Zoo Game

Inspired by this article and originally posted on Poetry 24

(To the tune of The Teddy Bears Picnic)

If you go down to the woods today
In Zanesville, there’s a surprise.
If you go down in the woods today,
You’d better go with supplies!

For every bear and wolf and big cat
Is hiding there, and leaving their scat.
Today’s the day the Sheriff is going to shoot them.

Shooting time in Ohio,
They didn’t set the laws preventing disasters of this kind.
Now they have to track them down,
To try and catch those cats and wolves they find.
See the panic in their eyes,
They wish they had been wise
And stopped this before the scare!
The keeper’s dead, the cages are empty
Of every animal,
And now they’re hunting in open air!

If you go out in the woods today,
Watch out for the predators;
It’s chilly out in the woods today,
But these guys are dressed in furs.
For every bear and wolf and big cat,
Will stalk you for a meal, not a chat.
Today’s the day the Sheriff will have to shoot them.

Every tiger and lion that’s loose
Is sure to be nabbed today.
Lots of rifles and bullets are packed,
So nobody gets away.
The schools are closed, the doors have been locked;
There will be blood, so don’t you be shocked.
Today’s the day the Sheriff is going to shoot them.

Shooting time in Ohio,
They didn’t set the laws preventing disasters of this kind.
Now they have to track them down,
To try and catch those cats and wolves they find.
See the panic in their eyes,
They wish they had been wise,
And stopped this before the scare!
The keeper’s dead, the cages are empty
Of every animal,
And now they’re hunting in open air!

Kat Mortensen ©2011

Advertisements

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

Hum

In my head,
the father’s mother’s father (long-dead)
is playing a tune—a runic melody;
it tumbles o’er the hills and out to sea,
to rise above the atmospheric scum,
becoming part of the universal hum—
for all eternity.

Modernity—
has stolen snatches;
scratches and squeals reel against the strings—
my heart sings.

I know my fingers would fumble with the rosined bow,
but my toes involuntarily tap.
My soul wraps the sound round,
and round me like the winds that whirl;
they skirl up the Mournes.

We hum.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Rainchild

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

Sometime Summer

Pinched moth-wings release orange fairy-dust on fingers—
chasing hoppers through new-chopped grass
you get stained knees too
bees-buzz, bees-buzz, buzz-bees, buzz
a green whip-snake writhes, as the water surges through,
ice-water sprays, making rainbows
flip-flops flap and slap down the damp driveway—
standing in a downpour in your swimsuit
small mouths sucking the hues out of icy tubes,
bowled strawberries bleed into a sugar-bed
Beefsteaks, so red, on white bread with white spread
chalks, colouring the sidewalks,
talk, talk, talk—endless talk,
giggle, giggle, giggle—screech! giggle some more
walk, walk, walk—to the store for Bazooka Joe
and bags of chips and rubber lips
running to the park, towel slung over a shoulder,
whizzing down a day-glo mellow-yellow water-slide—a short ride,
down a small hill, but what a thrill!
spinning spokes, clicking straws, streamers trail-blazing—
quick stop! agony-jolt, bike-pole-swollen
hot car seats stinging leg-backs, back-seat sleeps, road-trips,
road-games, tit-for-tat, battles and tears
the aroma of Noxema, creamed on burned backs and noses—
roses, roses, roses!
scratching itchy bites in bed, (they bled and stuck to the sheets)
hide and seek at dusk—raucous cries,
rising in the coming-night air.
life without a care …
so rare, so rare.

Kat Mortensen copyright 2010

Bad Love

What’s a Texas gal to do when the average Joe
ain’t no thrill?
Wearing a powder pink dress,
and spilling coffee into saucers at the diner
is just a slice of small-town hell.

Along comes a Barrow-boy
who cuts a bit of a dash—flashing cash and tells you
he thinks you’re something special.

‘Course you’re gonna hop in for a ride,
pick up that gun and shoot!
There’s no turnin’ back now.

You’re in love with this boy—
his wide-smile, and hard eyes, but he’s not the lover kind.
You’ll bide your time.

Life would be just fine, if it were only hold-ups and
getaways, but it’s not; you don’t get off
scot-free in this game.

Pretty soon you’re in a gang of thieves and murderers.
(It’s all so excitin’!)
Now if only you could lose
the half-wit brother and his battle-axe bride,
but they’re “family”.

You miss your mama; she ain’t getting any younger.
It’s nice to see her for a spell, yet you can tell she gave up
any hope on you a while ago.

Maybe you have too.

You get your story in the papers (a poem, I should stress)
and you’re wanted in six states, I guess, but
is it really worth some sawbucks and a Kodak
if you end your life in a shot-up brand new dress?

Kat Mortensen©2011