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

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

Boadicea, Ripped (An age-old tale)

Listen to me read the poem:

Boadicea, Ripped

Like a flower,
you opened yourself to me,
for the first time.

I hand-picked you,
for your vibrance,
and beauty.

Your chaste chasm,
would be mine,
(to those fellow-roues, I’d
a duty).

Silk and talcum, blew in
the wind;
my bumblebee, stole
your nectar.

You withered soon after,
but I had numberless
flowers left
to plunder.

Kat Mortensen©2012 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

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!

Poetry Jam: Floral tribute

 

HAND-PICKED

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.

Nothing left,
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.)

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Visit the Poetry Jam site to play along, or to read everyone’s take on my not-so-sweet flowers prompt.

 

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