Perspective

… might be the same as perspicacity, allowing one to see

in different directions … indifferent directions, not mattering

if back or forwards, a long way away or right up close to the eye.

I am writing on computer. My hand doesn’t flow. But the words 

flow, so in that way the writing is flowing. It goes where my mind 

wanders. A smattering of images, of small recognitions.

Behind my eyes, my little black cat comes walking. (I only

closed them a moment, drifting off.) Up across my lap where

I sit at my desk, as if floating smoothly from the floor ... further.

In life she would jump on the couch, traverse the surfaces

of TV table (in front of the screen, ignoring it), then low cupboard

onto coffee table, along my desk behind laptop and printer –

reaching at last the chest of drawers where she stood to gaze 

through the glass of the sliding door's big window, thence at last 

into her cosy cat bed high on top of her tall scratching post.

What did she see when she stared out into the yard and up

over the slats of the fence? Nothing I could ever discern; but cats, 

Google tells me, have a different, more inclusive kind of vision.

She never before walked across my lap as if it was a thoroughfare,

head down, focused forward. My lap and arms were refuges,

places to stay and nestle in and purr; her perspective filled, right here.

Now, does this lone visitation, already two weeks and a half since she 

left the physical world, carry the simple message of moving on? If I seek 

to keep her close, is my perspective distorted? In that time she has been 

far, she’s been utterly gone – unlike all my other cats

who insistently, happily haunted for days, weeks, even months

after their bodies had left. (She was never like any other cats.) 

It’s a good telescope I have, I decide. At any moment I can choose 

to turn its intended direction, bringing her image up close, filling my view. 

Or let it rest as the maker designed, seeing her small form recede …

She was a wise little thing, grounded in reality and now: what was so 

in any moment. Sometimes she treated me as her mother; sometimes 

her kitten who needed to be taught. She had enormous stores of calm.

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United, for Friday Writings #242: Perspective. It's attempting to be a zuihitsu, a form I'm recently exploring somewhat uncertainly.

Void

 

‘She’s not cold tonight,’

I think suddenly –

passing the heater where 

I would leave a blanket for her

to lie on, these winter nights.

I can’t stop myself 

from that quick glance  

checking her kitty litter

every time I pass the laundry – 

where there is no kitty litter now.

Her soft rugs

from all over the house

have been taken down 

from her perches and nests,

the hair brushed off, and washed.

I remove the covers

protecting my lounge suite 

from enthusiastic scratches.

It does look nice,

now that we can see it.

I clean and put away 

her food and water dishes,

gather left-over food supplies

to give to the vet for others …

it’s best to keep busy.

My little cat, Poppi, died of a sudden seizure, in the vet's arms, on Thursday morning – two days ago. Apparently a  brain tumour, not uncommon at her age (15) and nothing that anyone could have done. This photo , showing the covered couch, taken in April this year (2026).

Sharing with Friday Writings #241: Change at Poets and Storytellers United.

My Cat, Poppi

 

This little one, neatly made, quick to jump to a high place, either for resting or vantage, or with tiny paws flip a blanket over her own curved, snuggling back: agile, heat-seeking, comfort-loving, curious, adept … changeable moment to moment, yet she is definite, predictable: creating her life with both whim and established habit.

A fine intelligence shines from her eyes. She is knowing, sums me up every moment. She is wise, accepting my limitations: I’m only human. She is demanding, knowing her due; miaowing bugle-call loud when she needs: food / a clean litter tray / scritches and cuddles (reasonable demands, I say).

Tit for tat. When I stroke or hug her, she purrs deep, nestles in. I kiss the top of her dainty, wee head. One afternoon, lying down for a nap, I rouse to find her licking my hair just where it edges my forehead – grooming me, like one of her kittens. 

The smallest cat I ever had, and the sweetest-natured, she is nevertheless queen of her domain. I only live here. 

We both know my function: to care. We both know hers: to be, thereby to delight.

~ Small cat in high place, with blanket and view ~

Written for FridayWritings #191: Small but Beautiful, at Poets and Storytellers United. I've also attempted to write this as a flash poem: a form of prose poetry characterised by brevity and intensity. (My first attempt. Not sure I've pulled it off.)

Blazon for Poppi:

my cat Poppi who is as wise as night-time

and as sensible as the day;

who mothers me as I mother her;

my cat Poppi who is small and sleek,

not black though she looks black,

but sable, red-brown in the light;

who loves warmth and lies by the heater

or tucks herself under blankets;

whose little face is the sweetest;

who loves to cuddle, purring;

who, being profoundly deaf,

has mastered body language 

and an expressive miaow;

who likes to rest on her pillow 

on my bed, to be near me;

who is nocturnal and spends her nights

up on the window-sill, gazing out at the street

or in daytime peers through the big glass door 

at nothing I can see, but she is fascinated;

who is Burmese, and likes to be up high,

leaping with agility despite her old age; Poppi who 

is the perfect cat for me at this late time of my life.

