Please be advised …

Please be advised that “Poetikat” is no more.
It was time for her to go to bed.

This blog is now comprised of current imaginings
and the chaos of the past ten years.

Dig deep enough
in the archives,
and you will find her

the person I used to be
when my home was somewhere else,
my father lived, my mom lived with him (not me)
and four of my now-dead cats made our lives
full.

Please be advised
that in these pages, some photographs
have been lost.

Inside, you might find,
a recipe, an ancestor, a piece of poetry
or a movie review. Or maybe a photo of my garden.

It is time to pull things together,
but not time to let go, entirely.

Please be advised, that things change
and so have I.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2017

P.S. Please be advised that some links may be broken. To view them, search the key words in the search box in the sidebar. 😉

Advertisements

Fork

I’ve been down this road before—
a score of times, in fact.
Which way shall I go?
What is down this path?
Time to make up your mind,
or find yourself a lost little babe in the woods.

I scratch the back of one ankle,
with the top of my other foot.
A mosquito attacks my blank head.
I swat it flat, before it can draw blood.
For the instant, I have important
work to do,or do I distract myself?

Rain begins to fall and my view
is all the more obscure.
I must focus: this time, I need to
choose the right road—
not the road of more allure.

I am paralyzed.

What I need is a monstrous machine
to rip a path straight through
the middle.

I’ve always been
what you might call,
a “fence-sitter”.

I turn, and do a flit.

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.

Poem For My Mother

I wasn’t really paying attention,
when all this transpired.
Were you?

Somehow, your arms are no longer
the comforting embrace
I remember.

How can they be?
You need me more than I do you.

I can see things more clearly,
reason better, make sense of things
you cannot.
(You don’t like to admit that.)

It’s not that you’re a fool.
It’s just some of the facts
get lost; I’m the one who finds them.
It’s me, who now knows best.

How did it happen?
Where did those years disappear?

I look in the mirror
and still see your little girl,
but the world sees, I’m all grown up.

Once, you rinsed my hair in the kitchen sink
and buckled my Buster Browns.
Now you’re my concern,
though you still think the shoe
is on the other foot.

Kat Mortensen©2009

Was Home

I can’t believe, I used to call it, “home”.

The place to which I ran,
when a young man
whacked me with snowballs;
where I slammed doors in a rage
of teenage hormones,
or played the Moonlight Sonata
on the upright grand.

How many times,
I paced behind its windows,
waiting for another blind date,
to shake my father’s hand.

Those wretched kitchen cupboards!
That ratty carpet’s edge
that lined the stairs,
the patches—mismatched pieces
filling in
the worn out spots,
when I didn’t care.

Unfinished projects—everywhere:
missing tiles, aborted things,
splattered paint, where you were too
impatient to fling a cloth.

Solid dining suite, Limoges miniatures
behind glass (from a European tour)
using credit to keep up with the middle class …

Your disease made it so hard
to upkeep—
the grass like a corn-crop after harvest
(the birds loved it)
the pavement, cracked,
woodwork, hacked,
eaves, slack—

I grew to loathe the place I once called, “home”.

When we sold it (you had no clue)
I would have given it away, if I’d had to;
it was a yoke to be lifted.

As we turned up the road, for the last time,
I never turned my head,

and we drifted away
from home.

Kat Mortensen©2012

The Return of Father Time: Magpie #189

image: crilleb50

The Oppression of Father Time

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

Visit The Mag for further explorations of this image.

Now that’s funny!

Funny,

how pop stars and politicians used to look so old—
now they look like kids;

I never liked kalamata olives,
then one day, I did;

T.V.’s just not as good,
as the book I’m halfway through;

some words just don’t feel right in my mouth,
like “awesome” (others too);

the mirror used to be an obsession,
now I really don’t give a damn;

radical fashion was all the rage,
now it could be my Hallowe’en costume;

everybody seemed to live forever,
now wakes and funerals take up space in my calendar.

Before you know it, it’s 3:00 p.m.
Before you know it, it’s Thursday again.
Before you know it, it’s New Year again.

Funny.

Kat Mortensen©2011