid is causing all the symptoms. He will need to undergo brain surgery."
I sat there....numb. All I recall hearing are the words...Brain surgery.
The day of the surgery came. His younger brother was with me in the waiting room. Too young to understand the gravity of the situation. All he knew was that his brother was very sick.
Now, I want to take you to our sons Hospital room, post surgery.
There he was, lying in the big bed. White as the sheet that covered his small body up to his chest. His head wrapped in bandages. Tubes and wires everywhere.
As our son was waking up, his first words were "Where is my brother?"
Mike flew to the side of his bed and grabbed his hand. "I'm right here!" he said.
Very weakly, Jess was able to say "I love you Mike."
Mike in turn said, "I love you Jess."
My tears that had never flowed through the whole ordeal finally came. Not out of fear, but for the love that our sons had for one another.
For the A Fragment Of Life contest
sponsored by Constance La France
Copyright © Paula Swanson
The house sits silent.
All but for the creaks and groans
as the house settles on it’s aging foundation.
The arthritic sound of wood.
A faint hum from the refrigerator,
is the backdrop, to the passing of time
from the Grandfather clock in the hall.
A cat sits on the stairwell landing.
A silent witness to the night.
It’s green eyes glowing softly,
within the slash of moonlight.
The gentle sounds of sleep
come from the rooms above.
The slow steady drip of a faucet,
the only sound within the home.
A breeze sweeps through an open
French door, billowing, gauzy curtains.
Carrying with it the scents
of Honey suckle and Rose.
The wood rope swing that hangs
from the gnarled tree, is caught
up in the nighttime breath, to cast about.
The old rope squeaks it’s protest.
The wind in the leaves rustle out
their own soft song. Singing to sleep
the birds and small creatures of the day.
Welcoming the night hunters.
As the night passes and the sun begins to rise,
so too the house awakens.
The cat uncurls to stretch
and head out the open door.
the drip of the faucet,
is now a steady stream,
Washing off a face of sleep.
From the kitchen, comes the smell
of coffee freshly brewing.
So starts the new day.
The sun will ride this day's sky,
to set once again.
The house will settle anew,
welcoming the night time stage.
Copyright © Paula Swanson
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands e.e. cummings
" LV means Love"
contrasting winds which carried particles
of who we used to be
circled and settled. to fold into one
that you are me...and i am you..
two hearts, one sun, one moon, that built a love
where twists and bends, would melt into one,
where eyes can't see where threads connect;
a solid rock, yet soft as feathers
where I can come to lay my head
and cast away the darkest day, the cruelest night
never will we understand
the shifts and strains of wayward winds
that whirl, and pound on fate's own door
the knowing why is not what counts, what matters deeply more...
is when I reach my hand to touch
this vaporous thing...impossible to define
where mortal words can not explain
nothing to see, nothing to touch,
just the faint breath of us
a dream, not myth....that final sleep cannot erase....
so sure this breath of life we share
is reason enough, that we are here
For Joann's Contest "Copy Cat" My poem inspired by e.e. cummings poem LVII
Copyright © Carrie Richards
I'm like a one-eyed cat peepin' in a seafood sto'
I'm like a one-eyed cat peepin' in a seafood sto'
Well I can look at you and tell you ain' no child no mo'
A few interpretations for this visually challanged and rather paranoid creature:
Still makes me hungry just don't LOOK good as it used to or
Still smells good, just ain't sure what I'm SMELLIN' no more or
Don't LOOK good as it used to, Don't SMELL good as it used to and
Definitely don't TASTE good as it used to or...
I was born that way, so what? or
Used to have two, now I only got one and
That's all you need to peep with anyways and
I think that's all you got left too so...
Let's put our eyes together on this thing and
Let's sneak over there and tom-peep that hole and
You peep on the women seafood and tell me about it and
I'll peep on the men seafood and tell you about it and...
Wait a minute here, something's not...
No, no I'm not gay! I swear I'm not!
I know by the above verse it might appear that way but
I swear to god! I swear to god I never...
Alright now, this has gone JUST ABOUT FAR ENOUGH and
You can't hardly tell them apart anyway and
The men don't even have one...they just kinda sprinkle, you know and
The rest just...How do I know? Well I-uh...read it somewhere and...