A blazon is a French form which lists attributes of the beloved.

I'm linking this to Friday Writings #158 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we are invited to write about what comes to mind when we see the word "prioritize".  This poem was already written, but it's hard to think of a better fit. My little cat is a top priority for me, as she is dependent on me for absolutely everything — a responsibility I take very seriously, as well as gladly.

Why I Like Living [Revision]

… although I think my cat does it better. Still,

as I can’t be her, I can at least enjoy her –

that sleek, soft fur, and the long low purr

she gives me when I stroke her after she’s 

just awoken, or at any time really. And then, 

I like the scent of roses – to stoop to them, 

low; breathe them in, deep and slow. 

What blessings are our noses! Without those 

versatile organs, we’d all be losers. 

But as one door closes, another opens: 

the seasonal flowers must die down 

now, in the slowing of autumn, before 

being reborn. Yet I can’t be forlorn 

when every new cloud thrills me with beauty,

or when the moon shines full, or I grab a mango

and taste my fill. 

My friend sends a video of her afternoon,

in her new home, peacefully gazing at rain

through her picture window; in the background

Tony Martin and k.d. lang singing – bringing

her own pleasure over the streets and houses to me, 

where I’m alone and now no longer alone. Though

the tone of the day might seem subdued, yet I feel

I could rise and dance a fandango, springing

from my chair to whirl in the air, flinging wide 

my hands; or segue to a tango, imagining arms

that I have known, fond arms, holding me, bold 

and tender, shouldering a kind share of my cares. And 

if all I can do now is call on memory, still how I like

to dream and remember.... Yes, I like my living,

I like my loving: all that I’ve done, and all that as long

as Fate weaves, I will.

[Earlier version posted 13 April '24.]

Sharing this with Poets United for Friday Writings #147, my own prompt: What soothes you? I didn't write this for the prompt, but it contains various things which soothe me and make me feel better whatever the circumstances: being out in nature, my beloved cat, music that I like, good friends, lovely memories ...

Fate [Revision]

1.

‘No more cats!’ I vowed, when

Freya and Levi (numbers 6 and 7

brother and sister) finally, in turn

crossed the Rainbow Bridge, at 

a goodly age, only a year apart. 

‘It hurts too much,’ I said.

But my friend’s daughter, who 

bought Queenie off Gum Tree, 

had a sudden change of circumstance, 

couldn’t keep her. ‘Please!’ 

begged my friend. ‘She’s so lovely!’ 

(Her own landlord didn’t allow.)

‘Don’t let her go to the Pound!’ So I didn’t. 

I renamed her Selene (moon goddess)

rhyming with the name she knew.

She was elegant, mysterious, aloof

as the moon, or a goddess. And traumatised

by two so sudden changes of home.

It took months for us to get past detente.

But she went from wary to sleeping on me, 

purring. And I came to love her fiercely. 

She wasn’t young, and carried within her

seeds of an unknown illness. The vet said

to investigate further risked in itself killing her.

Three happy years, then a sudden decline.

I did what I had to, to save her further pain.

‘That’s really it!’ I said. ‘I can’t go past

that intense, unexpected love, that too-brief

fulfilment, that piercing grief. No more

cats, ever! This time I really mean it.’

2.

Only a few months later, friend-of-a-friend’s 

dearly-loved puss could not travel with them 

to their new home (long story). To be ‘put down,’

only because they couldn’t allow her to go 

to just anyone. I arranged a few visits to Poppi 

and her people, for us all to get acquainted. 

A dignified little personage, she liked me 

at once. When the time came, I didn’t fetch her; 

they brought her to me, with all her familiar stuff.

Her favourite person hugged her goodbye, imploring,

 ‘Take good care of her!’ – unshed tears

misting his eyes. ‘I promise!’ I said.

She settled in, explored the space. The third day

she went all over as if looking for something … 

someone? But then she turned wholeheartedly 

to me. Loved and pampered all her life, affection

and trust came easily to her. And she knew me,

knew that I came with her first family’s blessing.

She’s an old girl (like me) – ten when she moved in. 

Now, three and a bit years later, she’s my treasure, my 

constant joy, my greatest blessing, and yes, my dear love, 

the perfect cat for me in this present time – which seems

as if it will stretch a lot longer yet. Lightning strikes twice! 

Two major events: unforeseen, undesired. Miraculous!

[Revised 3 July '24. Earlier draft posted 8 April.]