Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes:

Rescue Me

2012-03-13T13:44:00.000-04:00

Image by Uzendia Alexsander Nedic

I see you up there;

I hope you see me down here—

Can you help me out?

This is a late entry for The Mag #108. Please visit the link for less tardy participants' work.

Please forgive my absence ...

2012-03-12T13:37:00.000-04:00

Red Takes a Nap in the Laptop Bag

"Spring Forward" always leaves me messed up.

I'll return soon.

~Kat

Life At Landsbyhus: March 2012, Week 2

2012-03-09T10:48:00.000-05:00

What's Outside?

Snow is flying yet again! This is punctuated by glaring sunlight that dazzles us from the snowy counterpane. I just have to keep reminding myself that it is only March. Here in Southern Ontario, blizzards in April are no big surprise.

What's in my head?

A mad mix of genealogical statistics - predominantly Danish and concerning my husband's father's family. I have recently uncovered the information on him that I have been seeking for three years, and it is startling! (I'm still hoping to find a connection with Viggo! So far, nothing concrete on that front.)

What am I grateful for:

I don't have to go out in this weather.

What's cooking? Today, I'm taking it easy. Last night, I cooked up a special spaghetti sauce with yellow peppers, cremini mushrooms, red onion and tomatoes done with fennel, chili peppers, basil and oregano and a dash of red wine. It was delicious and had a nice "kick" to it.

What's in my glass/cup?

"Rio-Red Grapefruit Juice mixed with a little O.J. It helps the supplements go down.

What's my "get-up"?

Grey track pants, grey hoodie, navy cardigan and white t-shirt plus, three layers of socks! (It gets cold in my office-corner!)

What's on the monitor?

Still Kev's smiling face in the foreground of a photo of the Royal Hotel in town.

Where am I off:

Today, nowhere, if I can help it! The snow is really flying now!

What's in my library?

I'm just getting into Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" for the second time. I read it 28 years ago while I was at university. I remember liking it, but of course I was preoccupied with other things in those days.
I was living away from home for the first time, a few months after my father had just been seriously injured in a hit-and-run bicycle accident. Actually, seeing him in the emergency ward of a hospital, all bruised and bloated from the head injury he incurred, was rather similar to what Dr. Frankenstein must have seen in the monster he created. Maybe that's why I didn't pay much attention to the novel.
My dad had been in a coma for a couple of weeks, and then there was a very long road to recovery. He was never the same man.

What's that noise?

The low hum of electronics and the periodic click of the furnace going on.

What's happening here?

Mercifully, the cats are all asleep and not on their usual crusade for food. Gilbert, the senile old boy of 18 will make an appearance in about an hour, stand in the middle of the room and bellow like an old bull on heat.

Gotta love this!

We're working our way through all of the "Who Do You Think You Are" episodes from Britain. We can watch most of them online, although the quality of the picture is not the greatest in some cases. We find the show fascinating even when we don't know who is researching his or her family. The history behind the life-stories is what makes the program so captivating. If you haven't seen any of these programs, I encourage you to look for them. The American version is on tonight, Friday, at 8:00 p.m. I believe it's NBC, but don't quote me.

What's up this week?

I went to choir practice on Wednesday night and it was a good run. We're working on the music for the liturgy for Easter and our young choir director, Nicole has us spitting our words and trilling our "rs". It's sounding quite good, considering we are a very small choir. I do enjoy every minute of it!

Today's ear-worm:

Sinead O'Connor's, "I Am Stretched On Your Grave" with it's military-snare backing and the manic uillean pipes finale.
I decided to listen to the "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got" album as I prepared my spaghetti sauce for last night's supper. I hadn't listened to Sinead with any concentration since the late 1980s when I used to grab my boyfriend at the time and make him slow-dance with me to "Nothing Compares 2U" (turns out, something did, by the way).
I thoroughly enjoyed revisiting this album, but of course my mind kept wandering (as it will do) to the whole tearing-up-the-Pope's-image on Saturday Night Live, and also, her recent supposed advertisements for a sexual liason. She must be a fairly troubled individual.

Even if she refutes the faith she was born with, there's no denying that God graced her with a most exceptional voice and I still love her early music. It reminds me of when I was limber on the dance floor, and liked to fancy myself a bit of a punk, as well. I never shaved my head though.

Enjoy this video of the "Irish Princess".

A picture from today's report:

This cover image reminds me of photos of Shackleton's expeditions by photographer, Frank Hurley.

Belewe Moon

2012-03-08T13:51:00.001-05:00

Adapted from Lemmy-X's photo

Belewe Moon

As Gregory's monks chanted—
their glorious notes rising, high,
you unveiled yourself
in the sunless Paschal sky.

Your indigo eye peeked in
a leaded window.

Awe-struck, they bowed their heads,
singing soft into their sackcloth breasts,
"Kyrie Eleison".

Kat Mortensen©2012

This poem is for the Thursday Think Tank at Poets United. Please visit the link for more loony poems and such. Thanks!

Surprise Overnight Guest

2012-03-07T10:11:00.000-05:00

This is no kitty-cat!

I think it's a rabbit! He must have been checking out our sad bird-feeder.

I, in no way advocate the hunting of rabbits, but I can't help think of this:

Facade

2012-03-04T16:18:00.001-05:00

Facade

You always knew that you would make it;
One day you'd be there on that wall.

They think you're fine; I know you fake it;
You hoodwink them, but don't fool me at all.

Just think! I was the one who loved you,
Who nightly held you in the dark.

Look at me now— the one you outgrew,
With your ambition, your great need to leave a mark.

Hey! How's it feel to be the idol
Who hawks the wares out on the street?

I'll never share your efforts, suicidal
Or sell out to a scandal sheet.

So close those eyes, no need to pin me
With that commanding look of old.

One time your face could always win me;
Now this facade just leaves me cold.

Kat Mortensen©2012

Image adapted from original by Sarolta Ban

This post is prompted by the above photo which was posted at The Mag. Please visit the link to read other fine reflections on this image.

A Woman Scorned

2012-03-03T09:56:00.000-05:00

Harrisburg, Illinois, Feb. 29, 2012 (photo by Rob Edwards)

For "October", replace the word, "March" and you'll get a sense of what our night was like. The slamming and the swirling winds woke us up repeatedly. We have no cause for complaint however, in light of what is going on in the mid-western United States. Please spare a thought for all those in the U.S. who have been the victims of raging tornadoes this past week. Think and pray for them.

OCTOBER WIND

October wind pounds the window,
a woman scorned; she beats against the panes,
with furious palms—wanting inside,
to find the warm.

Overturning furniture, outside,
she leaves destruction behind,
as she searches for gaps
to let her pass—she slams the glass.

Perhaps, she feels
we swallowed up her land
where once, she loved to whistle in the woods
on balmier days.

Uncalm now, she has revenge
in mind.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Life at Landsbyhus

2012-03-02T10:21:00.000-05:00

(Stolen from an earlier post HERE)
We decided to christen this new home, Landsbyhus (pronounced, Lanz-bue-hoos) which means “village house” in Danish. As usual, we sort of made up a word by putting two together (as we did with our beloved Hyggehus).
The Landsbyhus is a deceptively large townhouse. You would never know it from the front, but we have a massive loft bedroom with a full bathroom on the second floor behind the attic over the garage. We also have a nice alcove at the top of the loft stairs, where we house a tub-chair and small table with lamp for the purpose of reading. The funny thing is, our old cat, Gilbert spends the most time in that chair, rather than Kevin or me. We’re carrying our reading material all over the house, but can often be found in the “Great Room” (which is quite compact, actually) lounging in the love seat, listening to the iPod and reading
Although technically, we are not exactly in the village where we live, we are on the edge of town and feel comfortable with the new house designation.

I've decided to reactivate my "Kat's Monitor" posts under the new title, "Life at Landsbyhus". I hope you'll enjoy these periodic peeks into my real world.

What's Outside?
The sound of Canada Geese flying overhead, no doubt landing on the green-space across the road from my house.

What's in my head? See "Today's ear-worm" below.

What am I grateful for: I don't have to drive into the city for a medical appointment for my mom today. I've already done that twice this week. No more trips for a while.

What's cooking? I just had toast for breakfast (as per usual) and I don't expect lunch to be too exciting. Dinner will be fish and chips with some roasted Brussels sprouts. We bought a banana gelato last night which I am very keen to try.

What's in my glass/cup? The remains of my cold coffee, from which I still take a sip every once in a while, purely out of habit.

What's my "get-up"? Today, I can't tell you that! Suffice it to say that my clown socks are in place as per usual.

What's on the monitor? A black and white photo of mine with Kevin in the left foreground and the 1800s-built Royal Hotel in the background.

Where am I off: To the local grocer to buy some raspberry coconut tarts for my mom to take to a church function this afternoon.

What's in my library? I'm on page 445 of "The Woman in White" and "Anna Karenina" is waiting in the wings. She may have to wait a while, until I finish, "Three Men in a Boat".

What's that noise? The furnace just kicked in; the clock is ticking. No! really, it is.

What's happening here? There's a new house being built behind and just over from us. When it is complete (probably by April the way these guys work) our immediate neighbourhood will be pretty much done.

Gotta love this! We live just down the road from a horse farm and I love to wander over there and feed them apples over the fence.

What's up this week? The work week is done; let the weekend commence! I hope to get to a few of my favourite charity shops and of course, on Sunday, I'll be singing in the choir.

Today's ear-worm: Adele: "Set Fire To The Rain". We're watching "American Idol" and a poor young lad chose this song (big mistake - he's only what? sixteen?) Nonetheless, a mish-mash of Eben and Adele is running through my head. Make it stop!

