A Poetry Page For My Three Girls
Hail To The Queens
One little cat with eyes of gold
Came to me years in the distant past.
How could I know as I grew old
Hers was the longest love to last.
Many the times I'd forgotten her,
Many the times she's reminded me,
Only a look, a touch, a purr,
Teaching me all that I should be.
One little cat with eyes of green,
Born to the first cat long ago,
Loveliest thing I'd ever seen,
Deepest the love I'd ever know.
Starry-eyed, night she longed to rule,
Wildly her spirit yearned to roam...
Lest I might lose her like a fool,
Walk in my heart and rule my home.
One little cat with eyes of blue
Cast me the sweetest of all spells,
Tiniest angel, dream come true,
Singing to me with temple bells,
Purring her love for me alone.
Only a few short years have passed,
Happiest days that I have known...
Joy in my life has come at last.
Queen of Loyalty, soft and warm,
Queen of Love, in her beauty rare,
Queen of Joy in its perfect form,
Three little cats beyond compare.
Oh, may they live forever, please,
Keepers of both my heart and soul,
Holders of sceptre, wand and keys,
Hail to the Queens who make life whole.
About my girls:
The Queens and I number one each Domestic Pettable, Delicate Paranoid, Foreign Costabundle and old lady cat lover.
BamBam is the oldest at 17 (that is 84 in "human" years). She is a medium-haired tri-color tabby and white with hazel eyes that don't see quite as sharply as they once did. She has a rather full figure now, and is troubled by arthritis at her advanced age, along with occasional forgetfulness. BamBam was a hellion in her youth, but is just a sweet old lady cat now who takes a lot of extra naps.
Mewsette, her daughter, is 13 years old and finding it difficult to grow older, as she has always been the Marilyn Monroe of cats. She is a slender, longhaired true calico with lots of white - a raving beauty and she knows it. Her gorgeous green eyes still give loving glances that can melt you at 20 paces. In delicate health a lot of her life, she was still a hellion only last month, it seems, but she has settled down into her golden years so suddenly, I am not used to all this peace yet.
Phelicity, my third little queen, is of true royalty. She is a Bluepoint Birman with a most impressive pedigree, registered as Phelicity Marie Dauphine. Now 7 years old and long retired from the show ring, she is barely 7 pounds of a fluffy, silver white and blue bundle of joy with big blue eyes. Perfect in behavior and exquisite of manner, she is stuck with being the baby, which she hates as she gets older. She is beginning to assert her rightful rule of the house, and she is awesome to watch. But she was never a hellion for one minute. If ever an angel lived as a little kitty, it is her.
And me? Oh, I don't matter. What I have here are three little queens; the Queen Mother, Her Majesty Queen of the Universe, and the Royal Princess, Queen Apparent. Each, of course, believes herself to be the true Queen and each is right. You see where that leaves me.
So I call these pages The Queens and I, and dedicate them to my girls. This will be a small collection of poems for and about them, from the past few years of their inspiration.
We hope you like it.
This is my latest for Phelicity:
Seven Pounds of Angel Dust
All clouds of white in brightly sterling,
Twinkling glitter that sifting, swirling,
Bumping, brushing and throwing sparks
Like Roman candles in summer parks,
Is rubbing down my extended arm,
A whispering swoosh of elfin charm,
All swishing, dancing in silver light
To say she's glad to see me tonight.
My softly welcoming words to her
Bring forth more dancing, a louder purr;
For this I'd walk to the edge of the earth
To have as mine what her love is worth;
For this I'd cross the deepest of oceans
To tiny paws in circular motions;
For this I live, in her love I trust,
Her seven pounds of angel dust.
I wrote this for Mewsette a few years ago:
She walks like Marilyn Monroe,
With a wibble and a wobble in her front legs
And a shimmy to her back legs, off she'll go
With a swish of fur and a flip of tail
And a sashay left, across your path she'll sail.
Her green eyes sparkle and twink,
Or twinkle and spark when she wants her way
With seductive little glances, then she'll wink
In a swoosh of lashes with a lifted nose,
And whatever she wanted was what you chose.
Her colors blend into the rug,
Where she grooms herself 'til it's time to hide
And be motionless in full view, curled snug,
With a smirk of innocence while you call,
And wonderment you didn't see her there at all.
Her heart makes a great big boom
With a silent little look as she falls asleep,
And love comes bouncing all around the room.
If you ever saw it yourself, you'd see
Why my little Mewsette is the heart of me.
And a little one for Phelicity:
Please Don't Touch the Bather
See the undulating pool of silver silk
From which a sandy rosy tongue extends
And tiny shells of ears are pressed in bends
By busy little paws as white as milk...
But oh! her baby blues accuse me when
I pet and ruffle up her downy mist
And stroke the little chin I can't resist,
So she must start the whole thing over again.
Sometimes one of the girls "writes" one herself:
Dish Bottom Phobia
I know I just ate some ten minutes ago,
But I felt in the mood for a snack
And, lo and behold, when I looked in my dish,
I saw the dish bottom look back.
See? Come and see if I'm telling the truth!
Oh. this has upset me severely!
Yes I know there's kibble on that side and this,
But I can see dish-bottom clearly!
I stared in the dish and I measured the place
That was empty,and let out a cry -
What if I finished this part and that part?
It would all be dish-bottom! I'd die!
How can you cruelly ignore my complaint?
The kibble was low, and you knew it!
You're acting as if it was piled to the rim
While I can see dish-bottom through it!
I nibbled some here and I nibbled some there
And I dropped one or two, being furious,
But nothing improved in this tragic affair,
The state of my dish is so serious!
No kidding! Oh, please come and see the bare spot
On the dish bottom, do as I wish!
Then I guess you don't care if I'm starving or not,
So I'll eat from the other cat's dish.
But mostly, I write it for her.
The Voice of Mewsette
Communication is her forte',
The tinkling bells of celestial chimes,
All eager, having so much to say,
The yin-yang voice of Mewsette.
She talks to me in chirrups and trills
And kitty music in foreign tongues,
To sing her sentences, sweet with frills,
The sing-song voice of Mewsette.
Yet greater an expertise than that
Will urgently turn her mind to get
Her regal demands as Goddess Cat,
The changling voice of Mewsette.
No music then in her wildcat calls,
No simple pouting, no genteel fret -
She takes off the roof with caterwauls,
The shocking voice of Mewsette.
So vast a range she can vocalize,
From cherubic mews to hellcat howls,
Sweet conversation or loud surprise -
How now the voice of Mewsette?
Before I bless her, before I curse,
Is this my enchanting musical pet
Or Her Majesty, Queen of the Universe
Who speaks the voice of Mewsette?