In cages all around the room
     they sat
            most of them quiet
                   and scared
     and lonely.

     You made a noise
            like no other cat
                  you paced your cage
     I thought: "if only
            you fitted the order
                 that I had in mind."          

     But you did not -
            not color, not gender.
     I did not come here to get
            you - yet your voice
     although growing hoarse
            still constantly rose.

     I lifted you up -
            your fur was so tender
                  big amber eyes
            looked into my heart
     and now quiet tongue
            licked tip of my nose.

     There was no choice
            (oh,cat, that was smart)
     for then and there
             as I held you close
                   a bond was sealed
     that brought so much joy!

     Thank you, my pet,
             for raising your voice
                   to call for love,
     thank you,
              my sweet boy!             

     Izabel Sonia Ganz      Sept.1997 revised May 1998

     Published on the elegant pages of Pat Crowley,     "Devoted to Cats"

This is Jake, typing from Florida

      Cats and Keyboards

      My cat jumps on the sofa
      looks at the keyboard in my lap
with unmistakable disgust
      places a delicate paw
      on my knee
      and utters a soft "meow"
      Please get this intruder
      out of my rightful spot."

      I pick up the keyboard
      he settles in its place

      The e-mail stays unanswered
      the cat purrs
      I read poems
      and rants
      by other people
      clicking the buttons
      of my trustworthy
      WebTv remote.

      Izabel Sonia Ganz
August 14, 1998

      published in Net4WebTv Voice, September 1998
       August 1999 issue.


        Dark shadows
        on fast feet
        among bushy weeds
        after spring rains.
        Tails straight up -
        rudders guiding their course
        towards my cooing voice.

        I stand
        under a round moon
        over a white plate
        fringed by coal-black shapes
        their tails at rest
        as I listen to the crunching
        of my food in their teeth.

        I also hear a voice
        every day
        calling sweetly
        promising fulfillment.
        Why is it that
        the plate
        is always served to me empty?

        Maybe I need faster feet
        to win the race
        a long tail for a rudder
        or to fill my ears with cotton
        and feed my hunger
        at the round and full
        plate of the moon.

        Izabel Sonia Ganz
        April 1998
        previously published
        in "Gravity - A Journal
        of On-line Writing"

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resting from the toils of writing
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