A picture from today's report:

Please excuse me, Wilkie is calling.

2012-03-01T15:35:00.000-05:00

Booked

I'd love to stay and chat;

I'd like to read your post;

I try to be a good friend,

and even better host,

but I really must beg off;

don't think me impolite,

I'm at a crucial point

In Collins's "Woman in White"!

Forbidden Fruit

2012-03-01T10:20:00.001-05:00

From loin-leaves, poor Eve

fuses with the Knowledge-tree—

awakes to darkness.

This is a Thursday Think Tank post resulting from the above photo at Poets United. The theme is "rebirth". I've stretched that a bit. Please visit the link to see responses that may be much more on track.

(Click image for Deviant Art source.)

Diary of a Serial Killer

2012-02-27T10:12:00.000-05:00

Diary of a Serial Killer

Wednesday, January 24

Today I went to the Piggly-Wiggly.
They had a special
on tomato soup.
(I know what you're thinking! Well,
I am an artist, of a sort.)

I have a taste for the red stuff—
my apartment is all-white.
(I use quite a lot of bleach)
and the scrubbing does
get tedious,
but the Scot Towels
are most helpful
in that regard).

You wouldn't think it
to look at me,
but I like a bit of skirt—
a flounce, an A-line,
the turn of an ankle.

That last girl—the bleach-blonde,
she didn't want any soup
at all, but ultimately,
there was enough
of the red stuff
to fill me up.

Kat Mortensen©2012

Photo by Bob Edelman, 1965

This poem is prompted by the above photo from The Mag. Please visit the link to view fine interpretations of the image in poetry and prose. Thanks.

Unstrung

2012-02-23T11:18:00.000-05:00

Unstrung

So now, I've got it straight.
(too late)
It was fine for me,
to be the puppet,
hanging on your dangling lines,
but in your mind,
there were no strings
attached.

I thought we made a good
match—
you were irresistibly
drawn to my weak spine;
I pandered to your
Masochistic moods.

Who was it, in your history,
left you, needing to be
patched up, like a
well-worn stuffed toy?

Is that why, the Master
found his greatest joy
in destroying me?

Kat Mortensen©2012

*As the last poem, "Was Home" left some of you wondering if I am a happy person, let me assure you that I am indeed a very happy person and very little of what I write (apart from things which touch on faith) has anything to do with me personally. They are merely the figments of my imagination coalescing into something approaching a reality. Having said that, "Was Home" was all very true.

This poem is the result of the Thursday Think Tank prompt at Poets United. Please visit the link to read further responses to the image below. Thank you.

Click for picture source

I Found God

2012-02-20T10:54:00.000-05:00

I Found God

I found God,
there in the desert;
I was cycling in circles,
when he called.

A bell rang out
across the mesa
I grabbed the phone;
His voice was small.

He said, my son,
what were you doing
out on your bike
in this dark night?

Just circling round and round,
I answered,
until I saw a neon light.

He laughed so softly,
and said to me,
my question was rhetorical;
I am your God,
the one you search for—
not metaphorical.

Hang up the line now,
ride far and straight
take my light with you,
it's getting late.

Kat Mortensen©2012

Photo by Sean "Epic" Mahoney

This poem is prompted by the above photo taken from The Mag #105. Please visit the link to read great takes on the photo.

Was Home

2012-02-16T15:12:00.003-05:00

Was Home

I can't believe that I used to call it, "home"—
the place to which I ran, when a young man
whacked me with snowballs;
where I slammed doors in a rage
of teenage hormones,
or played the Moonlight Sonata
on the upright grand.
How many times,
I paced behind its windows,
waiting for another blind date
to shake my father's hand.

Those wretched kitchen cupboards!
That ratty carpet's edge that lined the stairs,
the patches—mismatched pieces filling in
the worn out spots, when I didn't care.

Unfinished projects, everywhere—
missing tiles, aborted things,
splattered paint where you were too
impatient to fling a cloth.

Solid dining suite and Limoges miniatures
from a European tour, behind glass—
proof of success—keeping up with the middle class ...

Your disease made it so hard to keep up;
the grass like a corn-crop after harvest (the birds loved it)
the pavement, cracked; woodwork, hacked; eaves, slack—

I grew to loathe the place I once called, "home".

When we sold it (you had no clue)
I would have given it away, if I'd had to;
it was a yoke to be lifted.

As we turned up the road, for the last time,
I never turned my head,

and we drifted away
from home.

Kat Mortensen©2012

This is a Poets United prompt-based poem. Please visit their website by clicking this link, to read more responses to the Thursday Think Tank photo and prompt.

Not Down For "The Count"

2012-02-16T10:43:00.001-05:00

Dracula by Bram Stoker
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Brilliant!

Never, have I read anything filled with such suspense! Despite an initial impression of camp (due largely to the film interpretations that were spawned from this book), I began to believe!

The epistolary device used in this novel is nothing short of genius for the tale. Because the reader is forced to go back and forth in the minds of all concerned - to see the situation from different perspectives, as it were,there is a building up of tension that cannot be easily shaken.

Yes, we know Dracula is the villainous vampire, but it is the revelations through various letters and journals and diaries that create a precise manifestation of this evil in our minds.

The final sequence of the novel is like watching a horse-race when you have a ticket. The sense of anticipation as the horses are loaded into the gate (one is always less than keen, and thus delays the proceedings); the intonation of the caller with his, "They're at the post. They're off!", and the charge around the track - some falling behind, some making headway, some narrow margins crossed,and even perhaps, an incurred injury, but ultimately the finish line!

I finished reading the book an hour ago, and I am still in the high state of that "photo-finish" of a winner!

A book that I cannot praise highly enough. Dispel the incarnations! Read the original!

View all my reviews

Inarticulate (a love poem)

2012-02-14T09:52:00.001-05:00

Adapted by me from a Flickr photo. Click image for source.

I am audacious enough
to call myself a poet—
a magician with words,
yet
you always leave me,
tongue-tied, and tapped out.

There are no words
to put to page that can uncage
my beast of love.

If I could, I would wrench this heart
from my body, to hurl at your feet,
to bleed forth in fervent flood—
to prove my love.

I cannot write it;
you must read the poem
in my eyes.

Unwilling

2012-02-12T19:47:00.000-05:00

Unwilling

Morpheus has no power
over Medusa's tresses;
these serpents writhe about me,
waiting to consume.

He made me his unwilling mistress
of the night
with tiny bites that sapped
my life.

Now I shun the sun—
can tolerate moon's light,

but my thirst is
impossible to sate.

This need not be my fate.

Oh love! Do not be misled;
come sit here by the bed
and stake my heart.

Allium sativa
is not enough;

Evil's made
of stronger stuff.

Kat Mortensen©2012

Original image by Christophe Gilbert (darkened for the purpose of this poem).

This poem is in response to the above photo published at The Mag. Please click the link to find a world of excellent interpretations.
*It may be of interest to know that I am currently reading Bram Stoker's, "Dracula".

Brain Drain

2012-02-10T15:51:00.002-05:00

Click image for Flickr source.

Ever have one of those days where you just have no idea what you are doing? It's as if the synapses in my brain are twitching, but then they're sparking out.

I have an impulse to create a poem, but no words or thoughts with which to complete that idea.

Every time I leave the screen I'm on with the intention of going to look at something else on line, I completely forget what it was I seeking in the first place.

I wanted to write a Sepia Saturday post, but it's looking like it might end up being a Sepia Sunday or even Monday, at this rate!

I wanted to sort out my genealogy archives. The hard copies I'm preparing to transfer to another site because my Ancestry.ca membership is about to expire and I cannot afford to pay for another year's subscription (to the tune of $299.00). The problem is, I've misplaced my notes for my mother's side.

I've been reading and thoroughly enjoying, Bram Stoker's, "Dracula", so I think I'll just get back to that for now and let my brain have a breather.

Oh, did I mention, I'm also learning the Latin hymn, "Ubi Caritas" for our upcoming Easter Choir performances? That's a bit taxing on the old synapses too.

Not our choir!

Funeral For A Friend

2012-02-07T20:51:00.001-05:00

Our dear friend, Jo Ann has lost her battle with cancer and will be buried tomorrow morning at 11:00 a.m. e.s.t.
She was only 59, and leaves behind a husband and two grown sons.

We will be attending the funeral mass and Kevin and I will be doing the readings.

It is doubtful I will make an appearance here, or on any social networks.

Please think of us, and remember our friend and her family in your thoughts and prayers.

Thanks,

Kat

Canadian Content #1

2012-02-07T11:32:00.000-05:00

Back in the early 1970s, my father purchased a portable cassette-player, with which he was very pleased. So much so, that he decided to use it to ~~force~~ enable us to be recorded (to our great ~~mortification~~ pleasure).

He would often appear with the recorder in hand and a big grin on his face (for some reason this always seemed to coincide with the presence of company) and ~~insist~~ ask us to speak into the toy-like microphone that was plugged into its side.

One time, I recall, he had my mother record a poem by Canadian Poet, E. J. Pratt, called, "Erosion". This, he was familiar with from his copy of "New Horizons", a high school equivalency text book he had used after he landed in Canada from the shores of Ireland in the mid 1950s.

My mother ~~begrudgingly~~ willingly spoke into the "mike" (as we liked to call it) and recited this poem:

The poem can be read here: EROSION by E.J. Pratt at the University of Toronto's Libraries page.

(Long after this recitation, it remained a family anecdote - how my mother had monotonously intoned it, and how the sound of her voice in playback had made her shriek with embarrassment.)