Oh, just kiss my big you-know-what! and
Wait!...I-I mean...if you're a FEMALE fish you can or a lady uh...
Oyster? Or girl crab or ..Hey, stop that!...Ow!
I didn't say...Ouch! Why you!...(Sigh) let's try this again, shall we?
Sorry folks...Just had to get this out of my system...Hope you think it's funny and
What?... WELL!! Kiss my-my uh...Elbow!...yeah, that's it! My elbow...
Bill Haley and the Comets became rich and famous for doing a 'sanitized' version of this song in 1954... Big Joe's original was considered too suggestive and sexual for white audiences...
Second verse for example:
'Way you wear those dresses, the sun come shinin' thru
Way you wear those dresses, the sun come shinin' thru
I can't believe my eyes all that mess belong to you'
(In 'proper' English: THE way you wear those dresses)
Copyright © Tim Ryerson
She smiles all day she thinks it' s o.k.
She makes weird sounds and it's all day
My Aunt I asked will you not make that silly sound today?
My Aunt looked at me and said why? she always say
In public she snorts when she laughs and I get that
But when things get out of hand she scares my the cat
I have a cat but my Aunt well she kinda sat
Poor little cat it was now a furry little mat
I get really mad at her, but she seems to make me smile
Because one day we walked, she sang me a song about a mile
I was happy because she ran out of gas at last
She also could not speak at all, and that was a blast
Although she could not speak
She kept smiling she once never look bleak
My Aunt Willy who's Silly is the person who never does things in half's
I can not express any louder she makes me smile with laughs
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast
My son and his family drove down from the big city,
out to the countryside with open fields and steams.
They brought their standard golden poodle along,
a curly-haired fellow, name of Timmy.
Timmy had never seen a cat;
not even a mole or a furry rat.
Visiting country kin, he was checking things out.
Everything went fine that very first day.
Cats went about paying him no mind.
He walked about just passing time.
On that second day there was a big mistake.
Being a city dog with more worldy ways,
to add pleasure to his hum-drum days,
he thought it time to befriend these country kin.
The cats had never seen a dog this small,
only those on stilts, big, long and tall,
like Pyrenees, big wide mouths and teeth to match.
With barking big dogs on the scene,
up a tree they squirreled, never to be seen.
But this golden-haired fellow, with city clout--
they’d give him benefit of instinctive doubt.
Mama cat was even so bold
to sniff this city slicker right on the nose.
Sizing him up all the while, a friendly rat, she surmised,
a might bigger than some she had seen,
playing cat and mouse, yet acting so coy;
that is, until that overgrown golden-haired rat
walked up to Mama’s black baby boy.
Mama’s two other sons, another black and a blue,
began to gather nearer this city dweller, too.
Timmy politely extended his nose.
black son cat extended his razor-sharp claws,
with a bristled tail and fierce hissing jaws.
Timmy let out with a painful yelp,
as Mama cat called all boys in for help.
Cats surrounded and gave chase to the dog,
life-fearing circles around the cedar tree he’d log;
four hissing cats hot on his tail,
poor Timmy yelping in a desperate wail.
The master of Timmy gave rescue,
but Mama cat and her three grown sons,
strutting in pride, putting a dog on the run.
Written by: Carolyn Henderson
For Constance LaFrance's Cat Poem Contest
Won 9th Place
Copyright © Carolyn Henderson
In an old Victorian building lives two cats and a lady
The girl cat is Patches and the boy cat is called Peanut
And the lady is called Dear Heart, they all live in harmony
One day, Dear Heart decided the cats needed to have collars
So she bought a pink one for Patches and a blue one for Peanut
Each collar had a little bell that tinkled and tinkled as the cats walked
Now, Patches loved her collar but Peanut twisted about
He flopped on his back, putting his paws inside the blue collar
Finally, the bell fell off and he pounced after it across the room
As Patches walked around her little bell went tinkle, tinkle, tinkle
Peanut was determined to get that bell and became quiet the pest
Dear Heart talked to Peanut telling him to stop and leave the bell alone
When Dear Heart came home from work the cats came
She reached to stroke Patches and noticed the pink collar
The bell was missing, she looked at Peanut, bad cat she said
Where the bells went is still a mystery that may stay unsolved
Patches still has her pink collar, she likes to show it off for visitors
Peanut totalled destroyed his within days and was very proud of that
Written by Constance La France
October 27, 2012
In Memory of Peanut the Cat
Copyright © Broken Wings
it just stood there till forest ranger
knocked to check if widow raccoon was alright.
