Orange lantern eyes
reveal a bright wild soul
How quickly she’s adjusted
to the warmth for which she lusted.
Finding her joy in a name
and in a love she can claim.
Surprised to find she’s safe,
that she’s no longer just a waif.
She’s losing her sorrows
in the certainty of her tomorrows-
that there’ll be food in her belly,
and a soft place to watch telly.
She’s supernatural, my cosmic kin,
forged at once so long ago, now together again.
Comfortable companion through eternity,
she’ll always find a way to return to me.
Fearsome defender, but with a soft touch;
she gives her everything, doesn’t ask for much.
Together in stillness, for me it’s enough;
she’s always nearby when things get tough.
With an intelligence that’s second to none,
her muchness just can’t be outdone.
So fierce, so brave, so misunderstood;
she’s lived through more hell than anyone should.
She is her own, but somehow also mine,
two spirits linked with a psychic line.
All beauty pales next to her light;
an earthly star, she’s still so bright.
Olive eyes shine forth from a stone facade,
relic from when she was worshiped as God.
Still my Queen, picture of magnificence,
she’s well aware of her own significance.
Fabled, famed- Supernatural
mistress of mine, a grimalkin called Nell.
He’s a pajama cat,
a bit saggy in the knees.
His middle’s kinda fat,
sneaking, eating too much cheese.
He’d look fine in a hat,
except cats do as they please,
so he’s more apt to chat
in dainty slippers, like these,
or sporting a cravat.
High fashion, in some countries.
He chases all the girls
but has hardly any luck,
though he dips and twirls.
He’s really not a hunk.
When they mock his neat curls
or when they’re quite clearly struck
by his string of rare pearls
he cries, then gets very drunk
and dances ‘til he hurls,
or his fancy pumps get stuck.
Sometimes he prowls around
clad in a grocery sack.
Sometimes worn like a crown,
or else Supercat attack.
He’s looking to astound
with his clever fashion hack.
He usually ends up bound
up in the sack, without much slack,
begging help from the hound
who frees him with a smack thwack.
To the friends in his head
he’s loyal when they’re in need.
He tucks them into bed,
he fulfills their every need.
He checks the mirror for Fred,
he pays for all their weed,
and gives them stuff to shred.
Pop Pop’s friends are real indeed,
at least that’s what he said
when he left in his best tweed.