I've researched my father's ancestors and discovered that his grandfather and other men in the family were sett-makers who carved the face of the granite Mountains of Mourne in County Down, Northern Ireland. I can now see how this poem may have had a deeper meaning for my father.

I still have his copy of "New Horizons" and in fact, upon opening it to the page of Pratt's poem, just now, I have discovered a magazine clipping of some sort with a stanza from a poem on the opposite page. Such was my father's habit, to collect odds and ends of information and stash them away, not really knowing if he would ever find them again. I seem to have picked up this ~~bizarre~~ fascinating little habit.

Monday's Child, #34 (Monkey Business)

2012-02-06T10:08:00.001-05:00

Illustration by Jessie Wilcox-Smith, 1914

Sidney Comes To Tea

One day, when I was lonely, a monkey came to tea.
(We say "a monkey", don't we, when we mean a chimpanzee?)

He wasn't like my other friends who were a frightful bore;
When Sidney came to tea, he simply never made one snore.

He poured a spot out just for me; he wanted to be "mother",
Then gulped his down with monkey-glee, and poured himself another.

Before he'd even asked if I would "lemon", or would "lump it",
(He thought I didn't see him, but I did—he swiped a crumpet!)

But maddest thing, he smiled and begged a jar of Grey Poupon,
And when old Smithers brought the stuff, he spread it on his scone!

We had ourselves a topping time, tho' Sidney spilt some crumbs.
I cannot hold him to account, he really is all thumbs!

Kat Mortensen©2012

This poem is the direct result of an image at the now-dormant, "Monday's Child" poetry site. Such a shame that lack of interest has caused its demise.

Strange Days

2012-02-05T15:03:00.000-05:00

Strange things have been happening to me lately. (Cue, "Twilight Zone" music.)

I picked up a copy of the Modern Penguin Classic edition of Robert Louis Stevenson's, "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Other Tales of Terror" in a thrift store called, "Generations". This was well over a year ago, and the book has languished either in a box (for the duration of our move to this house), or on the shelf since I unpacked it.

Sometime before Christmas, I removed it from the library downstairs in the family room (beside my work-station) and brought it upstairs to our bedroom. It has been sitting on a stool next to my bed along with other titles such as, "Atonement", "Mister Pip" and "I Capture the Castle", waiting patiently to be opened and read.

As you may have read earlier this year, my New Year's resolutions included the idea of reading at least a dozen of the Classics. I was successful with Turgenev's, "Fathers and Sons" (my first Russian-in-translation read) and so it happened that I decided to read, "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde".

I must admit my knowledge of this story is what most of you probably have in your bank of knowledge of it as well. I knew of the Good, Dr. Jekyll vs. The Evil, Mr. Hyde; I knew there was some sort of potion involved, and I knew that some crimes were committed on the streets of Victorian London. Oh, and of course, I had that wonderful image of Tweety-Pie as the enormous Hyde-version of himself replete with Sylvester's black and white tail sticking out of his mouth!

But back to MY tale.

I began reading Stevenson's story of duality on Tuesday January 31st, and finished it on the morning of February 1st. On that evening, I happened to be watching "Jeopardy!" with Kevin and what do you think the answer was to the Final Jeopardy question, but, "Robert Louis Stevenson". Bit of a coincidence, you might say.

Yesterday, I happened to be in a local thrift store in my neighbouring town of Fergus. This store is a small one run by the local hospital and there is a tiny room at the back that houses used books. On one shelf there is a very small section for classics and it is usually bereft of anything of interest. Not yesterday! There on the shelf, tucked in beside a well-worn copy of "A Man For All Seasons" was the identical Modern Penguin Classic of the R. L. Stevenson stories! Hmm. This was getting a bit weird.

Now today, Kevin and I began watching an online edition of one of our favourite programs, "Work of Art: The Next Great Artist" on YouTube. We had watched a couple of episodes from Season One last night, and were into the third one. Each week, a group of talented artists are given a challenge to create a "work of art" that will then be shown in a gallery and ultimately judged. One person is sent home if their work does not measure up. It is a magnificent reality show and we're hooked!

So, in this particular third episode, it turned out that the artists were challenged to create a piece of art that would be used as a book cover for ... wait for it ... Penguin Modern Classics! Not only that, two of the artists were assigned the "Jekyll and Hyde" title and given the very same book to use as a springboard for their creativity. Got chills yet?

I just about leapt from my chair! Maybe it's just that Stevenson has got under my skin, but these coincidences seem quite eerie to me. What do you think?

I'm reading Bram Stoker's, "Dracula" next. This could get interesting!

Olalla

2012-02-05T11:11:00.000-05:00

Olalla

Her beauty, like the freshest rose
that hides the worm
at its core.

I thought I could no more
turn from her,
than I'd deny my Lord.

The night cried out
through dusty storm,
to strike me to the core,

for she was not
the one
I should adore.

Her forebears
wore adornments—claimed them
bold and brave,

but it was blood they
took and gave, and

left their children

full of dull innocence,
too sullen in the sun ...

I cut my wrist, the glass
ran red;
her mother laid insipid
lips to where it bled,

I might have slipped
under the spell,

but for Olalla,
who cast me off,
to save me from her Hell.

This poem is loosely connected to the photo above which can be found at The Mag website. It is, rather, an impression based upon the short, Gothic story, "Ollala" by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Guilty Pleasure?

2012-02-02T12:01:00.002-05:00

Cover adapted from the 1998 Trans-Atlantic Publications edition

Yes

Yes, I said I was going to read that damned book!
(It got the better of me.)

Yes, she says again and again
(passion's throes)— scratch that! it's too overused.

Mmmm ... Yes! I hear the sensual voice of KB (those who know, know)

Yes, one day I will conquer you!
(you taunt me from where you lie)

Yes, yes, yes!

(when will I learn to say, NO?)

Kat Mortensen©2012

This is a post for the Thursday Think Tank at Poets United. Please visit their site to read other takes on the this prompt. Thanks.

Groundhog Day ... Groundhog Day ... Groundhog Day

2012-02-02T11:21:00.002-05:00

Not Wiarton Willie, Kitchener Kenny!

Sure, you know that movie, "Groundhog Day" where Bill Murray keeps waking up every morning to the same day? Well, this poem is kind of like that. I like to post it every year (it was penned in 2008) as a kind of tribute to the day and to set the record straight for anyone who doesn't know the original story. Just a bit of fun for today. (Forgive the inconsistent rhythm in some places; it's not a perfect piece, but it is perfectly true!)

WIARTON WILLIE

Wiarton Willie is his name,
Prognostication is his game.
Call him woodchuck, or whistle pig;
Come mid-winter, his fame is big.

Wiarton Willie, first began
When Mac Mackenzie had a plan.
One winter’s day in ‘56,
Devised he, grandest of gimmicks.

Wiarton Willie came about,
When Star reporter sought him out.
Mac, he grabbed his wife’s fur hat,
Dug a burrow—that was that!

Wiarton Willie made the press;
Most folks thought, “Hey! That’s b-s!”
Didn’t stop them coming round,
To spy the hog from underground.

Wiarton Willie caught some flack,
Kicked the bucket—real setback.
How then, they, did that blow, soften?
Decked him out in his own coffin!

Wiarton Willie lay in state,
Quite the scandal to relate:
Promoters had the public bluffed,
‘Til they learned the hog was stuffed!

New Wiarton Willie wasn't nice;
Murdered mates, not once, but twice!
Keeper kept it all hush-hush,
So to keep Town Council flush.

Wiarton Willie he’s no “Phil”
Canadians use the guy to shill.
Now each year for “Groundhog Day”
He has an auction on E-bay!

© 2008 – Kathleen Mortensen

"Wabbits": a hoppin' flick!

2012-01-31T14:47:00.000-05:00

I've been playing around with Picasa again. Since I have loads of animal photos from the Hyggehus where we used to live, I've decided to make them into some little slide shows (Picasa calls them movies, but they're really not).

There will be more of these in the future, so if you love animals like I do, then be sure to stop in when I post them.

Here's the first "flick" featuring some cotton-tailed visitors to my yard.Hope you enjoy it!

Monday's Child #31

2012-01-30T10:30:00.002-05:00

Illustration by Henriette Willebeek Le Mair (1889 - 1966)

Bedtime

Come away to bed, John;
the hour is getting late.
Musn't wake Mama now,
or darling baby, Kate.

Leave your toys behind you;
it's time to climb the stairs,
and tumble into dreamland
of frolics, fetes and fairs.

Come away to bed, John;
the candle's growing dim.
I need to brush my hair yet;
your toenails need a trim.

The bells are sounding sleepy;
my eyelids soon will close;
Do hurry won't you please, John,
before I pull your nose!

Kat Mortensen©2012

Created in response to a previous prompt at the Monday's Child blog, run by BKM. I only wish this were still up and running. Perhaps she'd allow me to take it on for her instead?

RED SPOT

2012-01-29T10:55:00.001-05:00

The red spot
is the blot of blood, from the heart-wound—
that plopped down.

An afterthought,
it fought with all the images at play,
but I let it stop,
before it turned to brown.

It must be there.

I can't tell you that the world is here—
the lunar pull
from end to end, of sea and land;
my easel stands—the centre of it all.
(Surrender to the misunderstanding.)

This red spot, from the organ
that is part of me—of all of us—
amidst
the planets and the stars ...

One day, I will be sucked
into the void—ref. black spot,
but tint and light
against the canvas, white,
will live on!

All the time, the cat watches.

Kat Mortensen©2012

This piece was prompted by the Kandinsky image entitled, Red Spot II. It is the latest from The Mag. Please visit the site and enjoy other inspired takes on this prompt.

