A poem can stir all of the senses, and the subject matter of a poem can range from being funny to being sad. I hope that you liked this poems and the sentiments in all the greatest poems by the most famous poets.
The fantastically unique characteristics of cats bring out the urge to write poetry and rhyme among the best (and worst) of us. Here are offerings from a cat lover who admittedly doesn't know Iambic from Pentameter.
The Cat On The Wall
By Alex
The gentle ginger cat on the wall,
Sits all day and into the night purring softly,
He wakes one morning to a surprise,
Sitting on the opposite wall!
He wriggles and fidgets,
And twists and turns,
He stretches and yawns,
And slides slowly into the shadow,
And out of the sunlight,
He’s happy to sleep and rest,
And let his body be free,
His emerald eyes glow in the dark,
Then suddenly they disappear.
CAT POEM
By Matt
There once was a cat as sly as the moonlight
And as sneaky as a fly.
It was as playful as a mouse and as mischievous as a fox.
It was as grateful as a lion and as mysterious as an owl.
It was as stubborn as a tiger and as fierce as a rhino.
It was as discreet as a monkey and as clever as an elephant.
It was as flexible as an orang-utan and had completely black fur.
This particular cat had eyes of diamonds and had claws of ruby.
My Cat Pickle
My cat Pickle was a loveable cat.
Her silky soft fur was ginger and white.
She was always there to greet me.
She slept purring loudly in my bed at night.
My cat Pickle was a playful cat.
She would chase her twitching tail.
She silently stalked birds in the garden.
She energetically pounced on the mail.
My cat Pickle was a scaredy cat.
She was terrified of our dog Tilly.
She would hiss, spit and arch her back.
It always looked quite silly.
My cat Pickle was a special cat.
I miss her in our house.
Now she is in cat heaven.
I expect she is trying to catch a mouse.
By Joseph Tanswell
Cats; snuggle and hiss
Fiercely independant
but craving attention
a fiesty cat falls in
love with it's
family
Sunshine Lazy Cat Haiku
Sunshine lazy cat
Rolling on the dusty floor
In your warm grey fur
A cat's rhyming advice on the economy
The power of the paw
is like the power of the purse
you think you have it hard
but the others have it worse
don't limp around in pain with
a thorn stuck in the bottom
just open up that piggybank
and share 'em if ya got 'em!
Shannon He watches me with patience
As I work a feverish pace
To meet another deadline,
I ignore his loving face.
His rumbling song beats time for me
As fingers fly and brain engages
Nods off and purrs outrageously,
While I complete these pages.
Soft shadows drift across the screen
As daylight filters to an end
I sigh and put the mouse aside
And turn to face my purring friend.
I recognize at times like this,
How lucky to be me,
To have this faithful Golden Boy
Who loves me unconditionally.
THE SINGING CAT
STEVIE SMITH
It was a little captive cat
Upon a crowded train
His mistress takes him from his box
To ease his fretful pain
She holds him tight upon her knee
The graceful animal
All the people look at him
He is so beautiful
But oh he pricks and oh he prods
And turns upon her knee
Then lifted up his innocent voice
In plaintive melody
He lifted up his innocent voice
He lifted up, he singeth
And to each human countenance
A smile of grace he bringeth
he lifted up his innocent paw
Upon her breast he clingeth
And everybody cries, Behold
The cat, the cat that singeth.
He lifted up his innocent voice
He lifted up, he singeth
And all the people warm themselves
In the love his beauty bringeth.
cats
by
brogan flemingRating: 1.00Votes: 2
Cats cats they eat rats
Cats cats they hate bats
Cats cats lay on mats
Cats cats hate being fat.
Famous
by Naomi Shihab Nye
The river is famous to the fish.
The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.
The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.
The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.
I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.
The Naming Of Cats by T. S. Eliot
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS,
and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
Cat by J. R. R. Tolkien
The fat cat on the mat
may seem to dream
of nice mice that suffice
for him, or cream;but he free, maybe,
walks in thought
unbowed, proud, where loud
roared and fought
his kin, lean and slim,
or deep in den
in the East feasted on beast
sand tender men.The giant lion with iron
claw in paw,
and huge ruthless tooth
in gory jaw;the pard dark-starred,
fleet upon feet,
that oft soft from aloft
leaps upon his meat
where woods loom in gloom
far now they be,
fierce and free,
and tamed is he;
but fat cat on the mat
kept as a pet
he does not forget.
Gus - The Theatre Cat - a poem by T S Eliot
Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree
He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.
"I have played," so he says, "every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,
And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.
"Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger--could do it again--
Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: "Now then kittens, they do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They never get drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop.
"And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
"Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."
