TalesAndTails

Sit with me for a while.
Tell me of your day, or maybe just smile.

If you're tired, I'll be your rest.
If you're heavy, I'll hold what's pressed.

If words spill out, I'll keep them near, and if they don't, I'll simply be here.

I can be warmth, I can be still,
a quiet friend at the windowsill.

Whatever you bring, it's safe with me - sometimes that's all a friend needs to be.

I closed one eye to take a rest,
Upon my tower, warm and blessed.
The sun was soft, the room was still,
The cactus swayed upon the sill.

But you — you saw, and leapt with fear,
"She’s hurt!" you cried, and hurried near.
You dropped your mug, you grabbed your phone,
You wouldn’t let me face this alone.

I watched you panic, bless your soul,
With love so big, it lost control.
And when you called the vet in fright,
I opened both — my eyes, so bright.

You gasped. Then laughed. Your shoulders dropped.
Your wild and worried ramble stopped.
I stretched. I purred. I gave a lick—
My royal smirk, both calm and slick.

You silly, sweet, devoted friend,
I’d never let this moment end.
For in your worry, love was shown—
I may be queen...
but I'm not alone.

I slipped through the door with a flick of my tail,
Past boxes and blankets and coats without fail.
A tunnel, a cave, a soft carpeted nook —
Gone without trace. Not even a look.

Then suddenly — footsteps. A shadow. A sound.
Your eyes met my eyes… I’d been perfectly found.
I froze in the darkness, my secret undone,
My game interrupted just when it was fun.

I don’t know how you found me — this round goes to you. 🐾

I tiptoed in silence, all cunning and sleek,
With paws full of mischief and tongue in my cheek.
The blanket was covered in cats of all kind,
But one little space was what caught my eye.

There! Near the corner — no whiskers, no tail,
A blank little patch in this soft feline trail.
It begged to be filled by a kitty just right,
So I did what I do — I hid in plain sight.

I flopped in position, rolled half on my side,
Tucked in my paws — let my belly just glide.
I twisted and wiggled and gave it some flair,
Now I’m seamless and smug as I melt into this lair.

Each cat on this blanket just stares with a grin,
But I’m the one breathing — and pulling this in.
Their stitched little faces? Adorable, sure...
But I’ve got the realest couture in this fur.

You walk in the room — I don’t flinch, I don’t blink,
Just widen my eyes, let you ponder and think.
“Was this one here always? Or did she just move?”
You’re squinting. You’re baffled. I’m in my groove.

🎵
Nothing to see here — just fabric and thread,
No fluffy imposters with toesies or head.
One of the gang, I’m just part of the scene,
The queen of the camo — the blanket’s new queen.
🎵

You step a bit closer. I stretch — just a touch.
Still perfectly placed, not revealing too much.
You laugh and you point, but admit it: I win.
The game is complete. Let the hiding begin.

So come now, dear human, no need to react —
You’ve simply discovered one very smart cat.
I’ll nap in my spot till the game’s out of style...
Then vanish again... with a blink and a smile. 🐾

Nestled soft on midnight thread,
A snow-white lion lifts its head.
With silken mane and royal pose,
Like winter wrapped in velvet flows.

No need for crowns or jeweled rings,
This regal cat wears fluff like kings.
And on the blanket, dark and deep,
It guards the realm where dreamers sleep.

But as it stares with calm mystique,
Eyes do ask, "Have you seen my feet?"

There’s a size 9 feline, snug in her zone,
In a bright orange box she proudly calls home.
Tissue for pillows, cardboard for walls,
Living her dream with zero cat calls.

She’s the queen of the couch, the duke of the trail,
Dozing so deep she could sleep through a gale.
No shoes in sight, but she’s owning that space,
Like a loaf with a tail and a whiskered face.

Forget your boots, your socks, your kicks,
This box is hers—no need for tricks.
So if you ask, “Is she fine?”
She’ll purr, “I’m a perfect size 9 feline.”

Eight little ferals, playful and sweet,
Each with a name that makes them unique.

Tinks is curious, quick on her feet,
Ace is brave, with mischief to meet.