A brand new "Blast From the Past": Colour My World

2012-01-27T11:35:00.001-05:00

I had this one!
(click for Flickr source)

When I was a little girl, my favourite thing to do—apart from reading books—was to colour. I loved cracking open a new box of Crayola Crayons and getting down to business with a brand new colouring book! I had all sorts of them, as I recall: Disney colouring books from, "The Jungle Book", "Bambi", "The Aristocats", and when I was a little older, I had two very special colouring books about birds and wild animals.

I liked nothing better than to sit at the kitchen table with my crayon box and my books laid out. I could spend hours and hours with my head down, working away on my colouring projects. I remember at one point using pastels and even Q-tips dipped in small bottles of paint to fill in those spaces. I did my share of paint-by-numbers too, and I enjoyed using irregular colour combinations.

When I was a teenager, my parents bought me a few of those rolled black and white posters with hundreds of empty spaces just waiting to be filled in with a variety of coloured markers. They were called, "Doodle Art" and they were great fun - a real vehicle for an artistic sensibility.

My colouring books were my prized possessions when I was a small child. I was reluctant to share them because I worried that most kids wouldn't stay inside the lines and would mess up the perfection of my books. I used to meticulously trace all the lines with various colours before I filled in the spaces.

On one occasion, my mother invited a friend of hers named Leah Finklestein over to our apartment for tea. Even though I was only about five years old, I do remember rolling that name around on my tongue for a very long time! Leah, brought her young son (whose name I have blotted out) with her on the visit, and he very quickly appropriated one of my colouring books and made a frenzied attempt with a purple crayon to create a masterpiece.

Perhaps now I might be able to see the "genius" behind this kid's work, but at the time, I was furious! I don't recall what I did, but I'm pretty sure I had a face on like a slapped backside! I'm also certain that I made sure my colouring books were nowhere to be seen ever again when we had company.

One quirk that I developed, was to always trace winter snow-scenes with the turquoise crayon. I thought somehow that it best represented the edge of the snow. I must have been trying to distinguish where the sky met the landscape now that I think about it. To this day, I still see snow in that respect. Which is why, I have created a short film using shots I took from my front doorstep this morning, and I have tinged them with blue.

(I wish I had a colouring book right now!)

Here's the film:

Windmills of my mind ... a short short film.

2012-01-26T11:40:00.000-05:00

I've been fooling around with some photos I took on the drive home from Orillia (about two hours north of here) at Christmastime. I love the look of those highly-controversial windmills. We see them more and more— they crop up in farmers' fields and I think, all controversy aside, that they are magnificent! Maybe there's a little Don Quixote in me, who knows?

In any case, I like to photograph these behemoths and I took a few of them, put them through a few filters and did some colour-bending and it all seemed quite eerie and otherworldly to me, so I called it Marsville.

What do you think? I'm no Kubrick, that's for sure!

*There was a problem with the film being listed as "Private". I hope that has been now resolved.

THE ROAD

2012-01-26T11:17:00.000-05:00

Photo by Kat

There was a road,

and not taking it
was not an option;

it was there for the taking

at the time.

Neither one of us

wanted to be on it;

we bickered, daily,

not knowing at the time,

that it was the road all along

and not us.

Some days,

I wished I were Batman, cruising in the Batmobile,

so I could push that ejector-seat button.

Out you’d go, and I’dspin

around and shoot off—

down a different road
to my big adventure.

No such luck!

We were stuck

on that road

going to the place

we didn’t want to be,

but had to be—

watching the stranger

in the bed

(with the smiling eyes)

come to the end

of the road.

Kat Mortensen©2012

This is the reworking of an earlier poem for the Thursday Think Tank prompt at Poets United. Please visit the site for arguably fresher material.

My first backyard visitor

2012-01-25T15:52:00.001-05:00

All photos copyright Kat Mortensen

Who can it be?

Haiku in Teikei for "Toads"

2012-01-24T08:42:00.000-05:00

long after freedom,

from my bonds of enslavement—

I remember them

close the once bright eyes;

her soul has escaped blue lips—

we have come too late

come out to the light;

turn inward to your darkness—

only you can choose

The pieces above are for the teikei prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Please click the link to read more trials with this form.

Please note: the bottom photo is by Isadora Gruye

Monday's Child #52

2012-01-23T17:03:00.004-05:00

Illustration by Kay Akers

The World Behind The Pink Door

Come inside the fuschia door;
You'll find toys and games galore!
Stuff your face with cotton candy;
Willy Wonka's place was dandy, but

Here ...

Kids on bikes are welcome daily;
Cheeks are pink—we're bounding gaily,
On a giant trampoline,
Slicked with icky vaseline!

Bring your babies and your puppies;
We've got loads of toads and guppies,
Slithering and sliming stuff,
They love to join in "Blind Man's Buff"!

There's a new balloon for each
Child who eats a pickled peach!
Wear your wet-suit with some flippers;
The chocolate pool is great for dippers.

Don't pass the PINK door, you'll be sorry!
We're as fun as Jackanory!

Kat Mortensen©2012

This is a poem in response to BKM's, Monday's Child site. It's my first work for this prompt blog, but it won't be the last!

Da Vinci is my hero! Dominic, not Leonardo.

2012-01-23T10:49:00.000-05:00

I am mesmerized by this show. I tape it every morning and watch it either while I'm having breakfast, or later in the day when I'm eating lunch. (Crazy, I know, considering the subject matter is corpses, and junkies, and crime, but I suppose I have a strong stomach.)

Lead actor, Nicholas Campbell who plays Dominic Da Vinci, Coroner, is a Canadian giant in the acting world. (I don't like to use that word, "legend" as it seems to be overdone and implies that the person is either deceased or on their way out.) Campbell is far from either.

Campbell's performance succeeds because he is an everyman. He has his own appetites and addictions that position him on the same edge as those lives he is called to investigate.

Dominic is often difficult to deal with. He is sometimes forgetful (he locks himself out of his car constantly) or thoughtless, but never is he insensitive to those he comes across in his work. He is as compassionate and considerate to the victims of crime as he is to the unfortunate whose lives have become entangled in it.

This is a brilliant show and the entire cast - Donnelly Rhodes, Kim Hawthorne, Sarah-Jane Redmond, Venus Terzo, Ian Tracey, Colin Cunningham, Emily Perkins, Alex Diakun etc., are excellent, but it is Nicholas Campbell who pulls it all together. He weaves through the story, interacting with cops, politicians and everyone on the street. His performance as Da Vinci makes watching a depiction of a beautiful city wracked with corruption, contraband and Canadian politics, an enjoyable experience.

Here's Nicholas in another one of his classic roles, as Francis Pottie, the father of Moonie, a frustrated, creative teenage girl, so desperate to get out of small-town Nova Scotia, that she fakes a pregnancy. (One of my all-time favourite films.)

I cannot recommend Da Vinci's Inquest highly enough. Dark and atmospheric, unforgiving and yet tinged with humour, it is an unforgettable drama.

STILL

2012-01-22T16:28:00.001-05:00

Install me in your memory;
I am art.
Love me; hate me—
a bon-bon, wrapped
and ready for consumption.
Fast with my own filament—
not meant to unravel,
I cannot travel far.
This space will never be
what it was before;
long after
I am hauled away,
and placed in a dusty closet,
you will close your eyes,
and see me still.

Kat Mortensen©2012

This poem is in response to a Magpie Tale. Please visit the site for more works of art.

Into Russian Territory

2012-01-21T11:52:00.000-05:00

Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This was my first read of a Russian novel. What a wonderful book!

Because there are so many scenes where there occurs a dialogue between two characters only, it often reads like a play - George Bernard Shaw, perhaps.

On the other hand, the depiction of the peasant-class versus the aristocracy, is more like Dickens, but the descriptions of the natural world are akin to Keats!

I was amazed at the French and English influence that was present at the time of the novel (mid-1800s) and even more amazed that a man aged, 50 was considered old, and past it.

I would read another Turgenev in a minute; in fact, I would reread "Fathers and Sons", which is saying much.

One thing that I found a little disconcerting was Rosemary Edmonds' translation of the peasants. They sounded like they had come off the set of "My Fair Lady" rather than having what I imagine the Russian colloquialisms or dialects would be.

This translation was done in the 1960s, and I can't help, but wonder if a more recent one would handle the language differently.

If you have not ever read a Russian work of literature, fear not this little book, for it is simple to read and reaps great rewards to the one who opens its pages.

View all my reviews

Permanent Waves

2012-01-20T11:02:00.001-05:00

Photo borrowed from Poets United (origin undetermined)

Molded madonna
stands, bare and bronzed;
she leans back
from the invisible breeze
that lifts her hem.
Her babies raise their blue-green
hands to wave farewell
to all of them—
at sea.

Kat Mortensen©2012

This is a Thursday "Think Tank" post (a little late). Please visited Poets United to see the rest.

Blasts From the Past: H.R. Pufnstuf

2012-01-18T08:46:00.004-05:00

Image borrowed from vulcanjedi. Click for link.

I promised to get back to the diversity of this blog, and not post exclusively poetry, so here's a real turnabout.

In an effort to get my brain into my old "Blasts" mode, I'm going to be posting periodic posts from the original "Blasts From the Past" blog. I'm hoping to write some new ones that I will post in the future.This is just a short one to get things rolling. Enjoy!

