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.



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.


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.


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


He’s carrying a long


One end drags along the


Trailing, down the hollow


He comes.

I cannot see his face—

Masked as he is,

His piercing eyes shine

icy light

In my direction,

And the rope


And his eyes


And mine,

They shut,



Kat Mortensen©2010 
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