New Blog, New Poems

Please visit my new blog, Chapter and Verse, where I am now posting poetry such as this new one, Time On My Hands IV

I would be most happy to have you follow me over there.

Many thanks!

Kathleen

Advertisements

The Skating Party

When the ice breaks,
Your skates can’t help you—
Their metal blades,
Only drag you down.
A bulky coat, can soak up water
Like a Bounty paper towel.

They stretched themselves out
On the ice—tried
To grasp her small gloved hands
As they clawed for purchase,
And found none.

Her lids and lips went blue;
Her legs grew numb—
No longer thrashing,
She succumbed to the
Frigid water in the pond.

Grandma tells the story;
She can’t recall the year,
Or the names;
Still, I see a tear
Run down her cheek.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Bird’s Nest Soup

3c569-bnest

(Image by Parke-Harrison)

 

My love requires bird’s nest soup,
She thinks it better than the rest.
The quack prescribed it for her croup.

It’s not a soup found in the west;
I’ll need to shoeless, climb and stoop.
My love requires bird’s nest soup.

I scrape and bow at her behest;
She won’t have chicken, from the coop.
The quack prescribed it for her croup.

Some things sure put me to the test;
I jump when e’er she holds the hoop.
My love requires bird’s nest soup.

Arsenic, she might ingest,
If introduced into the goop.
(The quack prescribed it for her croup.)

Of course, you realize, I jest—
(Unless I added lemon zest).
They’d find it, if they checked her poop.
My love requires bird’s nest soup.

Kat Mortensen©2012

The Oppression of Father Time*

24c26-fr-time

(image by crilleb50)

 

The days weigh heavily upon him.
He hunches against the necessity of change.

Seasons are not his friend.

Just when he’s locked in to the way things tick,
the leaves begin to fall,
signalling the call
to wind down.

Nothing for it,
but to buck up and reach for those hands
that never fail.

Time to pull the tides from their safety nets,
and wash away all traces of the past.

Where’s my wrench, he asks himself,
and unbenches to his duty.

His rumpled suit, his derby—
all camouflage to the naked truth:

Time marches on.

Kat Mortensen©2013

*I have written a few pieces with Father Time as the subject. If you’re keen to read more, type “Father Time” in the search box and click.

Santa Claws

(Tips on how to be a modern-day, store-Santa)

I’ve been a jolly Santa
For thirty years or more.
When dealing with the toddlers
I think I know the score.

So when the bosses told me,
I’d have to work with pets,
I thought I’d have no problems—
No struggle, no regrets,

But nothing could prepare me
For what I dealt with then—
Parade of beastly “babies”
Rats, ferrets—Dobermen;

With scratches on my collar
And urine on my coat,
I’ve tried to keep on smiling,
But it really gets my goat!

Some tips they’ve tried to give me:
Hot bottle for the cat,
A squeak-toy for the puppies
And hang on to your hat!

Look out for lips, back-curling,
Or hair that stands on end.
Not every little “darling”
Is really “man’s best friend”,

Do, gently hold the rabbits;
Don’t drop them on their back,
Else they’ll no more be hopping,
And owners will attack.

They’ll try to keep it from you,
But when it’s done, you’ll stink!
So, don’t tell anybody—
Just pour yourself a drink!

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007