Seeing this after so many years have transpired, I have come to two conclusions: Sid and Marty Krofft must have been dropping acid when they dreamed this up, and this song will forever be embedded in my brain!
Who can possibly forget Witchie Poo and her sidekick, Orson, the vulture? Or how about Freddie, the flute? Or the Rescue-racers? Of course, let's not omit the hydrocephalic dragon, Pufnstuf, himself.
What a concept! What a wild, "Strawberry Fields" fantasy-land.
Little girls were gaga over the child-star, British boy, Jack Wild. You may remember him as the Artful Dodger in the 1969 musical, Oliver!
But the real scene-stealer, was Billie Hayes who played Witchie Poo - a blend of Wicked Witch of the West and Lucille Ball with a little Richard Simmons thrown in.
This is a show that has been indelibly imprinted in my mind. Whether or not Timothy Leary's followers were behind it, it was still a fun show for kids and adults alike!

Kathleen Mortensen©2009

Unfortunately, the youtube video is no longer available for embedding, but you can still watch it here:H.R. Pufnstuf

Rainchild

2012-01-17T13:59:00.000-05:00

Photo borrowed from Poets United blog

The rainchild was always
first to run outside
when the drops would fall.
Her tongue thirsted for
the purest tear from heaven
on her tongue.

Not once did the rainchild fret
when the skies would open wide
and everything got wet.
Her pink galoshes
glistened next to tarmac-rainbows.

The rainchild preferred
the Mother-May-I game
on a dampened drive where
slick worms writhed.
She carried them to safety
when the sun returned.

The rainchild laughed
when the rain poured down;
she smiled where others cried.
A bubble-umbrella
was her window to
the washed-up world.

The rainchild is now
a woman of the rain.
She bows her head
in expectation
of a benediction.

Kat Mortensen©2012

n.b. This poem is in response to an earlier "Thursday Think Tank" post on the Poets United blog. I happened to see this photograph today and my inner child came out.

Heads Above Water

2012-01-16T10:12:00.001-05:00

Our feet are lead;
they dredge the sand
at the bottom of the sea,
as we make our way, laboriously
to shore.

The cold-blooded
undulate around us—
an underwater tarantella.

The chant of the blue whale
is cheerless, as if she knows
the end draws near. We hear,
but the tide stops our ears.

The ice is melting;
our hypothermia
is a thing of the past.

How long can we last
before we are submerged?

Kat Mortensen©2012

This post is in response to the 100th prompt at Magpie Tales. Please visit the site for more excellent stories and poems.

Sculpture by Jason de Caires Taylor

FORK

2012-01-12T14:50:00.000-05:00

Photo altered by Kat

I've been down this road before—
a score of times, in fact.
Which way shall I go?
What is down this path?
Time to make up your mind,
or find yourself a lost little babe in the woods.

I scratch the back of one ankle,
with the top of my other foot.
A mosquito attacks my blank head.
I swat it flat, before it can draw blood.
For the instant, I have important
work to do, or do I distract myself?

Rain begins to fall and my view
is all the more obscure.
I must focus: this time, I need to
choose the right road—
not the road of more allure.

I am paralyzed.

What I need is a monstrous machine
to rip a path straight through
the middle.

I've always been
what you might call,
a "fence-sitter".

I turn, and do a flit.

Kat Mortensen©2012

This post is in response to the current prompt at Poets United, for The Thursday Think Tank.

Ice Men

2012-01-10T13:34:00.000-05:00

A soul-compass, something inside—
(sane, or insane?)
drove them down
to the bottom of the world.
They would glide in their hard-hulled boats—Astrolabe,
Discovery, Endurance—
until the ice locked them in.
Damned, on guano-beaches;
the sun (that infernal sun!) bleached their skin—
their lashes. The ashes of dead fires
told sad tales of meagre feasts.
Black and white sea-beasts broke the ice,
eager for their next meal.
Was it all real?

They waited; sheltered,
from the blowing wind,
and snow,
and sun,
under the belly of a life-boat—
surrounded by bloated seals, blood and after-birth,
squawking skua-survivors—
cold Hell.

Only the ghosts can tell us why they had to go;
how that drag, on the compass-needle could draw
them south to their destinies
or doom.

I wonder, do modern ice men
hear their voices in the gloom,
when they lie down
at night?

Kat Mortensen©2012

Posted in response to The Poetry Pantry call for poems on Poets United.

Under Construction

2012-01-09T15:25:00.002-05:00

"Dynamic Views" is? are? not working out for me. You know me, I just jump right in with no thought of the consequence and look at me now! So much of what made up my blog has been removed, including all my visible links to your blogs. This blog may be under construction for a spell while I try to work it out. This is why you may have chanced upon various backgrounds and layouts. Please bear with me.

Thank you all!

Kat

Time on My Hands III

2012-01-06T10:30:00.001-05:00

In the mornings now,
my joints are sore;
I am fumble-fingered—
drop the toothbrush,
and hot pans from the oven.

In corners, the skin sags;
my clenched fist
is a toothless granny.

As if by magic, cracks form
at the tips of my clipped nails.
I chew them like a nervous child.

I find I need night-cream more
and more,

but your hand still feels right
in mine.

Kat Mortensen©2012

Into the Light

2012-01-05T13:08:00.000-05:00

Original Photo by Ella Wilson (shadow-enhanced by Kat)

They told me, somewhere
inside
there was this light—
burning to get out.
It was there right in front of me,
if I could only see it.
They said: it's so bright, it's blinding!
Don't look without your
polarized lenses.
I stared straight into the spiralling glow;
all I could see was blackness.

Now there are so many spots
behind my eyes, it makes me cry.
I tried to see what they were all
raving about.

I don't have the gift.

I'm not afraid
of the dark.

Kat Mortensen©2012

Poem created in response to prompt at POETS UNITED.

Bloody Nose Frozen-Pea Soup

2012-01-04T08:38:00.001-05:00

Photo by Kat Mortensen 2012

On January 2nd, Kevin had a bloody nose. It's been cold and dry here, and he is prone to them every winter. He typically uses an ice-pack to stop the bleeding, but this wasn't working too well, so it was time for the bag of frozen peas. When things started to improve and he began packing his nose with tissue to create that "I am the Walrus" effect, I put the bag of peas in some cold water in the bathroom sink, just in case.
Well, a few hours later, I went upstairs to the bathroom to discover that neither of us had remembered to bring the peas back down to the kitchen and put them in the freezer. Shoot!

Of course, being the resourceful Kat that I am, I immediately knew what I had to do to salvage the peas. I would make a soup!

Here is the recipe:

3 strips of bacon finely minced (I used peppercorn turkey bacon), but use streaky pork if you prefer
1/2 red onion, diced finely
olive oil
Approximately, 4 cups frozen peas, THAWED
sea-salt, to taste
ground white pepper, to taste
about a 1/2 tsp. of red pepper flakes
1 Tbsp. mint sauce
I Tbsp. cilantro (I don't have fresh on hand, so I used the one that comes in a tube).
2 cups cold water
1/2 cup cream (I used 5%)
leftover cooked rice (I used the Basmati from our new year's eve take-away)

Saute the bacon and red onion in the bottom of a medium-sized pot, until the bacon starts to crisp and the onion softens.
Pour in the peas. Stir to blend the flavours. Add the spices and a bit more oil and cook, stirring well to sweat the spices.
Add the water and stir to blend. Remove from heat and use a hand-blender (if you want it thick and chunky), or a standing blender if you want to thin it out.
Once you have the consistency you prefer, add the mint sauce and the cilantro. Simmer for at least an hour.

Before serving, add the cream - you may need to add more (or even use milk) to make it a bit thinner again. Dump in the rice and stir, heat through and serve in ceramic bowls.

We had ours with buttered toast, which was lovely.

At least we got something out of the trauma of a nose-bleed!

Healthy Breakfast

2012-01-03T10:36:00.000-05:00

Photo by Kat Mortensen 2012

New Year's Rez Oatmeal (Porridge)

2 1/4 cups water
1 cup oats (not the instant kind)
salt, to taste
1/4 cup dried cranberries
1/4 cup raisins
1 tsp grated orange rind
2 Tbsp. fresh squeezed orange juice
1 tsp. each, cinnamon and nutmeg*
leftover Christmas fruitcake
drizzle of maple syrup
Milk (your choice - cows', soy, almond, whatever!)

Bring the water to a boil and add the oats, stirring constantly. Turn the heat way down to a simmer and let the oats cook, stirring periodically. When the oats start to thicken, add the dried fruit and grate the orange rind into the oatmeal. Squeeze the fresh juice in.
Crumble one half piece of fruitcake into the oatmeal and stir it in.

Drop a good couple of spoonfuls of the oatmeal into a heavy bowl and drizzle with maple syrup. Pour milk over until it pools around the oatmeal.

Enjoy! Now tell me if that isn't the tastiest oatmeal you've ever eaten!

*n.b. Oops! I forgot to add a couple of ingredients. You'll see them highlighted in red now.

List of Good Intentions

2012-01-02T14:07:00.000-05:00

2012

Read 12 Classic novels, beginning with Anna Karenina by Tolstoy
Use the stationary bike for more than drying laundry
Play the Heintzman piano that's in the great room
Join the choir, or become a lector (reader)
Create a tangible work of art.
Do some live poetry readings
Make at least one new live friend
Entertain more
Be happy with the way things are (can apply to more than one life-situation)
Walk the nearby trail once a week.

What are YOUR good intentions?

NEW YEAR

2012-01-01T13:24:00.000-05:00

Originally posted on Facebook for the 2011 New Year's Eve Poetrygeist, hosted by the inimitable, Peadar O'Donoghue of the Poetry Bus weekly forum, and the great Poetry Bus Magazine (# 3 coming soon!)
(Peadar has his own poetry collection "Jewel" coming out in the spring of 2012 with Salmon Books.)

