Sometimes I like to sit and stare
At the cold, crisp wintry air.
Snowflakes fall and cover the trees
Like a blanket of mozzarella cheese. 🧀
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Halberd Books volume 2, chapbook 4
Miscreants: Cat Poems
11 poems about the frustrations and the delights of living with these fuzzy little guys
by David M. Briggs
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My Cat
My cat, Shameem
Loved to hop
On my lap
Whenever I sat
On my cozy chair
And rocked
I felt her paws
It was kind
Of a mystic feeling
She was very soft
And fluffy
She had sparkling eyes
Her ears
Very sensitive velvet
She used to observe
Everything and purr
When she sighted a bird
She chuckled
Sometimes she played
Hide and seek
She crawled and paused
Then ran swiftly
She adored her milk every day
She was my best friend
When I was a kid
I still remember her
And miss her very much
- Irfanulla Shariff
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Here's to the cat that stayed beside me,
In the darkest hours when moths stayed still,
You who wrapped your paws around me,
You who purred to heal me;
Forgive me for I could not do much,
For I couldn't keep you safe,
From your brother who grew on greed,
And made you homeless with his claws.
I still wait for you to come back,
From wherever you seeked shelter from,
Come back, come back to me,
For I promise to keep you safe this time.
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Waiting for Birds
I am a black cat waiting for the birds
I am not sinful, despite what you have heard
Perhaps I can keep one as a playtoy
I can hop around like the human girls and boys
Or, I simply carry out what is instinctual
I do need to eat until my belly is full
Bear me no grudge, I love my feathered friends
'Tis not personal to usher them to ends
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What do cats dream about?
for Juniper
My kitten has never seen a mouse. Only toys in the shape of mice.
So what’s a mouse but cotton balls scented with dreams and fishy saliva?
They say you (human) can’t dream of anything you don’t know;
even strangers populate the private streets of your brain at rest.
But cats have an instinct, of course: to hunt and chase and kill.
When he tears up the plush bird flipping from a string,
or the fish with a belly full of catnip—does he dream, then,
of chasing fuchsia feathers and cotton-skinned mice?
Or, in his mind, is he always scrabbling after the real thing?
Does he taste warm sinews, like glass noodles, on the tongue of his imagination?
Does the hallway holding our apartment in place become
a winding sewer slide in his dreams? In my lap, his tiny body trembles,
the flexors of his back legs twitching desperately against the necessity of sleep,
his front paws flexing sharply, his lips quivering around a hidden something.
Is he dreaming of his food dish? Or, in his dreams, do the kibbles get up and run?
Do they fly through the air, a swarm of dried whitefish, leaping chaotic?
Do his plush rodents bleed salmon purée?
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Night 🌃 in Silly City
We are like tribbles too.
We don't die,
We just super-multiply ❌
We're soft inside like creamy goo.
Should the Force just kill us off then too?
🙀
I whisper for delicious kibble.
Please God, send much-needed nibble.
I won't pester you to make me hot like Sybil.
I accept you made me a lowly tribble.
😸
If I were a chilly chinchilla,
kidnapped by Megillah Gorilla,
I'd nestle in her thick-thick fur,
I would defee Stockholm bond with her.
😻
_____________________________________________
giannic is really the poet formerly known as cafégroundzer0
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I was prepared for any pain and nail pealing struggle as I traversed the Horific Plains...
But what I failed to account for in my rigorous preparations...
Was for these Horific Plains...
To traverse over me...
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from the top (9.20.22)
the day I named him ant he lived
and died in griffith park
my cat slept by the folded towels
vanished, at every point
a line, the curves implied
intelligence I remembered
lobbyists
for individuality (that lie)
the hard hike
enough to cry to
song I memorized
he digs his pads
in delicate turns
ass obscuring vision
always forced inside
your fist
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