Hello and welcome to a belated installment of Suffragette Kitty. It’s income tax and Town Meeting season here and my publicist has been too busy to troll the net for post ideas. The good news is that April is also National Poetry Month, so we thought we’d take the pressure off my my publicist and showcase a sampling of my gift of tone, rhyme and meter.
Here’s one of my early works, accomplished when I was 8, and perfect for new beginnings:
TO THE FIRST ROBIN
ELCOME, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm, and fear no danger;
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing “Sweet Spring is near.”
Now the white snow melts away;
Now the flowers blossom gay:
Come dear bird and build your nest,
For we love our robin best.
Here’s a great poem that I hope gets more recognition
A SONG FROM THE SUDS
Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam raises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing day!
Along the path of a useful life
Will heart’s-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.
I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say-
‘Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work always!’
Here’s a tribute to one of my predecessors, S.B. Pat Paw, yeah, weird name I know, and there’s a mention of Snowball.
A LAMENT FOR S.B. PAT PAW
We mourn the loss of our little pet,
And sigh o’er her hapless fate,
For never more by the fire she’ll sit,
Nor play by the old green gate.
The little grave where her infant sleeps
Is ‘neath the chestnut tree.
But o’er her grave we may not weep,
We know not where it may be.
Her empty bed, her idle ball,
Will never see her more;
No gentle tap, no loving purr
Is heard at the parlor door.
Another cat comes after her mice,
A cat with a dirty face,
But she does not hunt as our darling did,
Nor play with her airy grace.
Her stealthy paws tread the very hall
Where Snowball used to play,
But she only spits at the dogs our pet
So gallantly drove away.
She is useful and mild, and does her best,
But she is not fair to see,
And we cannot give her your place dear,
Nor worship her as we worship thee.