The Poetry Geist was a great success and not only did I get to read some very fine new poetry, I also made some wonderful new friends! (Win-win, say I.)

Here are a couple of my contributions to the 'geist.

NEW

When something is new
you lose yourself in it
there's a feeling of nonexistence—
when something is new.

Time stands still, or it feels like it anyway.
Either that, or it flashes past, like
the last minutes of your life,
or so I'm told.

New is excitement and freshness;
new is clean and untouched.
It is born.

New is when the world is spinning, and
you neither know, nor care
that it is so.

New love, new hope, new life.

New year.

New Year's Now

There was a time
I put on a too-tight velvet dress,
black heels and drops that
caressed my neck, where cheap perfume
mingled with the sweat, while I danced
to Palmer on New Year's Eve.

Of course, it seems like just last year
when I was swigging watery beer— eyeing up the boys
against the bar.

Now it seems so far.

Tonight,
I'll wear my granny-gown
no way, you'll see me on the town.
I'll pour a glass, and clink with you;
We'll hit the sack and see the new year
through.

Kat Mortensen©2011

The Road Ahead - 2012

2011-12-30T14:44:00.001-05:00

My good friend, The Menopause Goddess (a.k.a. Lynette Sheppard) had this wonderful list of questions on her blog that requires some serious contemplation. She suggests that, rather than make New Year's Resolutions, we set forth only with INTENTIONS for the coming year.
The following list is one of both, closure and anticipation. I thought it would be a snap to answer, but soon discovered it was anything but. How about giving it a whirl yourself?

COMPLETING AND REMEMBERING 2011

What was your biggest triumph in 2011? Moving two homes into our new one.

What was the smartest decision you made in 2011? Moving to a small town.

What one word best sums up and describes your 2011 experience? Change

What was the greatest lesson you learned in 2011? Be patient.

What was the most loving service you performed in 2011? Donating proceeds from my book to charity.

What is your biggest piece of unfinished business in 2011? Nothing that I can think of.

What are you most happy about completing in 2011? Reading 40 books in 6 months.

Who were the three people that had the greatest impact on your life in 2011? My husband, my mother, my friend, Jo Ann who is ill with cancer.

What was the biggest risk you took in 2011? Moving my mom's cat into our house and family.

What was the biggest surprise in 2011? Connecting with so many of my dad's descendants from Northern Ireland.

What important relationship improved the most in 2011? Me with my mom.

What compliment would you like to have received in 2011? I can't really say. I don't look for compliments.

What compliment would you liked to have given in 2011? If I feel a compliment should be given, then I give it. I don't think I've ever hesitated to do this.

What else do you need to do or say to be complete with 2011? Nothing. I'm ready for the new year.

CREATING 2012

What would you like to be your greatest triumph in 2012? Creating something tangible that receives recognition. Helping to boost my community by publicizing all it has to offer, on my blog, "My Little Town, Elora".

What advice would you like to give yourself in 2012? Grow a thicker skin.

What is the major effort you are planning to improve your financial results in 2012? Just keep doing what I'm doing.

What would you be most happy about completing in 2012? A new book of poems, a photography exhibit.
(see my photo-blog for this creative journey: http://mylittletownont.blogspot.com)

What major indulgence are you willing to experience in 2012? I don't do major indulgences.

What would you like to change about yourself in 2012? Tone up (physically and emotionally).

What are you looking forward to learning in 2012? Whatever comes my way.

What do you think will be your greatest risk in 2012? Putting myself out there in the community.

What about your work are you most committed to changing and improving in 2012? Be true to myself, stick to what I love.

What is one as yet undeveloped talent you are willing to explore in 2012? Painting and drawing.

What brings you the most joy and how are you going to do or have more of that in 2012? Preparing and cooking food. Keep working with new ingredients and recipes.

Who or what, other than yourself, are you most committed to loving and serving in 2012? My husband, my God, my family.

What one word would you like to have as your theme in 2012? Experiment

SNOW DAY

2011-12-30T12:32:00.001-05:00

It's grey and foggy here today;
There's a haze on the hill across the way.
I hear shrieks of delighted kids at play,
As they fly down the hill on their plastic sleigh!

Remember the hill on a snowy day,
Pushing and pulling your favourite sleigh?
Then you'd all pile in—everyone could play!
And you’d run right down what was in your way.

I'm outside too, but not on a sleigh.
The ice-chunks stick as I make my way.
Pushing plastic spade, I am not at play;
I'd like to be on that hill today.

A small dog barks as it makes its way,
Through the haze on the hill where the children play.
Oh what fun it sounds to my ear today
As he keeps in time with the plastic sleigh.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Magpie 97

2011-12-28T15:23:00.001-05:00

GENTLEMEN PREFER

Changed my hair to gold,
Batted these damn lashes,
Stuck my chest out for you all.
(Don't forget to breathe when you speak,
or squeak like a little idiot.)

They don't want you if you're not a puppet in the master's
hands—
if you don't ooze sex appeal.
You can't just be real.

Been kicked around as a kid;
It's all the same when you grow up—
Marry in haste ...
Get wasted ...
It ain't gonna get any better.

Don't want to be that girl anymore.
Yeah, the parties were swell; I smiled 'til
I was sore.

Think it's time to go to sleep
Mr. Man.

I was always a funny girl,
wasn't I?

Kat Mortensen©2011

Visit Magpie Tales to read more takes on this photo:

Photo by Bert Stern

PYPIASM: Poems that didn’t make it

2011-12-24T19:21:00.001-05:00

Put your poem in a shop-month, is nearly done;
There's still rhyme-time for elves, left to have some fun.
Here's a card with a note, penned to make you smile,
As you stand in the line— it could take a while,
Since you're shopping so late, yes, it's Christmas Eve;
It will all work out great, if you just BELIEVE!

What you buy will fade from mind,
Sooner than you think.
Doesn't matter what you find,
The thrill goes in a blink.
My advice is this, to truly make the season bright:
Tell someone you love them, then hold them really tight!

ART

2011-12-22T09:58:00.001-05:00

The desire to
make a statement
is in all of us—
to create something
lasting and plaster it
on this planet.
Translating the impulse
into a success story
is where we often fall
short;
there is always
someone waiting
to tell us how
the statement
has been better made—
how we pale
in comparison,
yet we must make
the effort,
before it's too late.

ENCORE: Kat's ALL-Natural 12 Days of Christmas

2011-12-13T14:06:00.001-05:00

On the first day of Christmas,

my true love gave to me
a crow high in a pine tree.

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Two mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Five bold rats,
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Six bees a-buzzing,
Five bold rats,
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Seven squirrels a-squabbling,
Six bees a-buzzing,
Five bold rats,
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Eight jays a-japing,
Seven squirrels a-squabbling,
Six bees a-buzzing,
Five bold rats,
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Nine finches flitting,
Eight jays a-japing,
Seven squirrels a-squabbling,
Six bees a-buzzing,
Five bold rats,
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Ten hares a-hopping,
Nine finches flitting
Eight jays a-japing,
Seven squirrels a-squabbling,
Six bees a-buzzing,
Five bold rats,
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Eleven chippies, chipping,
Ten hares a-hopping,
Nine finches flitting
Eight jays a-japing,
Seven squirrels a-squabbling,
Six bees a-buzzing,
Five bold rats,
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Twelve hummers humming,
Eleven chippies, chipping
Ten hares a-hopping,
Nine finches flitting
Eight jays a-japing,
Seven squirrels a-squabbling,
Six bees a-buzzing,
Five bold rats,
Four running mice,
Three striped skunks,
Two mourning doves,
And a crow high in a pine tree.

NEVERLANDS

2011-12-10T11:08:00.001-05:00

When I encounter, on a page,
worlds that I will never see,
I am pierced by a nameless longing—
a despondency at that circumstance
which leaves me one of the Earth's bereft.

We've missed out on the astounding things:
a midnight sun, high above a plain of ice—
prayer-flags waving over Shangri-La.

I must find that same ecstasy
in the small miracles of my own wonderland:
snowflakes falling from a moonlit sky;
wildflowers blowing in the wind.

I must know my place.

FEARLESS

2011-12-06T11:40:00.001-05:00

Inevitability is our companion; we co-exist
with aged parents; ancient pets; we resist
the fear that looms.

There comes an end to anticipation;
the time is here.
We mourn, as we draw closer
to our own mortality.

We layer our remembrances
of all we have lost—
a father, a friend—an animal we loved;
we continue as incarnations of those
who have lived before us.

Our store of memories is an engine
that moves us forward to the points of our own destinies.
Without it, we would cease to be.
Our dead, mean, we are alive. You see?

Kat Mortensen©2011

Listen to a voice-recording of this poem:

BLACK MAGIC

2011-12-01T10:44:00.001-05:00

I am drawn to your intoxicating aroma,
as if you were my lover, come to me each morning
with a hot, dark kiss.

You arrest me—hold me captive;
in seconds, I am yours.

You fill my pillowed head with notions as I swallow each gulp of you;
your potion unstops my tongue.
Again, you have unleashed the tumble of madness,
I mistake for genius. I should shun you.

Too late! I have shared this flow of
idiocy with the world.

You are culpable.

Even so, I am your willing sidekick;
I shall return to this ritual—drink from your duping cup again.