rain was very nasal that night; so she said
i’m fine with my woolen frock and lights on,
and shut the door and slid on her
then, a brownie cat from nowhere land jumped
through the sill and landed on widow’s lap.
brownie cat purred and meowed like a violin
in the middle of some broken refrain. she was
so pretty and had some scratch. widow raccoon
laughed and both had milk with lemon biscuits
for midnight snacks…as night stretched longer,
brownie took a shower and read nursery rhymes
with widow till sweet cat purred more with
gentle licks on widow’s prune cheeks. oh, how
raccoon flashed a wide grin for the first time
facing brownie she said it would
be nice to have dear stray cat for keeps…
canine pet crooned and purred some more
as they slept under tap-taps of rain while tiny
stars gently spun away. morning came; brownie
danced for her mother widow but sprained
her shoulder. i better put some balm on that,
raccoon pulled newfound cat near her chest.
oh, brownie had a name tag and flea collar
around her neck. fluffy kitten couldn’t be hers;
they hugged so tight as teary widow dressed up.
holding brownie on swaying arms, sad raccoon
swooned, it’s time for you to get home, and opened…
all rights reserved
(( for Francine Roberts' " Tell Me About It" ))
Copyright © nette onclaud
She curled her tail around her toes,
Covering whiskers, chin and nose.
An ear twitch here, another there;
She claimed as hers the easy chair.
Tormentor of both mole and mouse,
She spent the summer out of house.
Plundered, pillaged, night and day,
No mercy for dim witted prey.
Summer passed and then the fall,
As bitter cold left wintery pall.
The feline wanted none of that;
Once more she posed as family cat.
She lay about each day and night:
Purred when stroked and feigned delight.
Her bowl, her chair and toilet place,
Were all she claimed as sovereign space.
The season wore on long and cold.
Outside most life seemed put on hold.
The feline lay there still as dead,
Entombed within her winter bed.
Come now the spring with days of fair;
The old cat stretched within her chair.
A well placed nose near open sill;
She felt the much diminished chill.
Then rushed to door that still was closed.
Cries from her pleading throat arose.
Weaving through her mistress legs;
"Let me out," brash feline begged.
As chipmunk fed in hemlock crotch,
Unfettered cat dashed off the porch.
With one quick scramble up the tree;
A winter cat she ceased to be.
Do we not marvel at her grace,
Ere all those months confined in place?
The cat resumes with guileless ease,
Her summer reign of fields and trees.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre
Christy, Christafur Cat.
Was a southern cat.
His ancestors came from the south of Spain.
His Great, Great, Grandfather was a
venturesome Cat who came across the Seven Seas.
Not Long after that he met another southern
Cat This one from the heart of Georgia.
As the years came and went History was
recorded by some other Cats.
To which Christy, Christafur, Cat asks.
Why is that? How do you know that?
Can you prove that? Is that a fact?
My dear Christy, Christafur, Cat I
really don’t know. You are such a Loveable
Cat. That is that. YOU CAT!
John H. Hardison..
Copyright © John Hardison
The crashing waves hit the bow, as we cut through waters deep.
Clasped in irons that cut the skin; forged in the fires that never sleep.
The desert was dry, the sun beat down, I am free as a bird
The breeze tickled through the oasis, near the camel herd
Now my love is fading, like the burnt embers of those flames.
I am now branded a thief and prisoner, amongst some other names.
The hate I felt for the whore that tried to give his love to me.
Was so strong I felt I could kill him, my love he will never see.
I stole for her a flower, a simple heart felt gift.
The perfume now a memory, on this prison galleon adrift.
I am traveling to my wedding, across the desert so hot and dry.
Perfumed flower petals along the way, by slaves are scattered awry.
