Taking a break

Photo by SparkyLeigh on Flickr

Poetikat will return to this spot after the Easter holiday.
Enjoy the rest of the week with your families and friends!



Happy St. Paddy’s Day!

On St. Patrick’s Day

I remember what happened, St. Patrick’s Day,
As soon as the music filled the air;
There were shamrocks and rainbows everywhere;
My father would sit in his worn velvet chair;
The tears would come as the pipes would play;
I remember what happened, St. Patrick’s Day.

I remember what happened, St. Patrick’s Day,
The whiskey would flow and we’d eat so well;
There’d be cabbage cooked despite the smell;
We’d laugh at jokes we loved to tell;
Daddy would sigh as the pipes would play;
I remember what happened, St. Patrick’s Day.

I remember what happened, St. Patrick’s Day,
He’d croon “Danny Boy” and sit and stare,
Off in the distance to some other where,
He could only recall from a boyhood rare;
The eyes would mist up as the pipes would play;
I remember what happened, St. Patrick’s Day.

I remember what happened, St. Patrick’s Day,
He’d regale with tales of the country, fair;
Those times when he always was “on the tear”;
He’d ponder that long ago day he left Eire;
His voice would break as the pipes would play;
I remember what happened, St. Patrick’s Day.

If only I could have ta’en him o’er
The ocean wide to that far shore,
Where the early life that’s now folklore
Created memories he has no more,
For his mind is gone tho’ the pipes still play
And ’tis I who am crying, St. Patrick’s Day.

©2008 – Kathleen Mortensen

Riddle me this!

Photo on Flickr by Gregkendallball

Most of us have dozens–
Give or take.
Generally, they’re real,
Tho’ some are fake.
We try to keep them polished
And pristine,
But often we get stuff caught
In between.
Some trick them out with silver,
Some with gold.
Most can take the heat,
But not the cold.
We use them every day
Time and again.
The saying goes, “They’re rarest
on the hen”.
We all start out with none
While still a tot,
Then gain a few with time
In ev’ry spot,
Then lose them each in turn
And cash them in;
They all come back again,
So it’s win-win.
And when we die, they’ll be here
In days hence,
In case of murder, giving

©2008 – Kathleen Mortensen

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Raising the Dead

It takes but a few moments,
Before the load’s dropped in,
From truck-bed, long, it’s lifted,
By steely arm and pin.

I watch with fascination,
As ‘takers do their work,
Hoisting bodies ever higher,
Lowering lower, jerk by jerk.

Some days there follow many
To mourn beside the mound;
On others there comes no one—
None are left to grieve the ground.

One morn I yet remember,
Of pomp and circumstance,
Horse and carriage out of Dickens,
Coal-black colt, a-plumed did prance.

No matter makes the send-off;
They all get done the same:
The bed, the box, the bushel-
Full of dirt to end life’s game.

©2008 – Kathleen Mortensen

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Friday Flashback Part I – Just Because

A quote from Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited (yes, you would think that was my Bible, wouldn’t you?) is one that made me laugh out loud the first time I heard it on television and sigh knowingly when I came to read the book. It is spoken by the protagonist’s cousin, Jasper, as he tries to give Charles Ryder a piece of his knowledge about how to behave whilst at university. Charles, naturally, ignores this (otherwise we would not have a story), and I in my own way, did the very same thing.
The line which now makes me look back and laugh, groan, and shake my head is this:
“…You’ll find you spend half your second year shaking off the undesirable friends you made in your first.”
There you have it.
The naiveté with which one approaches First Year university, is nearly palpable. For my part, having spent 3 years of high school in a Catholic all-girls’ school, I was ill-equipped for the lotharios and losers who had managed to get themselves a place under the pretense of obtaining a degree.
Of course, like the literary heroines I was about to study, I would fall prey to my share. In First Year, I was a real-life Clarissa to a few Robert Lovelaces. Being the romantic and a poet, I composed this simple little heartfelt piece for one of my First Year “loves”.

Not In Love

Just because you stand so tall
And strength defines your form
Just because your hair is blond
And your blue eyes are so warm
Just because the Rolling Stones
Are all I want to hear
Just because I lose control
Whenever you are near
Just because I melt inside
When you look down at me
Just because your skin’s so smooth
In the hollow of your cheek
Just because I know you want me
Yet, you seem so shy
It isn’t love, is it?
And if it isn’t, why?

© Kathleen Mortensen nee Davison – 1980 (Fall)

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Monday Mayhem – Dungeon-Dweller

Little Boy Lost

Down in the basement;
High up on a shelf;
Sits mysterious picture,
No pixie or elf.
Who is this figure
From so long ago,
In jacket and tie
With flames all aglow?

Smiles not this small fry;
The eyes reveal naught.
His meticulous posture,
The artisan caught.
Who is this youngster
On canvas, in oil,
Sends chills up my spine;
My dreams sure to spoil?

Try not to ponder
The image downstairs,
Tucked away in a backroom
To stop raising hairs.
Each I time I recall
It’s under our roof,
Belief in Beelzebub
Seems to have proof.

Why do we hold on
To our Dorian Gray
That lurks in its chamber;
Why let the ghoul stay?
It’s not just a painting;
We haven’t gone mad.
It’s actually my husband,
When he was a lad!

©2008 – Kathleen Mortensen

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