For today, the spell is broken—
I am free of you once more.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Listen to a voice-recording of this poem here:

LA LA LAND

2011-11-29T08:43:00.001-05:00

In La La Land the temperature is just right,
your ideal weather prevails
in La La Land, you can see everything without your glasses
and your hearing is amazing
in La La Land, everybody is dressed comfortably; nobody ever wears
shoes, only socks sometimes
in La La Land everyone breathes through the mouth,
their hair is very messy, yet nobody cares
in La La Land, pain does not exist, nor worry;
there are no hungry to feed, no wars to fight; no one dies.

There's only one catch, in La La Land:
a big clock in the centre of town is always there
to remind you, you cannot stay.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Listen to a voice-recording of this poem here:

THE FOLD*

2011-11-28T15:28:00.001-05:00

On a dark hillside, scanning the skies;

nuzzling the land, ears flinching at flies,

your mama is calling you, hear how she cries:

Come baack, come baack to the fold.

Up on a bridge, hopefulness hies;

grasping the rail, all confidence dies,

your lover is calling you home, where she lies:

Come back, come back to the fold.

Lost little lamb, oft are you used,

granting us glimpse of the blessed and bemused;

the shepherd is carting you in from the cold—

'til you're back, you're baack in the fold.

*an earlier version was previously posted in December of 2008

Hello Stranger!

2011-11-25T14:29:00.001-05:00

Yeah. You're not seeing things. I am back on Blogger.

Problems with Wordpress "Themes" that were messing up my poems and placing them in all sorts of unwanted spots have got me upping sticks and moving on!

If you're thinking of doing the same, and don't know where to start, leave a comment and I'll walk you through. I've got it down pat now!

If you're on Blogger or Networked Blogs, please consider jumping on this bandwagon.

Thanks all!

Kat

GEOMETRY

2011-11-25T08:26:00.001-05:00

The room is square.
The ceiling is square.
The roof is a triangle
That intersects with
Circles of sun and moon:
The sky is an equation.

Eureka!
You are obtuse; I am always right.

Kat Mortensen©2011

WORM (just for fun)

2011-11-24T12:35:00.001-05:00

I have a little worm;
Who sings a little song.
He sings it in the morning,
Right through the day, live-long.

He sings it over breakfast,
And when I'm having lunch.
At supper, it is endless;
He loves his song, a bunch!

He sings it in the shower,
Or when I'm on the can.
Tried everything to shut him up;
I'm not his biggest fan.

I really wouldn't mind it,
If everyone could hear.
If only he were under ground,
And not stuck in my ear!

Kat Mortensen©2011

PHANTOMS

2011-11-23T09:13:00.001-05:00

Where do they go—
those scattered thoughts
left sitting in a drawer;
are they drowsy,
or do they die a sad death,
as their paper hosts decompose?

I wonder if they are phantoms,
assembling on another poet’s page—
read aloud on stage,
to the thunder of
applause.

Kat Mortensen©2011

GROUNDWORK (For my father)

2011-11-15T10:58:00.001-05:00

The bees are gone,
I am free to weed your grave.

Clods of turf snatch up easily
from between white rocks, yet dandelions
will not give.

Strands tangle in the rusting sedums
on her empty side. They snap, when I pull.

I wonder if you're saddened that we've found
we have no common ground.
(Our Irish humour is my downfall. )

A shock of shamrocks beneath the headstone
on your side of the bed, seems
like clemency.

Kat Mortensen©2011

HOMELESS v. II (a work in progress)

2011-11-14T11:11:00.001-05:00

In some lands, you can live in old homes
still standing.
Keep company with spirits that seep from cracks
in walls and fall into the dust.
Feel their ectoplasm cool the tiles
under your feet.

In some lands, they tear down homes
still standing,

Clear the way for enterprise
to high-rise, or leave behind cold spaces
nobody can call home.

Kat Mortensen©2011

DETRITUS

2011-11-07T09:34:00.001-05:00

It's not pretty—
what we leave behind;
though we were beauties,
our rinds flake off
into a million tiny pieces;
our hair dams the drain.
We move from place to place,
day to day, year to year—
we unwind, and traces of ourselves
remain.
A coppery stain—
wax and mucous—all remain,
though faces crease and die.
We release those pieces—
they compose the galaxies,
uniting finally
to manifest as ghosts.

Kat Mortensen©2011

WAFFLES

2011-11-05T08:30:00.001-04:00

CHANGE

2011-11-02T07:58:00.001-04:00

We are minted, single,
to be dropped in the pockets of life, where
we mingle—ministers with monarchs;
beavers with bears—the great and the small,
all come together in the same seam,
for a time.
We rub along—we gleam
until we tarnish.
We come face to face,
then turn our backs as we
rattle on.
We cannot stay;
a great hand waylays us
from our commerce.
One day, we hit the ground
and we are alone once more,
until we're found.

Kat Mortensen©2011

HALIA

2011-10-27T08:19:00.001-04:00

She comes to life in water,
The Scotian-mermaid's daughter,
Emerged once from the salted sea.

She shrivels in the city,
On shore, the air is gritty,
She drowns herself in cups of tea,

But when the rain is streaming,
She stands beneath it, beaming,
The ocean tides, inside, she hears.

She comes to life in water,
A life on land has caught her,
At night she runs her bath with tears.

Kat Mortensen©2011

BORDERLINE

2011-10-25T12:05:00.001-04:00

Some days it seems there is nothing—
no going back and no steps ahead;
I am paralyzed in my own
indifference.

How did I reach this place,
where consequence is of no mind?
How do I find my way from here?
This borderline that defines me now,
this two-step in either direction;
cross this way and I'm back to a familiar
quiet space,
cross that and it's an unknown place.

Either way, I spend my days alone
inside my head;
I have made my bed and I lie in it
by choice.

This borderline is all mine.

Kat Mortensen©2011

HOUSEBOAT

2011-10-20T09:03:00.001-04:00

We are at sea.
A wave washes against the stern
and races across our decks.
The sails flap wildly in the wind;
our port-holes are made blind.

We heard the storm-warning—
the "Red Alert",
but as we lie, inert in our beds,
we are fearful of being carried off
to a distant shore by this
October torrent.
We cling to our dinghy,
and try to sleep.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Poetry 24: My poem "Zoo Game"

2011-10-19T14:29:00.001-04:00

Please visit Poetry 24 - a fantastic, well-reputed and established site where The News is The Muse!

This is my take on the tragic events in Zanesville, OH where exotic wild animals have been set free from a private zoo and the police are forced to kill the majority of them to protect local citizens.

ZOO GAME

Thanks for visiting!

Kat

LOKI

2011-10-18T10:41:00.001-04:00

When I was young
I used to imagine there was
a tiny being deep inside of me—like an oyster,
or baby mouse, walled in by undulating waves—
layers of deep matter.
I believed this tiny thing was buried,
(beside my heart)
but sometimes made its way out
to start trouble.

It was the reason behind my bad decisions—
words that spouted from my mouth,
I wanted instantly to take back,
choices I made that lacked any common sense,
ideas that filled up my head,
when, for a split second, I wished I could be dead—
jump off an overpass, cuss from the pew at mass
or walk out the front door and just keep going

As I got older, it seemed to disappear,
no longer rearing up to kick me into the stupid zone
I was at last, on my own and doing
alright, but occasionally, at night, the light in my brain
switches on and I bolt, upright to think: Oh no! I did not say that!
What could cause me to do such a thing?

Then, I know my trickster has struck once more—
that boisterous oyster-core
is awake and toying—
Leaving me to atone.

Kat Mortensen©2011

NO EXIT

2011-10-16T10:21:00.001-04:00

(Blame this on W-5)

Edna says the answer is an exit-bag,
When looking for relief from all your pain.
It only takes a moment, tho' you're bound to gag.

Better do it soon, you know you mustn't flag,
And this way, you won't even leave a stain.
Edna says the answer is an exit-bag.

No need to overdose and make those hours lag,
Or give the wrong impression that you're vain.
It only takes a moment, tho' you're bound to gag.

A helium tank is all you need, to snag a drag;
It takes you out, when it gets in your brain.
Edna says the answer is an exit-bag.

The righteous and religious are the ones who'll slag—
Decry you and bestow the mark of Cain.
(It only takes a moment tho' you're bound to gag.)

Eyes will pop like grouper and the chins will wag,
You won't be here, so let them all complain!
Edna says the answer is an exit-bag,
It only takes a moment tho' you're bound to gag.

Kat Mortensen©2011

PART OF SOMETHING

2011-10-14T08:21:00.001-04:00

One day, you will be sitting on a bench, in the place
where you live and it will hit you:
somehow, the molecules that come together
to make you what you are,
merge with the atmosphere swirling
about yourself, and the molecules of those
who swim around you.

You will smile (self-satisfied) at this epiphany—
this knowledge, that you are where you're meant
to be at this moment in the chronology
of existence (at least for now),
that you are part of something

Kat Mortensen©2011

AUTUMNAL APOLOGIA

2011-10-13T11:36:00.001-04:00

Don't write of every one that falls, from branch at Autumn-time;
Resist those vibrant colours gone to rust and gold, from lime.
No need to mark the pull of breeze that tugs from tender tree;
Better men than we, have said it all, so leave it be.

Don't speak of sugared-maples, in their burning-glory daze;
Of lazy oaks, slow-turning acorns' minions to a blaze,
Of dogwood's purple palmates; birches, high, of honeyed hue;
Abundant odes of homage have been writ to pay their due,

And yet, the flutter, floating free, that carries each one down,
The dance of profuse partners, tumbling, tripping top to crown,
Can turn the head unfailingly, the pen to page, so fleet,
Each instance when a leaf descends to earth, its end to meet.

So we'll forgive the impulse, once again, to talk of this:
Nature's shedding season, bedding down for winter's kiss.