Seven years the price for my gift of love it did gain.
Hard labour I endure, to avoid the leather cat pain.
My arms are full of bracelets, and pearls hang round my neck.
I never think of him, now shackled on that deck.
Her kisses sublime, a memory fading, the perfume of her skin and hair
The price is high but I will pay, I took her from him to be fair.
To think I could have kissed. him makes my skin fairly crawl.
But the plan worked well, for my new rich lover, it managed to enthrall.
Slaves to love, there is no choice, when our hearts lead us astray.
I stand here windswept and tear stained, with seven years to pay.
How dry my eyes now he has gone, freedom is beckoning me.
So easy it was to frame him, now he has seven years before he is free.
I stand in the wind, rope in hand, waves crashing all around.
My ankles are bleeding with the chains, and the cat makes a whistling sound.
I lay on cushions with rings on my fingers the slaves are fanning me.
My wrists are bathed in rose oil, and kissed perpetually.
My love is strong, my heart is given, and I know I will endure.
My love will wait for me, my beauty, my life, my own sweet amour.
Thank goodness I kept my heart for me, and for me alone.
This thing called love is foolish, my heart it has never known.
In collaboration with Declan Fitzgerald who started the story off which made it easy to alternate my side of the story as a femme fatale between his couplets.
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl
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
“My grandfather was strong and mighty, till he died at age of ninety.
The clock then stopped to run no more.
Then one of my relations wrote a song, sung for generations.
I think of it more and more:
“My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny-weight more . . .”
Shaken from his quaint digression, his face in tense expression,
He renewed his dire obsession
About what made the clock strike in the night.
He slipped to the room adjacent, above an empty basement,
Where stood the clock’s encasement – opened so very slight.
Moving with stealth, and in no hurry,
He saw an object hunched and furry;
His cat stood vigil in the night, with eyes reflecting light.
A mouse, the cat had faced, into the clock was chased,
And up the pendulum raced, quickly taking flight.
Climbing the clock’s encasement, the mouse’s weight displacement,
Tripped the spring so tight; it struck with awesome might!
Striking twelve it had numbered, his muddled thoughts encumbered,
Scared awake from slumber in the night.
“All of this is so confusing, could I, these years be using
The clock with spring so tight?”
In his mental delusion he added to the confusion,
For this intrusion in the night.
There was nothing he couldn’t handle
With his shotgun on the mantle by the door,
With it he could surely even up the score.
With the menace looming bigger, he quickly pulled the trigger
Then the grandfather clock was no more
And the cat and mouse— a taxidermy chore.
Copyright © James Tate
The stray cat walks on three legs now.
(I swear he’d walk on two.)
I found out just the other night;
My neighbors call him Lou.
He’s weathered one more winter:
The fourth since I arrived.
The shape he’s always in by spring:
Lord . . how does he survive?
I leave a pan of dry food out
Each and every day.
Protected from the rain or snow,
In case Lou comes this way.
A little dog house waits nearby,
Next to the pan of food.
It’s padded well in wintertime,
In case Lou’s in the mood:
To trust me and to rest awhile,
In a place that’s dry and warm.
To stop his weary traveling round
And nevermore move on.
Except for this I do no more,
For Lou will not come near.
He’s feral now, afraid of me
And this won’t change, I fear.
In speaking with my neighbor though,
It seems there are a few --
Who also care about the likes
Of poor, old Tiger Lou.
His days are spent amongst us
And amongst us they will end.
But none can say, stray Tiger Lou,
Passed by without a friend.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre
One day my daughter brought home a scraggly looking young cat who had always
lived outside. In her first year, we learned she had given birth to two litters of kittens, most of which died. She’d always had to scrounge for food and had even escaped from the pound, only to find her way back to that place where she’d not been well-treated! When my daughter saw her, it was her kittens that were being given away. But my daughter saw a gentle quality in this mother cat that surpassed the sweetness of the kittens and asked to take the mother, who became known to our family as Callie (for Calico).
Callie grew plump and flourished in our home. She was no nuisance to anybody or anything. She became so pampered that she hated the outdoors and if a door were opened, she would approach the “outside” cautiously, only to come racing back inside the minute we returned from our porch. Callie loved to sit on laps and be petted. The older she got, the louder she even purred. If a visitor came to the house, she would climb to their laps. She was small and so likable that nobody wanted to shoo her away.
