Not Enough …

Not enough sun
to thaw the ice
sticking to deck-timber.

Not enough sun
to melt the icing-sugar
dusting the clover.

Not enough sun
to warm the birds’ backs
enticing them to linger.

Not enough sun
to keep the iced stone bath
bearing only water.

Not enough sun
to heat my icy heart
this cold November.

Kathleen Mortensen©2016


River of Stones: Days Seven and Eight (Saturday and Sunday)


~ a distant shoreline of lavender clouds at the edge of a salmon-pink sea

~a mellow shot of hazelnut in a hot coffee, rescuing my freezing extremities

~icy air, wind in hair, warm sun shining on the snow-covered hill

~snow-suited toddlers on old-time toboggans, shrieking with glee


~the moon, surrounded by a rainy-day oil patch

~snow crunching under my black plastic boots  en route to the back door and the warm foyer

~coats, hats, scarves and gloves, grocery bags dropped

~ dripping wet boots, unzipped on a salt-encrusted tray— home at last!


Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

What to my wondering eyes?

snowyday 002

View from my front window at 7:30 a.m. April 6

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View from upstairs bathroom on side of house

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View from back door onto porch.

I wrote this poem last year at exactly this time (it was April 4th).  I just KNEW we were done with it yet!


Snow Job

Spring has played another joke

No flowers burst, no buds have broke

‘Gainst gusts and grippes our fires still smoke–

For Winter, us, will not unyoke.


Spring is just a jackanapes

Our bills get high as heat escapes

Through leaks and gaps behind the drapes–

We long for sun and scented ‘scapes.


Spring has bashed us with its bane

The blast blows past my bathroom pane

‘Til now we’ve managed to stay sane–

Our only hope’s the weather vane.


To boot, Spring’s pulled another prank

The forecasters have drawn a blank

While shov’ling yet one more snowbank–

Al Gore’s Truth’s what we can thank.


Spring gives us the old flim-flam

The twentieth was only sham

As lion jimmys window’s jamb–

We bide inside for promised Lamb.


Kathleen Mortensen ©2008

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You’re all invited!

Photo borrowed from Flickr


Woe is me, I feel so low
Crap is cloggin’ my airflow
Broken glass when I swallow
This p-n-d.* has got to go!

Woe is me, I drag around,
From room to room I may be found
Swathed in layers, gone to ground
Fresh hell is this–to be housebound!

Woe is me, I can’t go out
It might bring on a sneezing bout
This cold came with tons of clout
Who’d second-look at this old trout?

Woe is me, I take a pill
And drink concoctions for my ill
Hot flash followed by big chill
Note to self: “cremate” in will.

*post-nasal drip (ewww!)

Kathleen Mortensen ©2008