Kat Mortensen©2010

FUNNY

2011-10-08T14:20:00.001-04:00

how pop stars and politicians
used to look so old
now they look like kids
I never liked kalamata olives
then one day, I did
t.v.'s just not as good
as the book I'm halfway through
some words just don't feel right
in my mouth,
like “awesome” (others too)
the mirror used to be an obsession
now I don't give a damn
if I'm a beauty queen
radical fashion was all the rage
now it could be my costume
for Halloween
everybody seemed to live forever
now wakes and funerals
take up space in my calendar
Before you know it,
it's 3:00 p.m.
Before you know it,
it's Thursday again.
Before you know it,
it's New Year again.
funny

Kat Mortensen©2011

TWITTER (a very short poem)

2011-10-06T08:00:00.001-04:00

Even top-notch tweets are fleeting,
They hang there, on the air—
For a moment in the sun,
Then roll over and vanish into obscurity.

Kat Mortensen©2011

THE WRECKAGE (Halifax 1917)

2011-10-04T15:07:00.001-04:00

08:39
In the seconds
before the deafening silence,
we rushed to the parapet
to witness the first fire.

Higher and higher
it rose into the winter sky—
a premature pyre.

There were sparks then;
the gas lit—
we never knew what hit us.

Some vanished, into the icy air
the rest were blown apart—
lifted high and dropped, bedraggled
to the bloodied ground.

Cries of terror and of pain
filled every space—
no escape.
The un-dead only,
remained.

Kat Mortensen©2011

OCTOBER WIND

2011-10-01T10:00:00.001-04:00

STOLEN (Impressions of “The Book of Negroes”)

2011-09-28T15:53:00.001-04:00

STOLEN

They caught us
from behind and stopped
our mouths,
against our will.

We had no chance—
no hope in Hell,
against
the coils and clubs in
strong arms and cruel hands—
the fire-brands.

We were yoked;
they bled and broke
us, and we choked for days,
and nights filled with stars
against
an indigo sky.

We tried hard
not to die.

Kat Mortensen©2011

NIGHT SKY

2011-09-13T11:04:00.001-04:00

Great glowing host,
rising in the night sky—
held high,
by unseen hands.

In communion
with nature,
the day-birds fly
overhead.

Kildeer's shrill cry—
an air, against
the fly-by chorus
of wild-geese,
so high,
in the night sky.

Inside, we lie,
sleepless,
in our beds
below.

Kat Mortensen©2011

TIME ON MY HANDS II

2011-09-10T17:49:00.001-04:00

I notice now,
the backs of my hands—
thinner skin that ripples
like the sands beneath the sea.
Odd dots
that were never there before
appear, randomly.
Veins rise in mountain ridges,
blue and purple;
knuckles
have sleepy Horus eyes
that blink back at me,
calculating
the days.

Kat Mortensen©2011

CATATONIA (a song in my head)

2011-09-09T04:41:00.001-04:00

It's a three cat night;
I'm tossing and I'm turning.
A three cat night;
Under the comforter, I'm burning.
I got one at my head,
One on my hip—
Another at my knee.
It's a three cat night;
There's no room left for me!

It's a three cat night;
Every one is licking.
A three cat night;
The clock is slowly ticking.
There's the hairball choke,
It's an inside joke—
I am seeing Red.*
It's a three cat night;
I'm gonna lose my head!

It's a three cat night;
My mate don't seem to worry.
A three cat night;
My pillow's gettin' furry.
Yeah, the bed's real wide,
Out on the other side—
He's sleeping like a log.
It's a three cat night,
And he's talking 'bout a dog!

Kat Mortensen©2011
*Red is the name of one of our cats.

My Morning Sky

2011-09-03T08:20:00.001-04:00

My morning sky
is a world of things,
of planetary rings,
and planes (not those that fly);
it's strips and strings
and mountains, high—
a gaping eye.

And down below,
the yellow finches glow
against the glen that is
my little piece of pie;
you'd never know
a storm is due to blow,
but for the storm-crow's cry.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Remembering Blanche

2011-09-02T15:02:00.001-04:00

We still listen for
the terradactyl-squawk you would let out
when food was in the offing—mushroom pizza was about.
Still see your funniest impressions—
of all cats you were meshuggah,
from the Buddha to Pink Panther, but our favourite was Beluga.

We can feel your compact body make that THUMP
upon the bed;
the classic once-around and then the curl-up
(not like Red).

We remember "Esther Williams" off the duvet to the floor,
and that sweet white face the first to always
greet us at the door.

We still can feel the thick hair stick the sole just like a spine.
We remember; we still love you, far beyond the last of "nine".

Kat Mortensen©2011

TELE-VISION

2011-09-01T14:01:00.001-04:00

Try this: use the menu or the guide for your satellite dish (or just flip through a t.v. guide) and pick out words as they appear (try to keep to the chronology of the guide) and create a poem.
Or, if you don’t feel like doing it yourself, just have a read of mine:

I have seen the madness
fall from heaven—
the view; the vision—
a soul surfer, lunar jam.
Out there, the talk, bold;
oh! the code,
borrowed.

Wink! This impasse—
deep space, undercover;
the life I'm in, this league of mind—
expeditions, extinctions
after the catch of air.

The flame—crimson, untouchable;
whip it! Find bliss—
Pound! Pound! Spring inside
a place of restless arbors—
nearly dead,
now,
limitless

Kat Mortensen©2011

IDENTITY CRISIS

2011-08-31T20:38:00.001-04:00

My i.d.
is sweeping out to sea;
slapping in the tide pools
of cold salinity;
slapped against the slippery stones
with pink anemone;
not alone, but lonely,
with no one's company.

Sun's rays may come
and dry me out—
wave blow me back to sea,
but will I know just who I am,
or who I'm meant to be?

Kat Mortensen©2011

My Father’s Laugh

2011-08-15T09:42:00.001-04:00

MY FATHER'S LAUGH

My father's laugh was no babble of bells,
it was not the donkey's bray—
no cackling of children,
nor jabbering of jay.

My father's laugh was none of these.

It began each time with a gentle grin,
and a twinkle in his eye,
as he caught on to the humour
that could make him nearly die!

It was intake then, of too much breath—
a gasp and choke at first;
it was wheeze of steam, escaping
from an engine, 'til it burst.

Now, stifled, by the dark, cold earth,
my father's laugh has gone away.
I try to call it up, but
I'm more deaf with every day.

I've been HIJACKED!

2011-08-10T11:09:00.000-04:00

This blog, Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes has had its FEED taken over by some dude in Georgia!

If you link to PIK, you may have some very strange tidbit under the link in your sidebar - nothing to do with poetry, at all!

PIK's url should only be: poetikat-km.blogspot.com

it should NOT have the word "hyggedigter" in it.

HOODED

2011-08-09T10:47:00.001-04:00

London's afire this night,
burning with the ire
of idle men.
The hooded line the streets,
camouflaged beneath their cowls,
recalling southern meets
at the feet of crosses set alight.

IDEA

2011-08-09T08:13:00.003-04:00

it starts as a flutter of the heart—
that flush of excitement
(it could be the caffeine)
it gurgles—
a small stream
rises and rushes
in a torrent of thought
(if you don't follow, it will be lost)
heady now with exhilaration
you race to get it out of your head
and into shape
—a noise distracts you
(the snap of something)
and it is gone

Kat Mortensen©2011

Poetry Process

2011-08-09T08:13:00.001-04:00

IDEA

it starts as a flutter of the heart—
that flush of excitement
(it could be the caffeine)

it gurgles—
a small stream
rises and rushes
in a torrent of thought
(if you don't follow, it will be lost)

heady now with exhilaration
you race to get it out of your head
and into shape

—a noise distracts you
(the snap of something)
and it is gone

GENEALOGY (a poem)

2011-08-03T11:13:00.004-04:00

Fitting fragments
of my long-gone family
from census dates and grainy
photographs.
Files recalling names and years,
and ships.

Few lips turned upwards when the shutters clicked.
Those troubled Ulster men and women
who triumphed when the picked potato failed;
They lived their lives of rag and bone
against the granite’s crag.

Someone said, the same sun shone
on them, as that which shines on us.
They turned their faces to it—
let it burn their cheeks
when God's gift peeked through
the fog and mist.

I close my eyes
and feel their presence with the sun's warm kiss.

Kat Mortensen©2011

RUN-OF-THE-MILL

2011-08-02T13:03:00.003-04:00

Again, it’s time to put it to the page
(She always pulls me up short;
Her invisible hand be-stills my pen.)
The red stop-sign springs up in front of my face—
my raging critic reminds me once again,
that I won’t amount to much
(and half my life is done).
Time is running out,
yet I let it waste away—
the days come to nothing.
My mediocrity has me on the rack;
it twists and turns me ‘til I crack.
I want to make a comeback,
but I was never on top to begin with.

Kat Mortensen©2011

In spite of myself

2011-08-02T13:03:00.001-04:00

RUN-OF-THE-MILL

I want to make a comeback,
but I was never on top to begin with.

My book blog has some new reviews!

2011-07-20T09:36:00.000-04:00

Scan Lit: He may be laughing, but there is no joke!: "The Laughing Policeman by Maj Sjöwall My rating: 4 of 5 stars 'The Laughing Policeman' is a gripping ride from start to finish. Because it ..."

On Fame

2011-07-18T16:01:00.003-04:00

I never wanted to be famous, is that what some of you were thinking?
If chance should land me in the limelight, I fear I'd have to take up drinking,
To keep the pretence of my romance with being in the public eye;
If truth be told, I've just no interest; in fact, I'm sure I'd rather die.

Kat Mortensen©2011