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
Winter creeps in.
I have no illusions; I am housebound,
until spring comes back.
Kathleen Mortensen © 2016
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.
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
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
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.
Sporting smart red hats
In the rain, that will blow off
On a windy day.
Kat Mortensen 2014
Got some shaggy looking customers in my backyard. They remind me of The Muppets somehow.
“Crazy” Shasta Daisies make me think of these guys:
My bee balm should be called, “Bee-Bop”. I always see “Animal” when they are in bloom.
Listen to me read the poem:
Like a flower,
you opened yourself to me,
for the first time.
I hand-picked you,
for your vibrance,
Your chaste chasm,
would be mine,
(to those fellow-roues, I’d
Silk and talcum, blew in
my bumblebee, stole
You withered soon after,
but I had numberless
|Flickr Photo: Dale Chihuly glass sculpture by Ed Schipul
I found this photo waiting to be mentally explored. You know me, I go where the brain goes, and this was the result! The title is my own little joke. I hope you got it.
By the way, I’m no man-hater; I’m very happily married to a great guy!
One by one, she removes each hoary ray.
(Odds are, she’s going to lose.)
When she’s come full circle,
the not will stick in her throat.
but to test the yellow day’s eye with her tongue,
bite it off and spit it to the ground when that is done.
(He brought her hand-picked flowers
with a smile, but she could smell her on him
from a mile.)
Visit the Poetry Jam site to play along, or to read everyone’s take on my not-so-sweet flowers prompt.