Four, Five, Six,

There are four of them,
one of her,
and then there is my Heather
to name them all is the task.

Cats and more cats
Is there such a thing as the crazy cat man?
Who lives next door?

In the early morning, Spirit the cat
slow crawls between us
nuzzling, snuggling and curling
black fur and green eyes
pushing between Heather and I
as dark night enfolds all
under warm covers
and restful cool air.

I move my hand
and hear a meow
and find furry ears
I wonder what she knows in the watches of the night.

The other four – the rescued ones
the little ones
the ones I had hoped to find a home
are asleep in their room, I hope.

Bella, sleek and graceful
Leader, the gray, the elder
is likely sitting by the door
as dawn breaks, knowing we’ll soon be there.

Boots, fat and awkward
Potato on furry legs, black striped, and cloudy eye
is likely staring at the food dish
after Bella stirs, knowing soon they’ll be full again.

Socks, wire fur and claws that never stop
The only boy, cuddler, gray warrior
is likely on his bed looking out the window
as Bella scratches at the door, knowing it will soon open.

Spot, frightened and angry
Black stripped marshmallow, fast and angry claws
is likely in her little bed
as gray light filters in, knowing that she will be lifted from her cage.

Spirit, black as night and old as the hills
Gentle, persistent and jealous
is likely sleeping on my toes
until Heather stirs, knowing that soon she’ll be outside on her morning patrol.

Heather, my love and my life
Creative, playful and caring
is likely rising from bed
as I doze, knowing the day has begun.

I sit here at the keyboard
looking for rhyme
contemplating the mysteries of a cat
and wondering at the power of love.

Such is a Sunday afternoon
Kittens play
and old cats nap.

And I and my Heather
Live the life
and share our love
for the little cats and each other.


Well there it is, another poem.  I tried to write a nice narrative essay about the four feral kittens we’ve rescued but this came out instead.  Sigh, I am about to give up on writing essays and just do poetry.  Not sure what is going on, but my brain seems to have stopped thinking in complete sentences and fully formed paragraphs.

In other poetic news, I am now up to 4570 words on my cancer poetry book.  I am hoping to be able have a completed draft ready early in the new year – still not sure how long it’s going to be. It’s very doubtful I’ll find a publisher and I haven’t decided if I’ll self publish it or not.

The only thing slowing down progress on my book is the wood shop – I keep going out there and building things.  Pictures of the latest project on Wednesday.

Till next week,


About Andrew Reynolds

Born in California Did the school thing studying electronics, computers, release engineering and literary criticism. I worked in the high tech world doing software release engineering and am now retired. Then I got prostate cancer. Now I am a blogger and work in my wood shop doing scroll saw work and marquetry.
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