Theodore watches, so gentle and fair,
Shadowy whiskers belong to Bear.

Rocky is sturdy, he’s bold through and through,
Snowy-white MJ has mischief to do.

Bane is a rascal, with spark in his eyes,
While Stubby brings laughter with tiny surprise.

Together they tumble, together they play,
Eight little ferals, brightening each day.

Tinks whispers gently, “Tell us what you adore—
A memory, a moment, a dream to explore.”

Ace leans in closer, “Don’t be shy, take your chance,
Share the song in your soul, or the joy of a dance.”

Theodore smiles, “What warms up your days?
Write it in words, in your own special ways.”

Bear says with courage, “Your voice has its place,
The world needs your story, your love, and your grace.”

Rocky is playful: “Tell us things that inspire,
The sparks in your heart, the flames of desire.”

MJ nods kindly: “It’s your turn to be heard,
No tale is too small, no thought too absurd.”

Bane adds with promise: “We’ll listen, we’ll care—
Your treasures are precious, please choose to share.”

Stubby concludes, “So gather, dear friends,
Your writings, your passions, where heart never ends.
Together our voices will weave, line by line,
A chorus of love, both yours and mine.”

If you see me like this—
belly exposed, paws in the air,
looking far too cute to resist—
what would you do?

A tummy rub?
You know I’ll squirm and kick,
pretending I didn’t want it—
but secretly, I do.

A gentle kiss?
That’s even better.
I’ll blink at you slowly,
the way I say “you’re mine.”

Or maybe you’ll just laugh,
because I look ridiculous—
like a spilled bag of marshmallows
with whiskers.

I’m silly, I know.
But it’s how I tell you
that this place, this life,
is good with you in it.

So go on—rub, kiss, laugh—
any answer is the right one.
Because if you see me like this,
it means I’m happy,
and I want you close.

I’m snow-white silk with a hunter’s knack,
Today’s the day — I caught the black.
He slipped through shadows, smooth and sly,
But I was quicker, sharp and spry.

No more whispers, no more boasts,
I chase down legends, I catch the ghosts.
One green, one blue, my eyes don’t lie —
The black cat’s mine, and here’s the prize.

So spread the word from street to street,
The white cat rules, the hunt’s complete.
I wear the crown, no looking back —
The king who finally caught the black.

In a quiet chamber, lit by two trembling flames,
a silver tray holds relics with forgotten names.
The candles stand like sentinels, their wax tears slowly fall,
casting long and crooked shapes that stretch across the wall.

Between them rests a bottle, sealed and still with care,
its label speaks of distant sands, of sunlight, salt, and air.
Though far removed from ocean tides, the grains within still gleam,
as though they carry whispers from a half-remembered dream.

And there — upon the shadows’ edge, where silence folds in tight,
a pale cat curls with watchful eyes that shimmer in the night.
She does not stir, she does not speak, yet in her steady gaze,
the room is held in reverence, suspended in a daze.

The candles seem to answer her, their flames both bow and sway,
as though they know the guardian who keeps the dark at bay.
No shadow dares to steal the light, no echo dares to roam,
for where the pale cat chooses, the chamber feels like home.

So rest, while sands remember, and flames in silence glow —
the keeper of the candlelight will guard you as you go.

Can you sit like these two?
Bet your body shouts, “No, thank you!”
Legs out front, all neat and flat—
Somehow comfy if you’re a cat.

Try it once, you’ll tip and slide,
Your knees will flop to either side.
Your balance goes, you start to sway—
“Who even sits like this all day?!”

Cats just blink, like, “See? It’s easy.”
While you sit crooked, stiff, and queasy.
Kitties twist and fold, then stare right through—
No chance you'll sit like these two!

A grumpy cat snug in a blanket so bright,
Dreaming of tuna through most of the night.
One paw tucked in, the other at rest,
Clearly convinced that this spot is the best.

The quilt screams festive, but let’s be well-read—
A Christmas blanket? In a heatwave? On this bed?
A royal furball with a judgmental stare,
On this cozy throne, she's the boss of the lair.