Fire burn and cauldron bubble…some animated treats.

A few cartoon memories from my childhood: 

Everybody’s favourite witch: “Witch Hazel”,  has Bugs Bunny for dinner.



I don’t recall ever hearing my father laugh as hard as he did at the headless horseman scene in this one.


Happy Halloween folks!


Theme Thursday: “Halloween”

havisham Click pic for Flickr source.

Great Expectations

All Hallow’s Eve, she was naive,
and he had charm.
Doe-eyed and tall, he held in thrall—
proffered his arm.
She walked beside him, like a bride
in wedding gown,
And when he smirked her strings all jerked—
his puppet-clown.

For party night, she looked a fright,

at her own hand.
Mom’s marriage-dress, her hair a mess—
talc through each strand.
The faded rose of drooping hose
and ragged frill,
she looked the part—the broken heart
from Dickens quill.

He wore no rig, to match the gig—
mask set in place.
Drawing her near, he nipped her ear
and licked her face.
As in those tales of ingenues
who meet their fate,
he knew that now the time had come
for his check-mate.

They stole away, shut out the fray
and found a room.
The steel-trap door, an icy floor
she, with her groom.
There Havisham, for swift wham-bam,
gave up the ghost.
Her nuptial gown, rode up and down—
her virtue lost.

Kat Mortensen©2009 Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

Bus-riders: A missing page of notes! Insert between these lines…

See previous post: An Acid Trip on the Poetry Bus.

I’m drowning.

I’m …

I am at the bottom.


Ceolacanth rising

those tiny eyes

spy me—

little teeth like a clavichord

Violins! The Violins!

Nails on a blackboard.

The Dead float by

their hollow

sockets seeking

me. Come they say.

Who are you?

Come, they say…

Wake me up.

Kat Mortensen©2009 
Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

An Acid Trip on the Poetry Bus.

Let it be known that I responded to this piece without being aware of the last two words in the title. Thus, I make no apologies for a lack of reference to anything to do with the event implied.

Impressions of Threnody For the Victims (of Hiroshima)

She’s coming for me,

the ghost of myself.

Am I paranoid?

What? What?

What do you want?

Why me?

The birds are shrieking

or is it violins?

or is it violence?

Now! The bees, buzzing

and the gulls, insisting



Oh Africa!

Stomping on those drums

Jungle insects,

birds in a frenzy,

the lions are pouncing

elephants lurking,

they’re so quiet!

What can it mean?

Where have they gone?

Was it my dream?

Was it my dream?

My heart is rising

with the sirens

in the distance.


a dead thing

beside the limp


as little glitterfish


then the whale comes

to swallow me whole.

I am in the belly;

call me Ishmael!

call me Job

call me Pinocchio—

I am a liar!

On Shakespeare’s stage

we begin

the fencing match!

I am pierced!

It is the end!

My blood runs

so cold!

Silence deafens me

and then the waves begin

to sweep in…


Over my head!

I’m drowning!


Wake me up.

Wake me up now!

My head is pounding,

about to burst;

my temples throb.

Seabirds en masse—

a mountain of terns

calling my name.

Rise from the depths!

I’m floating now,

floating to the surface.

Calmed. Calmed.

I am breaking

the waterline.

Kat Mortensen©2009 Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape