flowers

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Poppies

In open field, the poppies tall,

Wake from sleep so deep, to fly;

Their paper petals, flushed, enthrall,

Flat out, they flout their blooms, unshy.

The winds will blow, red men will fall,

Blood-tears shed—- bled into sky;

Tossed to heaven, once-silenced spirits all,

With no word ever heard, they cry.

Kat Mortensen©2010

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Melancholia

The death of summer has me desolate.

Verdure goes gold, then turns  to tinder on the ground;
warm-weather birds have blown away
with the winds of autumn.

I have put my dear friends to bed—
sheared off their heads and abandoned them
to their sleep.

The first snow falls, leaving me cold;
a crow’s call cracks the sound
of silence.

Winter creeps in.

I have no illusions;  I am housebound,
until spring comes back.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2016

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My Funeral

Don’t display glads
at my funeral
or play, Amazing Grace.
A glad is far too pretty
with its furling, frilly face.

I don’t deserve that rousing hymn,
that slaves in hope once sang.
“Lord, Is It Mine?” in whimpers
is better than a bang.

Scatter marguerites round the altar
and bunches of Van Gogh’s flowers,
where they’ll lay my corpse to be incensed
and sprayed with holy showers.

Don’t wear all-black and sombre;
(I won’t be)
It’s too funereal.
Wear something white
and flowing—much more ethereal.

Above all else,
Do not shed tears; for I’ll be happy,
not be sad.
Remember this, I loved my life;
I want you to feel glad.

Kat Mortensen©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