When our children left home, she became my one and only baby, curled up by my pillow each night and awakening me with a little pat to my face every morning for her breakfast. Callie lived a long life, nearly 18 years, but has since passed on. Dying of cancer, she clung to life until we saw fit to have her put to sleep. I have since adopted other cats, and my current cat is indeed charming, but I still believe there is not another cat in the world that can compare to our one and only Callie Cat!
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich
I am a big admirer of all large cats, one of my favourites being the Scottish Wild Cat.
It is one of the wildest of all cats and will fight to the death to protect its kitten even with a golden eagle. It avoids humans like the plague preferring to live a solitary life.
They have survived human for over 500 years longer than the wolf and over 1000 years more than the bear and british lynx. They have been on the planet for millions of years before either humans or domestic cats.
They look much like a tabby but gait like a big cat, males weigh between 6-9kg, females smaller 5-7kg. They have rotating wrists and razor sharp claws for gripping and climbing trees. Fossil remains have been found measuring 4 feet.
They can sprint at 30mph and fall from massive heights landing on their feet, they are a stealth hunter and mainly nocturnal covering up to 10km range. Even when born in captivity they are un-tamable.
They charge when fighting but don't lie on their sides like domestic cats.. Renowned for biting right through gauntlets vets dart if they have to handle them.
Wild Cats enjoy their own space and daily schedules. They like things to be peaceful so live as far from humans as possible. Usually heavily forested and near water, they frequently change dens.
They are a friend of crop farmers by keeping down rabbits etc. They only eat meat consuming most if not all of what they kill. Killing by grabbing prey and pulling it down then biting through either neck or spine.
Wild Cats like to fish by using their paws to scoop out fish, and like eels, lizards and frogs. Their other food is small deer, ground birds and hares, nowadays they rarely take a lamb seeming to know the farmer will try to kill them. Most Scottish farmers are proud to have a Wild Cat on their land.
Their night vision is exceptional about seven better than ours. They can rotate their ears 180 degrees enabling them to hear all around them. They then triangulate and pinpoint the source, and exceptional balance as well make it a super predator.
Some Facts taken ad lib
Mating season: January to March, most births in April to May
Oestrus: 2 to 8 days, in presence of males
Gestation: 63 to 68 days
Litter size: Mean 3.4, range 1 to 8
Age at independence: 4 to 5 months, up to 10 months
Age at sexual maturity: Females 10 to 12 months, males 9 to 10 months
Inter birth interval: one year, females can only exceptionally breed twice in one year, such as when the first litter is lost
Mortality: Studies suggest human caused mortality (snares, roads, gunshot) account for up to 92% of deaths
Longevity: Probably around 6 to 8 years in the wild, up to 15 years in captivity
Usually one litter a year with 3-4 kittens born in early spring, they learn to hunt from roughly 7-9 weeks old by the mother bringing home live prey then with her becoming independent around 5-6 months.
This just scrapes the surface of this fascinating cat. I think the following quote sums them up well
"They'll fight to the death for their freedom; they epitomise what it takes to be truly free I think."
If interested you will find most if not all you want to know on this site
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton
He found himself in Hell,
And the roads were all twisted
So you did not know.
There were black rats
And stinking cats
Defying all description...
And these were rushing down the roads -
The twisted, tortuous roads,
Copyright © Julia Ward
Mother rabbit builds
a cozy burrow
underneath the soil.
She brings her babies
and covers them
in her own fur.
She places them
in the flower bed
near the front door,
a spot well chosen
to give protection
from the wind.
Pansies and petunias
sit in their boxes
crying for the soil.
We give them water,
waiting patiently for
a later day to plant.
The cats perch
on the windowsill,
twin heads turned,
eyes glued to her den.
We keep them inside
for babies’ sake.
Copyright © Cona Adams
The English language does not serve up justice to the word ‘Love’.
It allows for an unrestricted usage relative to the object of our affection.
“I love my house, and I love my car; I love my dog, and I love my cat”.
