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FAREWELL TO DESDEMONA
by S L Smith
This poem came to the author during a dream.
On waking she wrote the words out exactly as she heard them in the dream.
She dreamt that she and her cat were walking along a path in a summer garden.
Desdemona strayed from the path onto the grass the author could not follow her.
Summer sun slants gold across the garden,
The smell of roses carries on the breeze,
Desdemona lies a-doze upon the warm grass,
Too tired to chase the butterflies and bees;
Her fur is glowing golden in the bright rays,
Her ears alert to birdsong in the trees,
The year is drawing closer now to autumn,
Desdemona,
on the summer lawn,
now takes her ease.
Autumn leaves are falling,
red and golden,
To lie like a russet carpet on the ground,
But Desdemona is no longer there to chase them,
As autumn’s breezes make them dance around;
She lies snug beneath that summer lawn,
At rest,
asleep forever in the ground,
For her,
this year there is no glowing autumn,
For me,
the leaves are crimson like a wound.
Now winter frosts and snows bejewel the garden,
It is a winter we must spend apart,
The snow lies thick and white,
a frigid carpet,
And icicles are daggers in my heart.
Desdemona now knows not of winter,
For her the summer never reached an end,
She now lies in the earth and in my memory,
Waiting for the day we meet again.
A SONG FOR SALLY
by Anon
Her body is buried deep in the ground,
Yet Sally is ever and always around,
In the garden she loved and the house where she found
Affection and safety,
her memories abound.
She lived in the alley – this accounts for her name,
And nobody ever knew whence she came,
Just a wild,
pregnant stray,
starving and lame,
But she stayed to become a loved pet,
all the same.
Her fur like black satin is still glimpsed in the trees;
Her call can be heard on the sound of the breeze;
At the side of her grave,
the rosemary sees,
Its sweet blossom scented by murmuring bees.
So if old Deuteronomy up in the sky,
Has gathered her safely,
calming her cry,
Taken her tenderly,
telling her why,
Bestowed then his blessing ’til she purred with a sigh .
… Then,
there’s no need for tears,
Sal,
because you are gone,
For we know in our hearts you brave spirit lives on.
THE OLD CAT
by Jackie Huck
I’m an old grey cat letting life slip by,
Nothing disturbs as I twitch and sigh,
My silken fur is grizzled and dank,
My sturdy frame is frail and lank,
It’s a shadow world as my eyesight dims,
A bony old cat with creaking limbs,
But my heart beats strong with a faithful thud And I have to say that life’s been good.
I’ve lain for hours in the kindly sun,
Chased autumn leaves just for fun,
I used to climb in the highest tree,
I caught a rat bigger than me,
I’ve hunted mice beneath the moon,
Crooned to clouds my special tune,
I’ve been loved and pampered and understood,
There’s not long left,
but it’s all been good.
No rain-soaked nights with dripping hair But a warm fireside and my favourite chair,
No fight to live in a friendless world Just contented dreams on a cushion curled,
No harsh words on a lonely street But a gentle voice and the best to eat,
No hungry stray round the neighbourhood,
Yes,
I’ve been lucky and life’s been good.
My hours pass slowly,
I sleep all day,
But I sometimes watch while the young ones play Remembering times when I rushed around With agile paws that made no sound,
Then a tender hand strokes my ragged fur,
And I fall asleep with a peaceful purr,
As I drift serenely towards the end,
I know I’ve lived with a cat’s best friend.
DESDEMONA REORGANISES PURRADISE TO HER LIKING
by S L Smith
In purradise shall I decree
A stately castle built for me,
Where plump and juicy mice will crawl,
And cower ‘neath my velvet paw.
A cat-bed,
four-poster in design,
Stuffed with swansdown shall be mine With catnip scented pillows laid Whereon to rest my feline head.
Foamy whiteness,
creamy sweet,
Shall fill the bowl wherefrom I eat,
And meats laid upon a silver tray,
Shall be presented through the day – With breast of pheasant,
tongue of lark,
Laid before me should I ask,
All washed down with catnip wine,
If I but ask,
it shall be mine.
No litter tray my rump demeans,
However scented,
though so clean,
But golden sands and honest earth,
So my paws shall dig fresh dirt,
A screen of grasses shall provide A private place for me to hide When to my toilet I attend,
In these fields Elysian.
Birds shall fly away no more,
But perch upon my upraised paw,
Until I grow tired of their song,
And in one bite they shall be gone.
And fish and mice shall give me play,
Should I desire the hunt or chase,
Before I settle down replete With all the fancies I would eat.
In purradise shall I decree A stately castle built for me.
BEAMED FROM THE BRIGHT CATTERY IN THE SKY
by Michael Hatwell
In case you have been wondering
Just how I am getting along
In my new surroundings
Or worry whether I have learned to cope
With the easy rhythm and pace
For which this place is renowned
Then listen: I have been chasing little mice again
Sweeter,
lighter,
infinitely more fragrant
Than any I ever brought into the bedroom
For your pleasure
In the old days.
That having been said,
I wouldn’t for all the world wish you to infer
That they stint the grub up here:
Admittedly
The celestial fish are not especially exciting
Their natural zodiac ripeness has had to be homogenised
for the general run of feline palates
But on the plus side
The nice cat-lady who comes round,
All gowned in blue ,
my favourite colour
And with glory crowned,
Pours out a warm and creamy whiteness
That is literally
Quite heavenly.
Someone usually remembers
To cut my claws
And tickle my ear
So that side of things is catered for,
One might say,
Adequately enough.
I think of you sometimes
Certain that you will come one day
To take me on your knee
And talk to me the way you used to.
When that day comes
I shall let you know
Loudly and unambiguously
That things round here have finally begun to go
Really very well indeed:
I shall add to ordinary space and time
My own particular dimension
Of thick,
soft-throated sound.
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