The Cat on Love

by Catt Kingsgrave

As spectator, above the list I bide
And watch the armored lovers crash and roar
In steel and satin, destriers bestride
With someone's heart and hopes the spoils of war
What maiden's sleeve lies rent upon the floor
Dyed bright and deep with love's well-proven hue?
And when her lover's heart shall beat no more
Love, whence shall we assign the blame but you?
From laps of royal velvet I've espied
Court maidens rapt upon some raconteur
Each dangling from his prose, each dewy eyed
And certain he recites alone for her
Let him but beckon one, he might be sure
Of welcome bright and innocent in hue,
And sweet, until betrayal sours the pure
Love, whence shall we assign the blame but you?
And kitchen-hunting, where the mice will hide
I spy the laughing maid who'll flirt and purr
At baffled stammering youths, their tongues all tied
Each dazzled with the flash of budding curves
For more than just a kiss, all hope demurred
Then when his rival comes, away he's shooed
As grudging toms they'll fight and brawl for her
Love, whence shall we assign the blame but you?
Dread Goddess, who, it's said, makes hearts to soar
I offer this critique from cat's eye view;
Your wealth in human hands seems more like war
Love, whence shall we assign the blame but you?

Catt Kingsgrave writes prose and verse from her home in upstate New York, which she shares with her partner and four cats. When not writing, she does all the other things which are artistic and unprofitable. Except she still does not make jam.

When prompted with the word "cherry," the first poem to spring to her odd little mind is not the old medieval chestnut "I Gave My Love a Cherry," but rather its irreverent parody song written by Alan Sherman. Her brain is a strange place sometimes.

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