Old Mag - Oscar Milde

Old Mag the hag sat with her cat,
she in her chair, it on its mat.
She muttered intermittently
as so befits a retiree
but what she muttered was not kind
she had unpleasantness in mind.
From time to time she cast a spell
or brewed herbs with a pungent smell
to conjure up, a witches’ trick,
a demon or perhaps, Old Nick.
Instead, to her intense surprise,
she got a maiden with blue eyes,
long silver cloak, curls on her head.
I am your Good Fairy, she said.
Three wishes I am granting you.
Come on, be quick, it’s time I flew.
Oh give me money! Hag Mag cried.
A chest appeared with gold inside.
Next wish? Speak up and speak the truth.
Give me great beauty, please, and youth.
Then Mag was altered in a flash
so she had beauty, youth and cash.
One last wish, then I’ve got to go:
you’ve got the cash and beauty, so?
Mag cried, please turn my young cat, Vince,
into a sexy, handsome Prince.
When this was done, the Fairy went.
Mag told the “Prince” of her intent:
long nights of passion, love and lust
until they’d jolly well combust.
The “Prince”, her former cat, looked sad.
He said, now look here, don’t get mad.
I’ll do my best but you’ll regret
the day you took me to the vet.

Oscar Milde


Image : Pixabay - StockSnap

My Cat Yorick - Oscar Milde

Came home last night the worse for drink
and didn’t really pause to think.
Opened the window, popped the cat
outside to do its this and that.
Awoke this morning, shocking head,
tongue like sandpaper, full of dread.
My tower-block flat’s ten stories high
Alas, poor Yorick. Cats can’t fly.

Oscar Milde

Image : Pixabay - SarahRichterArt

Imposter - Diane Scantlebury

He’s an imposter,
Slinks around in my fur,
Steals in through my cat flap,
Imitates my purr,
He helps himself to my dinner,
Grows fat while I grow thin,
Licks his lips and then mocks me
With a self-satisfied grin,
He’s a scamp and a bully,
With sparkling, daring eyes,
Treats my place as if it’s his own,
He loves to tantalize,
Afterwards when he’s bored
He’ll saunter across the kitchen floor,
Without as much as a backward glance,
And head home to his house next door.

Diane Scantlebury

Mona Lisa’s Cat - Richard Fleming

Mona Lisa had a black cat
that was darkly charismatic.
It was taciturn, aloof,
haughty and aristocratic.

Yet, despite this, Mona loved it:
she would sit for hours, content,
in its enigmatic presence,
wondering what its strange smile meant.

Richard Fleming

Spider Season - Joan Etoile

It's the season of the spider
The crawling has begun
Navigating dewdrops, they
Journey from the Sun

They scuttle through the kitchen
Towards the Aga's warm embrace
Where Stroobs the cat is lounging
Contentment on his face

The spiders think they're safe there
And start to spin their web
But their time is borrowed
In the tabby's lair they're dead

Before they've time to scarper
He flicks them on their back
Eight legs cannot save them, as
They're eaten with an 'ack ack ack'

Joan Etoile