Wayne Michael DeHart   (July, 2023)

Writer’s Note:  This poem was written as an entry in an international publication’s 2023 annual poetry competition. All entries had to respond to a unique, one-word, all-caps, exclamatory prompt, which just happened to be “LOUD!” this year. Strict 30-line limit. “LOUD!” – hmm, where should I go with this?

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Fiona Fay, our flaky, finicky, family feline,
goes gaga in the presence of a cute canine,
preening herself till she’s groomed real fine.

Her snivels and whines, common, well-known,
are low in volume, and nonthreatening in tone.
They arrive with a grunt, and leave with a groan.

But now and then, she’ll just holler and hiss,
squalling and bawling, like something’s amiss.|
We nuzzle her neck, and her blues turn to bliss.

That tri-colored, calico, mouser of ours,
paws for hours, sleeps when it showers,
plays on the lawn, pees on the flowers.

The amber-eyed creature is near and dear
to the five human beings who are living here.
Queen Cat makes the rules, and we adhere.

She listens to birds from the window sills,
then merrily mimics their chirps and trills,
their vibrant chants, and their piercing shrills.

As she chimed high notes in a morning salute,
she was hounded in our yard by a surly ol’ brute,
who nipped at her tail while in dogged pursuit.

Believe me when I say, in the here and now,
that the yowl we heard, someway, somehow,
sounded more like a roar than a cat’s meow.

Enraged by the mongrel’s gruff growl and grumble,
our caterwauling catty girl was cranked up to rumble,
to muzzle that mutt, make him stumble and tumble.

Fiona Fay advanced like a lioness proud,
snarling, sneering, like an angry thundercloud,
at the cur that bit her butt ‘cuz she . . . sang too LOUD!

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