If the equity in my house rises high enough, I will sell it and buy a better one.
If my car no longer performs or I desire to have a new one, I’ll sell or trade it.
My dog stands by me, and he’s my best friend. My cat is quiet and very comforting.
“I love my teachers, and I love my preachers: I love my parents and my siblings”.
I love my job, and I love my blue suede shoes; I love my friends and my enemies”.
I tell you, there is no end to the things that I love without much distinction.
I love my husband; I love my wife; Now hold on! This is where the red flag must fall.
This is where the defining line of true love is drawn in the sand, and here, I take my stand. There are obviously hidden meanings when it comes to “Love” in the English language.
Why did the English not confer more with the Greeks in matters of the “Love Word”?
Would my wife not be much more appreciative of a “Love Word” from me if she knew that my choice of words was different from, let’s say those used to describe my affinity for a professional football team? I think yes.
Anyway, I do “LOVE” my wife far more and far longer than I ‘love’ the raise I received on my job. English is the only language I know. So I am stuck with loving the coffee she made for me, and LOVING her with the same word.
The Greeks seemed to have had a better idea. In the Greek, there are at least three words for “Love”. Those words are very relevant at this point. Phileo, Eros, and Agape express three distinct meanings of “Love”. Phileo love is a brotherly love from which we get the English word Philadelphia. Eros is a romantic love from which we get the word Erotic. In Christian theology, Agape is the divine love, or God’s love for mankind.
And now a final word, especially to all of us who are married. Here is one way to clear everything up and cover all the bases of love. Herein lies a way to not just hit a home run, but a grand slam. Say these words to your spouse: “Honey, let me count the ways that I love thee; my dear, believe me when I say, I love thee in the English, and I love thee in the Greek; I Phileo you, because you are my best friend; I Eros you, because you are my only lover; and I Agape you with a love so divine. 09292015 (contest )
Copyright © curtis johnson
Drums and flags
And sight of toffee apples.
The fair begins for the new season.
Maud, the cat, waits for new night.
Then it comes, and past midnight,
Maud, the cat, searches for mice.
Somewhere behind the rubbish tip
And toffee apples half-prepared,
She waits by drums and flags.
Copyright © Julia Ward
He dragged himself along a narrow corridor,
carrying a golden cat statue with him.
He walked as though the weight of the world
was on his shoulders, as he vomited
out thick blood. His favorite white shirt
was now red and wet.
On his skin, veins were dark
and swollen, as though they wanted to explode!
It is picking the artifact
from goddess Bastet’s shrine,
that made him to be as he was….
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi
A cat walked across the street
(After looking both ways).
It was a pretty Kitty.
There were trees across the street.
In the trees there were squirrels.
The squirrels raised families.
They ate acorns,
they made babies,
A cat stepped across the street.
(After looking one way).
It was a pretty stray Kitty.
Across the street there were farmlands.
In the farmlands lived humans.
The humans raised many different plants.
The humans fed these plants to many types of animals.
Then the animals gave the humans “gifts”.
Which the humans ate, drank, and made into money.
Then they had sex (like animals).
A cat ran across the street.
It was a pretty curious stray Kitty.
It was run over by a taxi.
Riding inside the taxi were a Father and Son.
The Father remained unconcerned.
The Son frowned, looked out the window, and wept.
“The poor Kitty,” he said staring down at his hands.
“Why Dad, why did the Kitty have to die?” he asked.
“Son, the Kitty didn’t die; it went to Kitty Heaven.”
He answered almost-smiling at his Son now watching
the traffic consume outside quickly, noiselessly.
A cat stumbled across the street.
(At midnight, eyes closed).
Just some Goddamed kitty cat.
The Kitty was crushed by a taxi and by an ambulance
and by a Greyhound bus and by a mini-van.
All tomorrow bound and running a day late.
Thump! Thump-thump! and all Kitty’s bones shattered,
as a car window shatters (into thousands of perfect cubes).
Kitty’s use-to-be head popped like a water balloon;
that some homeless child dropped on a hot sidewalk-
in New York City summertime.
Its lifeless body was vomited up against-
wheel well wheel well wheel well, eventually
spiraling into a drainage ditch off the highway.
