Tales and Tails

There’s something beautiful in this quiet closeness — the way they sit side by side, watching the world unfold.

They don’t rush, they don’t need words, they don’t even need to look at one another.

Their connection is in the stillness, in the gentle touch that says, “I’m here. With you.”

Upon a throne of cotton hills,
I lounge and dream of noble frills.
No peasant shirt, no humble sock
Could match the grace I here unlock.

The basket bends beneath my reign,
A kingdom in the sunshine’s lane.
You come with hands to fold and press—
I pause the chore with my finesse.

“Oh human dear,” my gaze will say,
“Why waste such warmth in work today?
The towels can wait, the sheets can sigh,
But hugs are fleeting—come, comply.”

Arrange my paws like linens fair,
Then smooth the ruffles of my hair.
Enfold me close, your silken prize,
While love outshines the laundered dyes.

For garments fade and seams may tear,
But cuddle-clothes? They need no care.
So fold me gently, arms around—
The finest laundry you have found.

Once upon a table, where sunlight pooled like warm honey, Lady Moonpaws kept watch beside the twin Owls of Oak.

They were not ordinary owls, oh no — their wooden eyes held the key to a riddle so old that the dust itself had forgotten it.

“Patience,” the owls would murmur in the language only she could hear. And patience she had — still as stone, soft as dusk, waiting for the day the answer would arrive on quiet paws.

Some say the riddle is about where dreams go when they end. Others claim it’s about how to find the warmest sunspot in the kingdom. Lady Moonpaws never told — and the Owls never asked again.

And so, the secret stayed safe… right there on the table, in plain sight, where no one ever thought to look.

White cat lies where silence grows,
In morning’s threadbare, woven rows.
A whisper caught in fur and grace,
The hush of thought upon her face.

She does not doze. She does not stir.
The room adjusts itself to her.
Pillowed flanks and patterned throne,
Still as marble, soft as bone.

Behind her, shadows stitched in black—
Twin cats that never blink or track.
But she is real: a breath, a flame,
A thing too present to have a name.

She watches not with fear, but right—
As if the world obeys her sight.
No need to hunt, no need to flee—
The moment bends to her decree.

Upon the bed where dreams still stay,
A jacket rests, in warm display.
Its folds hold whispers, faint and true,
The gentle scent—the soul of you.

I curl within its amber hue,
A kingdom stitched in threads I knew.
Though you are gone, your presence clings,
Like summer sun in winter’s wings.

The world beyond may roar and roam,
But here’s the heart, my hearth, my home.
Until you cross the doorway through,
I guard this place… as I wait for you.

Sometimes, something small in the backyard can stop you in your tracks.

My wife grows straw flowers—those bright, crisp blooms that somehow look like they were made of sunshine and paper. They don’t wilt like other flowers. When you cut them and hang them to dry, they keep their color, their shape, their presence. Even time seems to step back and let them be.

And I realized something the other day.

That’s her.

She still calls me darling after all these years. She keeps our home going, keeps the cats fed and spoiled, and somehow moves through each day with this quiet grace that doesn’t ask for credit.

The flowers she grows are beautiful. But they’re only echoes of the woman who planted them. The real miracle is her.

So if you see someone growing something beautiful in their yard—maybe it’s more than a garden. Maybe it’s love that knows how to last.

Love ya babe! ❤️

One peeks out with a curious stare,
The other’s stitched in a permanent glare.
One can pounce, or scamper, or hide,
The other stays still, though always with pride.

Perhaps the soft one dreams of such grace,
Or maybe the still one envies that face.
One speaks in mews, the other in thread,
Yet both share the warmth of the same cozy bed.

So which one wishes, and which one is free?
Well… that’s for the reader, not me, to see.

Oh human, you think you can dream so deep,
But I’m the master of perfect sleep.
I curl up tight on this patterned bed,
And let soft clouds fill up my head.

My nose is pink, my whiskers still,
The sun beams down—it’s a warm, sweet thrill.
The world can wait, I’ve got no plan,
Just chasing fish in my dreamland.

Your eyelids flutter, you toss and you turn,
But I’ve got tricks you’ll never learn.
With one slow sigh, the day drifts away—
I could nap like this all day.

So hush, no noise, don’t make a peep,
For none can match my artful sleep.

You may be tired, but can’t you see?
No one sleeps as good as me!

Cat hair on my breakfast plate,
Cat hair on my best friend's date!
Cat hair on my brand-new chair—
Cat hair, cat hair, EVERYWHERE!

Cat hair in my morning joe,
Cat hair where my socks should go.
Cat hair in my Sunday stew,
Cat hair in my shampoo too!

I brushed and scrubbed, I swept and sprayed,
I vacuumed till the carpet frayed!
But still it floats, it flits, it flies,
It sneaks into my apple pies.

“Good kitty,” I beg, “just shed no more!”
The cat just yawns upon the floor.
With a twitch of her tail and a smug little stare,
She leaves me more…
Cat hair, cat hair, EVERYWHERE!