NaPoWriMo – Day 2

What You Are

As a child
the stars held little interest for me,
except to sing of their twinkling.
I didn’t care that they
lit up the sky at night;
(I was born under the sign
of a bright moon.)

As I grew,
I knew that Polaris
was the great North Star
(maybe that’s why I wore
those runners).

Like all around me
I was aware of the Bear—
the Majors and the Minors,
the two big pots
dipping into nocturnal ink.

Then, in my youth,
the myth collapsed—
I learned it was all just gas.

Now I’m older.
We live where the sky amasses itself
like a cloak, when the sun
drops out of sight.
We look up
and embrace the gift
of each gold star’s tiny light.

skat©2015

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NaPoWriMo – Day 1 (Official)

Negative Space

A grave is not a place of rest,
despite what you may have read.
It’s not a bed in which to lie down,
and sleep peacefully.
You’re not really there
at all.

You see, a grave is not
a spot where it’s fun
to drop in for a visit;
there’s no rest for those
who tend the ground,
or lie bright flowers that will
only die.

A grave is not a site
of revelry; it’s no place
to get high,
yet somewhere I believe
the festivities go on, eternally.

I have to,
since you’re gone.

skat©2015

NaPoWriMo: Day 1 (early poem)

End of the Line

I suppose it’s too late
to live in that old train station
that was being sold in that two-bit town
with the tourist-trap theatre.

Remember those dreams we had
of painting the rotunda white,
hanging nautical prints
from Scandinavia?

I’m sure, we could have
run a B & B.
We’d have redone those peeling walls,
damp-proofed the sagging roof—
filled every room with flat-pack IKEA,
shook out folksy chintz
onto the beds.

I’d have carted fresh-washed sheets
out back to that line that drooped
over the old rail-ties
buried under unkempt grass.

You’d have kept the books—
our hard-earned living on track.

We both know,
a loved one died.

Guess that’s why
we missed our stop.

skat©2015

This poem is in response to the first prompt at NaPoWriMo.

Monday Poem #4: Dominic’s Challenge

Dominic Rivron issued a challenge to listen to the piece of music here and compose something in response.  Here’s what happened:

 

The Gallows

And here comes the hangman

now,

He’s carrying a long

rope,

One end drags along the

ground,

Trailing, down the hollow

alley,

He comes.

I cannot see his face—

Masked as he is,

His piercing eyes shine

icy light

In my direction,

And the rope

dangles,

And his eyes

shine,

And mine,

They shut,

Forever.

 

Kat Mortensen©2010 
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