Where it laid epileptically twitching.
Yellow eyes now open and looking forever
upward at the hazy stars of almost June
in the Twenty-first century, respectfully.
Copyright © joshua ten eyck
He helped himself up to the wind's foremost blow
On a hillock where the moon searched his impecunious pockets,
Waking a flood in his eyes like swelled teats.
He opened wide to receive the Lady, this Endymion cheats,
No worm-wood virus but sweet philtre phials.
Finishing, he is a lover...
He sought the bosom of Erebus in her wildest glow.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
A scavenger cat clawing a bushman's billy-can
Some hard laid by in his work, purred with surveillance
In disgust over him turning tins over in the bin.
Together he cast the lid by to biltong and raisin:
The cat devours, he abandons the prandial dance.
Pausing, he is a server...
He ate them all like yams those starved seamen.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Over the mellowy orchard, for a while he blotted,
Down the glen he skied on the mossy rock
And rubbed clean in the steamy fume of the fall.
Clambering on the paddock, the love-grass over him gall
His rag-patches, bee-combed, mock.
Swearing, he is a dreamer...
He tore tearfully through the palliasse of touch-me-not.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Now upon the road of life, he chanced
And espied himself the mutest spectre dust,
Cruising his hour in the propelled sleep of night.
He saw himself waft from this mount to that bight
And saw it was not wont or just.
Laughing, he is a god...
But this infidel purpose of man be countenanced.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
(c) T. Wignesan - 1948 in Tracks of a Tramp. Singapore-Kuala Lumpur: Rayirath Publications, 1961.
Copyright © T Wignesan
She scurried throughout the kitchen
With her echoing meow
Right into the bedroom....
Couldn't imagine what Samii was up to?
She started to poke in and around
A mound of folded clothes
On the left hand side
Of the bed.
She kept poking, and poking further
But the pile of clothes
Collapsed on top of her,
Only to find her poking deeper
And deeper inside.
I could only see
That from her hips
Back to the tip of her tail
With such intensity
That her hips
Did sway, sway, and SWAY
With such force
Until she finally got
Her catch of the day!
She glanced aside at me
As if to say:
"I will do what you tell me: To obey!"
So without hesitation
She leaped off my bed
And with pride in fulfilling her duty
Managed to corner her opponent
In the bedroom
Beneath the window
Towards the bay.
Running along the baseboard,
From one end to the other end
This cat and mouse game
Lasted for five minutes or so,
As if they were friends at play,
But after all that she did
The mouse had apparently
Outwit her match
And must have sneaked
Into an unnoticed hole
And did finally get away!
However, only twenty four hours later,
The mouse that got away
Was eventually Samii's catch of the day!
Copyright © Valerie Ann Thomas
As the boys walked and walked
Through the forest of many lost souls
The boys began to feel they were lost
And would never find old man withers gold
But as the boys, were about to give up
The oldest had another feeling
And decided to look up
There he saw, what looked to be a cave
He told the other two, and they all shouted YaYYYY!!!!!
But this cave that he saw
In the forest of many lost souls
Didn’t seem to even contain
Any of Old man withers gold
Instead of precious gold
There lay a big pile of bones
Bones of little lost children
Children from there town back home
As the three boys noticed
That this was no treasure chest
The oldest boy realized
Head home would probably be best
But as they turned to head back home
The oldest boy heard
A scary and vicious groan
So he looked into the darkness
To see what he could see
A big blackish wompass cat
With big ole shiny teeth
The three little boys
That set out on a quest
Found themselves alone
Almost frightened to death
This wompass cat they saw
In forest of many lost souls
Was very big and very tall
I guess he ate all the souls
But these boys couldn't give up
As they didn’t do before
But they couldn't just outman this beast
For there strength was way to poor
As time was running out
For all the little boys
The oldest boy picked up
A stone that was on the floor
As he threw the stone
With all he had in store
To keep this wild and mangy beast
From getting all three boys souls
With this throw of the stone
Draw a quick blow to the head
There this mangy beast cat lay
This wompass cat was dead
As the boys started to leave
Towards there home they would head
The oldest boy noticed a light
Behind the cat that lay dead
This light was pretty gorgeous
A beauty often unseen
The boys took a closer look
The oldest said Cha Ching!!!!!
