A poem for my guinea pigs

[Ramia]

I sit in this unnatural room,
This foreign habitat
And strange alliance
Tugging me in.
It is the willow tree
Bent to grow around a bench
Where lovers hold hands
To speak not of evolution
And instinct but soul and mate.

I, too, sit on the bench
And millions of years of adaptation
And fear
Are my joy
As this unnatural alliance
Beckons me each day

To care and to nurse
A little life
That trails through the grasslands of my heart.

A song, spoken softly to you
As we begin this
Foreign bond of love and captivity.

 

[Cara-milk]

Lovely poem

 

[Merab]

Worth a as well

 

[Ramia]

A poem about Stripe's illnesses:

This ill-begotten faith,
Where love begets the nurse of tyranny,
Has brought us to the end of an era.
And you are ill.
And I am the nurse of tyranny.
Whenever misfortune takes our wide-eyed friend
From the happiness of the morning,
I weep for him.

And underneath the suffering
Is a will to live,
But self destruction bodes even the strongest.
And my tyranny may save you in the end.

The beauty of your life
Is like the fire in the night sky of Canada,
It sweeps the forest
Until you are barren of the flight of the flock.

 

[Ramia]

The days drift like the impending snow,
And I cradle a small mammal in my hands.
At my feet, another animal
Is at peace
With winter,
Safe and cared for
And living in a world of comfort and love.

They are creatures that infest my dreams
And I possess devotion and elation for their small world.

 

[Sweet Potato]

In a modern world of screens and lights
The faceless cold and unchanging monotony of every day drags falward.
The brutalist landscape casts dark shadows on our homeland.
Life peeks through the cracks in the pavement only to be trampled down and labled a weed.
A rat scurries by, unloved vermin brave enough to cower in the shadows.
The pigeons huddle together under dirty ledges of closed down shops and abandoned homes.
I pass them by once again.
My key in the lock, my hand on the handle
I open the door a crack.
The sound of wheeks and scampering paws hits me like sunshine beating down through the branches of a forest canopy.
The scratching of paws on cage bars awakens me like the coming of spring.
I'm home
Home where tiny noses wiggle and tiny feet dance.
Home where soft fur warms my cold hands.
Home where floppy ears dance as my friend trundles across the room to great me.
Here there is colour, here there is life, here there are Guinea Pigs.

 

[Betsy]

I had goosebumps reading that @Sweet Potato! What a beautiful poem.

 

[Merab]

In a modern world of screens and lights
The faceless cold and unchanging monotony of every day drags falward.
The brutalist landscape casts dark shadows on our homeland.
Life peeks through the cracks in the pavement only to be trampled down and labled a weed.
A rat scurries by, unloved vermin brave enough to cower in the shadows.
The pigeons huddle together under dirty ledges of closed down shops and abandoned homes.
I pass them by once again.
My key in the lock, my hand on the handle
I open the door a crack.
The sound of wheeks and scampering paws hits me like sunshine beating down through the branches of a forest canopy.
The scratching of paws on cage bars awakens me like the coming of spring.
I'm home
Home where tiny noses wiggle and tiny feet dance.
Home where soft fur warms my cold hands.
Home where floppy ears dance as my friend trundles across the room to great me.
Here there is colour, here there is life, here there are Guinea Pigs.

 

[Truffolo]

Lovely poetry! Heart warming