Up the tree Molly flew
to a bird attached at the top
But halfway up her nail stuck
and there she had to stop
In the midst of all the tree lights
Molly let out a cat like groan
“If you get me down from here now
I’ll leave that bird alone”
Photo from Pexels by tripleMdesignz
I picked-up my recorder
and started blowing loudly,
a tootle-oo and tootle-ay
while Dad was snoring proudly;
I leant over his breathing chest
to listen to his heart,
then went outside playing my tune
as stars lit-up the chart;
I stood on tiptoe, eating grapes
on this side of the neighbor’s fence;
and played my pipes, until their dog
emerged in their defence;
but as I stood under the stars
and played my pretty song,
the dog stuck-out his wet old tongue,
and then began to croon along—
and all the cats hidden among
the roses then pricked their sharp ears,
until I’d played my last this night—
the cats and dogs (with no more fears)
slept soundly then, but woe, alas,
my Dad came-out to yell and scream
at me for waking him, and he awoke
the cats and dogs, and then
I woke-up from my dream…
Photo from Pexels by Alexas Fotos
The Tjuntjun cat is a lonely cat,
and possibly,
the only cat
in Tjuntjuntjara.
For Tjuntjun is a dog town.
Not a mog town.
It’s the top dog town,
for miles around.
Even the coolest cat
will not be found
upon this doggone red hot ground
they call
Tjuntjuntjara.
Except this cat.
This Tjuntjun cat is a courageous cat,
a cautious, trepidatious cat.
For it is disadvantageous
to even be a cat
in Tjuntjuntjara.
In Tjuntjun it’s dogs that rule the roost.
They roam the streets,
play fast and loose
with the lives of any creature,
great or small,
that’s not a dog.
The Tjuntjun cat
must keep its cats eyes peeled.
It’s a battlefield
where every day
you’re a whisker away
from Death by Dog.
But this brave moggie’s
gonna make real sure
it don’t end up
as the plate du jour
at the Desert Dog Café.
No, the Tjuntjun cat
won’t be seen cat-nappin
while the Tjuntjun dogs
are out cat-trappin.
There can be no catnaps
til the cat-flap’s flappin
and the Tjuntjun cat’s
curled up on its cushion,
dreamin its dream
of revolution
in the alleyway.
When every pet
when every stray
when every cat’s
gonna have its day. . .
. . . in Tjuntjuntjara.
Tjuntjuntjara (sounds quite like Joon-Joon-Jarra) is a remote Aboriginal community in the Great Victoria Desert region of Western Australia (Photo: Stewart Ennis)
I did not see the cat play dead.
I did not see her on my head—
I did not see her hide inside
My newest hairdo wild and wide.
I did not hear her caterwaul,
Nor see the scratches on the wall,
I did not see her eat the mouse,
Or hide the body ‘neath the house.
I did not give her balls of yarns
Stored up in Grandma’s giant barns,
Nor see her with her claws destroy
Gran’s crochet, with a look so coy,
Nor leap off Grandma’s rocking-chair,
I did not see her anywhere—
I did not see her tip the vase
Of flowers, or upset the jars,
Or scowl to spy the neighbor’s cat,
Or hide under the tall top hat—
All that I saw was clearly that:
The cat sat on the mat.
Splodge was a kitten who was all alone,
Without a family and without a home.
Everyone said as they kicked him away
‘No one ever wants a skinny little stray.’
Splodge was sad because they were right,
A skinny little stray is not a welcome sight.
To find a nice home as a cute little cat
It was important to eat and get very fat.
He hunted birds with a gleam in his eye,
But alas poor Splodge never learned to fly.
He searched the garbage for something to munch,
But the alley cats had eaten everything for lunch.
The fishes in the pond looked yummy to eat,
But Splodge only caught four very wet feet.
He shook and shivered in a dreadful storm
And dreamed of being well fed and warm.
The rain kept dripping on his poor wet head,
And deep was the puddle of his very cold bed.
He climbed into a nest big enough for a cat,
Welcomed by two ravens as tasty drowned rat.
Splodge escaped by dropping to the ground,
Cats eat birds, not the other way around.
He sneaked into a kennel, just until he dried,
Along came a dog and bit him till he cried.
Searching for a home, Splodge begged at every door,
Up and over back fences until his paws were sore.
But everyone said as they kicked him away
‘No one ever wants a skinny little stray.’
One special day, a gentle voice said,
‘Be welcome, Puss. Come and get fed.’
Splodge was very scared and turned to run,
‘Do stay,’ begged the voice. ‘Cats are such fun.’
When he was offered a large bowl of meat,
Splodge remembered how he loved to eat.
He was so hungry that he gobbled and gobbled,
He ate and ate until his tummy wobbled.
He groomed his whiskers and washed his face,
And kept on eating at a much slower pace.
Splodge now has a home to call his own,
And someone to love so he’s no longer alone.
Contented at last and now very fat,
Splodge is the cat that sits on the mat.
is no longer a biter, a fighter
a bouncer, a pouncer,
a mouser, a rouser.
Nothing is afraid of this
stay-at-home sleepyhead
furrer, purrer, lap warmer,
cozy cuddler in the corner.
First published in The School Magazine, Countdown, July 2016
In the land of Catazmia felines abound.
Cats of all colours,
Some skinny, some round.
Some are quite fancy spectacular breeds.
Some used to be Ships’ Cats performing brave deeds.
Some once lived with witches (Familiars by name).
And some, well, they’re ferals – but we cannot blame
Them, it isn’t their fault, they are misunderstood.
As I dream by the window I wish that I could,
Visit Catazmia, just for a day.
To experience fantasy, magic and play.
Pat Simmons
He pads down our street
in the dark
when I’m in bed
closes swinging gates
puts away left-out bikes
finds lost cricket balls
checks the street lights are on
and our front door shut tight.
In the daytime he rests
inside the big round pipe
with the metal grille
under the road.
He’s my quiet, night-time friend.
My Elephant.
Except on Wednesdays
when he goes stomping wild
clunking clatter-crashing
grabbing munching tossing
leaving,
all along the street,
knocked-over
lid-swinging
rubbish bins.
Today she brought a lizard’s tail
and dropped it at my feet.
and yesterday a mangled snail
was offered as a treat.
A present helps me when I’m flat.
It gives me such a lift
but not when it’s the family cat
delivering the gift.
It rustles, bustles in the breeze
I’m creeping, peeping round the couch
Nearer, nearer almost there
I pounce, but wait
Now it has me!
Let go, you sack of crinkly skin
Stop chasing me
Please stop
You win!
Australian Children’s Poetry 