Copyright © Cody Turner
Down by the river can you picture me here?
Fishing pole in hand, sipping on a beer.
Life is just sweeter than sweet.
Hopefully by night there’ll be a good mess of fish for me to eat.
Well my line just went slack,
Now something seems to be a bringing it back.
Hope it’s a big ole blue cat a taking a bite.
He’ll be frying in the frying pan come later tonight.
I got my camp all set and a fire a burning low,
Cast iron skillet goes with me wherever I go.
Got cornmeal and fixings to make it taste right, you know bamm, I call it poww.
That was an ole blue cat and I’ve got him cooking right now.
Got taters and onions stinking up that ole grease,
Sure is good catfish reckon I’d better get me another piece.
Sure do wish ya’ll were all here,
Got plenty of catfish but you’ll have to bring your own beer.
Bring along a fishing pole or two,
Bait it up and throw it out is all you need to do.
This ole water hole is just plumb full of fish,
And cooking over the grill makes it simply delish.
I spit on my bait, throw it out, and in a minute or two,
I’m reeling in a catfish and betcha you can too.
Copyright © Ronald Bingham
I know it is not so
but I have the clear feeling
that at any moment
you will open the door
with your noisy key ring,
and I will hear distinctly
the off-key sound
of your slow and heavy steps
that no longer drag slowly
through my living room hall
which is now silent,
mute in its halftones.
I know it's not so
but you will put down your bag
stuffed with papers in confusion,
on the table set for two
even though we are four,
but two of us will be in the bedroom
and won't want to dine, but
we will steal from your plate,
and you'll get upset
but you don't know how to fight,
and the argument will end with the providential
increase in the volume of the television,
that now is full of silly programs
because nothing is fun anymore.
Life drags on,
empty in its own apathy.
You will talk about your day,
and you'll ask about ours,
and I'll be in a hurry,
going out to some rehearsal.
I'll shout that I can't right now,
that tomorrow I won't go out
and in the morning, making the strong, black coffee,
we'll talk about the script,
you'll give me some ideas
I'll love to slip into the context
althought now this actress
no longer cares how she performs
because the fantasy is gone,
the scene has no more magic
and just repeats itself alone
on the stages I no longer trod.
and I'll help you put on your socks
having you sit on the bed
while our cat snores
in a light ending sleep.
Yet, you'll play with me
in your special way
that makes any single day
seems like Christmas,
with your salad sauce
that no one any longer tastes.
The 25th hides its face
at midnight, Jesus is not born
and the miracle is not the same.
On Valentine's Day
you will buy two roses,
one of them you'll give to mom
and the other one is always mine
for I'll always be your little girl
who doesn't have a boyfriend anymore,
who has no joy, and
who counts the hours of the day
just to know the day has gone.
I know it's not so
but I'll see you at any moment
when I lay my eyes
on our garden,
missing your confident hands
pruning its dead branches
like now it is dead our house.
And like me,
our cat waits for you
every night at eight o'clock
under the doorjamb,
on the rug in the hall,
to say you are welcome,
to be happy you are home,
but our expectations fail,
for your arrival is delayed,
you won't arrive at all,
and there's no more future
for there's no more noise
of your key ring in the knob.
Copyright © Patricia Henriques
After hours, Maud, ginger cat,
Goes through O in fence:
Goes to roundabout,
And sits there on still car.
She does not study her environment.
She is like a totem as she waits for silver dawn.
Contest - Any Poem, No. 32
Sponsor - Poet Destroyer A
Copyright © Julia Ward
Smut: "Ms. Prissy, you are looking fine today, come out to play, show me some loving."
Prissy: "Don't come 'round here sweet talking me! you two timing tom!"
Smut: "Oh, pretty Kitty, don't be like that, you know you are my number one lady, you are
Prissy: "Not if you are the last tom on earth!"
Smut: "I'll give you, all my love and be true blue for evermore!" "Let me kiss your sweet lips
and snuggle your cute nose." (Smut moving closer)
Prissy: "Don't touch me!!" (Prissy exits stage left)
Copyright © Doris Culverhouse