My Father’s Laugh

 

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.

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

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it should NOT have the word “hyggedigter” in it.

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

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Poetry Process

 

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

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

GENEALOGY (a poem)

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 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

RUN-OF-THE-MILL

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 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker