Biography of Cat Tiger
Cat Tiger is a name given me by Astrology. I was born a Leo in the Year of the Tiger. I went to Catholic schools, except the Art schools, through college. I married, raised two exceptional children of each sex and worked commercially as an artist and copy writer. I have written a couple of poems a year, a few of which I tried to publish. These are some I'd like to share in order to show those folks I've criticized on PoemHunter that I'm no genius. Writing good poetry is difficult to say the very least, but that shouldn't stop us because, good or bad, it's often interesting, even educational communication.
Cat Tiger Poems
Truly We'Ve Met Before
Your whisper pounds my heart's rood Rushing throbbed tsunamis throughout So that the pulsing of my tepid blood Expands even whisper into a shout.
Missing you prevents me From missing minor things- Like pressing worldly issues Or messages from kings-
If you'd like to know about August I can show you chrysanthemums Covered with dust, or Rosy Dawn Coming late and leaving the
Grow Young With Me
Grow young with me, my Cohort, It's life's most satisfying joy Vying the ravages of Time.
You’ve completed a task Set four long, hard years ago To prove that you can last In life’s commercial show.
This is not a contest. No reason to see who can resist The pleasure of a kissed response. Or the look of knowing
Of all the things we might call ours None are so precious as soft Spring flowers; They push up through the cold, damp earth and bring beauty where once was dearth.
Doors To Our Past
Doors to our past hide myriad thoughts. We see beyond into smoky rooms Of happy faces or scenes distraught
You Know Me Better
You know me better than I know myself So how should I engage you? You know my thoughts, my desires So well that my expressions seem
The Worse 8/18/09
Good people hold sway Don't wade into the fray Get a grip and pray it's 'Bad Poetry Day'
Happy Birthday, Mother
Though he be privilege to her smiles No son may know his Mother's trials Nor count the sacrifices made: The weary hours; nerves worn and frayed.
Oatmeal, oatmeal, food that's not real! Alas! Alas! It's only crushed grass! Even with salt, sugar and butter, And even with milk from the cow's udder
A Prolific Fan
There goes The Fan again Could she stop? Not on your chinny-chin-chin. Her world is her apricot pie.
You Miss Me
Oh and I miss you! You’re so lovely In spirit and form That I live for you.
Missing you prevents me
From missing minor things-
Like pressing worldly issues
Or messages from kings-
Nothing compels the attraction
that your beloved image brings.
The music of your voice
Adds life to those strings