Poem of the Day

Leave a comment



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.

Margaret Pearce

Poem of the Day


The old cat

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.

Vanessa Proctor


First published in The School Magazine, Countdown, July 2016

Poem of the Day

1 Comment

The Poem of Cats

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

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #22

Poetry Prompt 22





Pat says: I’m fascinated by cats and their behaviour and often write about them. I imagine this little cat in the image dreaming about another world.

Poem of the Day

1 Comment

 Night Friend


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


all along the street,



rubbish bins.

Glenys Eskdale
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #22

Poetry Prompt 22

Poem of the Day

Leave a comment

Old Fred and Kazinsky

by Mike Lucas


Old Fred never knew where Kazinsky went to every night when he opened the door.

That cat would run free and he’d sprint up the tree to the roof, then away to explore.

He’d hear a faint howl and then sometimes a growl and then nothing until the next day

When Kazinsky returned, but Old Fred never learned where he went till he looked far away.


Now Old Fred had no job (he was old), but a hobby he had was to gaze at the stars

And the planets and moon (with its seas and its dunes). He would spend all night gazing afar.

One night as he gazed out his window and raised his old telescope up to a crater

He had to look twice when he saw several mice running round with a mouse sized cheese grater.


‘Mice on the moon!’ shouted Fred in a swoon. ‘Mice on the moon! It can’t be!’

It can’t be moon mice! It can’t be, I say twice. But I see moon mice! That’s what I see!’

He rubbed at his eyes, looked again at the skies, at the moon, at the…what on Earth’s that?

Then out from a dune on the moon mice’s moon sprang a moon…m…m…moon c…c…cat!


‘Kazinsky!’ yelled Fred, as the moon mice all fled, leaving clouds of cheese dust in their wake.

‘Kazinsky!’ yelled Fred. ‘It’s Kazinky!’ yelled Fred. ‘It’s Kazinsky and make no mistake!’

In and out the moon’s holes, up and down the moon’s knolls, the wee moon mice ran eeking and squeaking.

They poked out their tongues and they wobbled their bums while Kazinsky chased after them, shrieking.


At times the moon wobbled while moon mice were gobbled and moon cheese flew this way and that.

Some leapt for the stars, but they didn’t get far for Kazinsky the cat chased them back.

At one point there landed a spaceship commanded by aliens from far away,

And Kazinsky sold mice to them for twice the price of what Earthlings would normally pay.


This madness went on more than half the night long as the moon swam away from the east.

And let it be said that the cat of Old Fred had a handsome and heavenly feast.

As the sun started rising on the eastern horizon the moon met the Earth in the west,

And Kazinsky stepped down to the new morning’s ground to prowl home for a well deserved rest.


Kazinsky arrived at just gone half past five as Old Fred nodded off where he sat.

Through the window he crept as Old Fred soundly slept, dreaming  dreams of an astronaut cat.

He strolled to the chair and at Fred sleeping there and he settled down onto his lap,

And Kazinsky the cat and Old Fred, just like that, spent the whole day enjoying a nap.


Poem of the Day


Sorry Notes

by Helen Hagemann

In the morning when I walked outside

it was like stepping back into a previous

spring, one year ago, and counting on ten

fingers the number of mice our male cat

had dropped at the back door. So I wasn’t

surprised this year to see another mouse,

already in rigor mortis, forepaws together

as if in prayer; exhaustion showing on its

face, as if flung from a far universe

and the intensity of a cat’s playful tease.

So now, with notebook and pen, I’m writing

sorry notes to all the dead mice whose souls

must have lifted up that day from their small

graveyard of parsley, basil or mint. And a

final “sorry” to the latest offering, its tiny

grey coat pasted on terracotta; held there for

the author’s pen to record, either from pity or

sympathy, one word the mouse would never hear.

Poem of the Day

The Big Black Cat


The big black cat crept across the road,

and finished up under a semi’s load.

It was feeling stiff and sore,

but that’s what cat’s nine lives are for.

So even though it took a whack,

the cat bounced back.


The big black cat crept across the street

and finished up under a giant’s feet.

There were guts and there was gore,

but that’s what cat’s nine lives are for.

So even though it took a smack,

the cat bounced back.


The big black cat should have never played

With an Army tank parade.


Dianne Bates