Tag Archives: cat


Again, I wrote this for the writing contest, so here goes.


For my devoted, demented, friendly and ferocious feline.

Grey fur dots your tuxedo black,
And in your jaw some teeth you lack;
Clear evidence of the years we lived.

The blood I bled, the hairs you shed;
Hours spent in contemplative silence,
Or racing haphazardly upstairs and down
Chasing a dream of personal fitness–
Both grown slightly rounder about the middle.

Those glares you shoot my way to say
How utterly foolish I have been,
Or when you head-butt my hand to demand
That I resume scratching your chin.

Your green eyes, the curve of your tail–
You are the reason I come home each night;
Our greetings at the door are ecstatic
And other times so restrained, polite.

You are my constant companion,
Unconditionally and unreservedly loving.
You are playful, solemn, irritable, comforting,
And above all else, feline.

There is never enough time in the day
For lazy hours spent in sunshine
Me with my book, you in my lap,
And the habitual cup of tea–
Must you always steal a taste?–

This is the peace I sought so long,
This is finding a home at last;
This is all the company we ever need.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011, 2012.

I don’t like to admit it, but I am occasionally sloppily sentimental. I would prefer to be pragmatic, rational, and unfettered by extreme emotional responses, but that is simply not in the cards.

That said, I am unashamed of my love for my dearest pet Lacey. She is still one of my best friends, and certainly one of my oldest, considering she was born in 1999 and that’s when we met. Smug mad bastard cat is sitting on my lap purring her face off right now, actually. And I love it. I love that she’s conniving, and that she’s rather misanthropic (well, she doesn’t just dislike humans, more like all creatures that walk this earth), and I love that, like most cats, she’s kind of a dick to everyone even if she happens to like you (so rare for Lacey, see above comment on misanthropy). I love that I’m the only one who gets to pet her belly, and I’m pretty sure it’s because she’s self-conscious about getting a bit fat. I love that she just doesn’t give a shit about sleeping all day- so long as she gets her breakfast at 5:30am and her 9pm snack, she’s cool with whatever.
Above all, I love that she chose me to be her person.


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The Waiting Room

Hello again, fellows! I am back, in a limited sense. I have some things to post, and I’ll be doing so this week.

Okay, so this poem is one of the ones I had written for a contest, but since I didn’t win, I figure that gives me full rein to post it here instead.
Also, um. The revelation that occasionally I have issues probably wouldn’t surprise you, dearest readers. I almost subtitled this “Or, the Visceral Sense of Impending Doom”, but I felt it a bit too melodramatic.

The Waiting Room

Beige is perfectly designed to suck the marrow
And set teeth on edge like the sound
Of nails dragged across a chalkboard;
Antiseptic smell burns the nostrils and tongue,
Comfortless chairs crowd closer and closer
And ancient magazines litter a table.
Panic creeps into the room on cat’s paws
Starting in the feet, hands, extremities
Twitching tapping wringing.
The others are unnaturally still;
Rustles and racking coughs only.
It grabs hold, claws sinking deeper
Gaining ground, moving
Up the legs, across the arms,
Curious hot cold queasy feeling.
Entrenched in the torso
Tears into the mind
Sending thoughts reeling
Harder to breathe
In the stillness
Black spots fuzzy shapes
Numb lips nose
Fingers toes long gone
Gorge rising
Can’t breathe
Oh god can’t
Breathe can’t feel
Multicoloured patches
Leaning drunkenly
Reach for oblivion
Slumping over
Can’t feel the
Floor rushing up

© Bridget Noonan, 2011, 2012.

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This is something I worked on a while ago. Just dug it out and dusted ‘er off, added and deleted a couple things. After my last couple depressing posts, I thought something a little more uplifting was in order.


In the days before,
I thought as a child
I lived as a child
I burned as a child must do.

In the nights before,
I fought as a child
I wept as a child
I hid as a child must do.

A great mist has settled
A greying cat purring, nestled
Around the dying world of darkness
To shroud any way to wisdom,
Any knowledge through pain, to the true self.

The clouds are parting
A hand beckons, insistent and kind
The fog begins to melt away.
Artists must always know truth
Perhaps the night may end.

© Bridget Noonan, 2009, 2011.

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Thoughts on the Shore of Balsam Lake

I wrote this on vacation last summer. Well, most of it. I mixed it up, and I’m sure a couple things got cobbled together from other bits I wrote that week, and there wasn’t a resolution until just now. I had vague plans of turning it into a multi-page epic, but… that requires serious effort. I deem this good enough!

Thoughts on the Shore of Balsam Lake

The cries of gulls and children
Echo across a sandy beach
I’m building castles in the sand
And castles in the sky–

At once, a man in uniform
And a young woman in white
Pass slowly, hand in hand,
Smiling, in a dream, in love–

The waves, the shining lake,
Seem more real than the sky
With its painted white clouds
And insipid fading blues–

It is late afternoon now:
The gulls return to gather
Food left behind by the children
And still I wait for sunset–

Sunset! when our life-giving star
Flings colours in bands across the sky
Like a frustrated painter with a
Rather curious and smug cat–

A cat digging trenches in canvas,
Sharp claws dunked in shades of
Reds, oranges, purples, and golds, and
Wearing a sphinx’s enigmatic smile–

At last, the grandest light in the sky
Dips low in its dance with the horizon
And, with a flick of her long skirts,
Sinks over the edge of my sight.

© Bridget Noonan, 2010, 2011.

Also, I gotta say, pen and paper are best for first drafts, but for editing, you gotta have a word processor of some kind. At least, I do.

This is also my offering for Friday’s Big Tent Poetry prompt.


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Springtime in a Field

I was wandering about the internet looking for

thanks to Carlos Porto at freedigitalphotos.net

writing prompts, and I found this.

I liked the idea, so here’s what came of the list on there.

Springtime in a Field

the world is big
to a tiny maple seed
spiralling fluttering
in the early morning

leaps over water
avoids a bored cat
skims her grey fur
she lets out a purr

only the best
for the robin’s eggs
chirp in the sun
a new spring begun

© Bridget Noonan, 2011

What do you think?

http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=345  is the link for the photo, but I couldn’t make it attach to the picture. I occasionally fail at formatting.


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