Posted in d'Verse Poets Pub, poetry

The Old Cat

d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: Make some room
http://dversepoets.com

The Old Cat

The old cat has no room he calls his own,
he claims a spot til it’s no longer new.
He wanders round this space seeking a throne,

a sunny nook to warm his weary bones –
a padded window seat will surely do
The old cat has no room he calls his own.

Somedays a mournful yeowl he does intone,
when favorite blankets have been left askew.
He wanders round this space seeking a throne,

preferring quietness, to be alone
to ponder catching flies and mice and shrews.
The old cat has no room he calls his own –

he owns it all, each board and stepping stone.
His humble servants also know it’s true.
He wanders round this space seeking a throne,

a cardboard box that he can get into
and fall asleep, curled up and unbeknown.
The old cat has no room he calls his own,
he wanders round the space seeking a throne.

Posted in d'Verse Poets Pub

The Wisdom of a Cat

d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics – Solitude
http://deversepoets.com

The Wisdom of a Cat

We can learn much from a cat –
how to gracefully spend a day
without the company of others,
how to calmly avoid the chaos
of our surroundings by finding
a sunny spot, a comfortable
place to watch the cardinals and
blue jays, and goldfinches at the
feeders and the chubby squirrel
that scampers through the grass.
Then, when you get too warm, you
find a little snack, curl up
on your favorite chair, and
purr in contentment.

Posted in d'Verse Poets Pub, poetry

Old Fleabag

A Rhupunt Poem

Here’s my attempt at this form

These are the guidelines for the rhupunt:
• The form can be broken down into lines or stanzas
• Each line or stanza contains 3 to 5 sections
• Each section has 4 syllables
• All but the final section rhyme with each other
• The final section of each line or stanza rhymes with the final section of the other lines or stanzas


Old Fleabag
On the table
A white cat sat
Though he knew that
He’s not allowed

I tried to chase
Him from that place
Look on his face
Haughty and proud

I yelled and clapped
My fingers snapped
He was not rapt
Meowed out loud

I raised a flag
White paper bag
That old fleabag
Would not be cowed