Kingfishers, hungry; watching
Koi, oblivious; swim
lazy eternity laps
in the man made pond
Tuxedo cat, ever hopeful;
watching both,,
dreaming big cat dreams.
Middle aged poet, watching;
the teetering seesaw
,of urban biodiversity.
...Up close

Sly is the  tuxedo cat
(Or so he thinks)
As to he sits so quietly
On the stool, watching  
with disinterest
(more correctly avid fascination) the  cooking of  the chicken strips
As he sits, as he watches,
one paw moves stealthily toward the pile of already
cooked chicken.
As all this happens
he moves his gaze
to the window and
chatters as if he has seen
a magpie bird
(His great nemesis).
When I also look
he makes
his penultimate move
swiping the raised paw
out to snag a couple of pieces
of chicken,
whilst readying
himself to dash away.
Bur alas, alack
no chicken to be had...
When I looked up
to sight the bird
(that was not there)
I moved the plate,
as we have
played this game before  
and I now win most every time
The little tuxedo cat
removes himself
from the field of play,
a distinct sense of  affront
in his walk.
He sits
a couple of metres away,
with his back to me
attending to
the cleanliness
of his nether regions
as I finish cooking
the family meal.
(Of which
a few scraps
of cooked chicken
are set aside forthe cat)

Every mans a poet,
for from their heart
flows, words that to;
lover, wife,child
brother or friend,
Words that sounds
like they are;
from god's lips ,
that  change the
greyest day to blue,
that inspires greatness.

These words
may be
mangled metaphors,
dodgy rhymes,
half remembered quotes
mixed with hard won wisdom
Or simple wrds spoken  
with excellent timing
that gives hope
to those
within earshot.

There are those
who excel at the artform
and write poem
after it poem,  
publish books
and become revered
as poets
and
there are those
who put the poetry
they write to  music
and become songwriters

But we mus also consider
That there ate those
who write
the beauty they hear
in their heads
on scraps and snippets
of paper
which they then  
hidden away
in a drawer
forgotten
and found
after
the writer's
demise
And there are those
who write in
the secret rooms
inside thiet head
on imaginary blackboards
that will never
be seen or heard.

And of course
there are those
who find a clan
of like minded people online
and write with the hope
of encouragement  
and gentle criticism.

We are all poets,  
no matter
if there is
one line of words
strung together
that makes
your soul
or the soul
of your loved one
sing

Or if your
output rivals that
of the greatest  
acknowledged
writers,
with commendations
and prizes galore..
Both are poets to me..