The Animal-lover’s 12 Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
a crow high in a pine tree.

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
FIVE bold rats,
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
SIX bees a-buzzing,
FIVE bold rats,
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
SEVEN squirrels a-squabbling,
SIX bees a-buzzing,
FIVE bold rats,
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
EIGHT jays a-japing,
SEVEN squirrels a-squabbling,
SIX bees a-buzzing,
FIVE bold rats,
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
NINE finches flitting,
EIGHT jays a-japing,
SEVEN squirrels a-squabbling,
SIX bees a-buzzing,
FIVE bold rats,
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
TEN hares a-hopping,
NINE finches flitting
EIGHT jays a-japing,
SEVEN squirrels a-squabbling,
SIX bees a-buzzing,
FIVE bold rats,
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
ELEVEN chippies, chipping,
TEN hares a-hopping,
NINE finches flitting
EIGHT jays a-japing,
SEVEN squirrels a-squabbling,
SIX bees a-buzzing,
FIVE bold rats,
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
TWELVE hummers humming,
ELEVEN chippies, chipping
TEN hares a-hopping,
NINE finches flitting
EIGHT jays a-japing,
SEVEN squirrels a-squabbling,
SIX bees a-buzzing,
FIVE bold rats,
FOUR running mice,
THREE striped skunks,
TWO mourning doves,
and a crow high in a pine tree.

(And on Christmas Day,
I set them all free!)

Kat Mortensen©2010

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Impressions (Memories of Youth)

I can’t remember who worked the pumps
At that gas station on the Eskasoni Road,
But I can taste their orange-pineapple ice-cream
Like it was yesterday.

I can’t envision a single one called MacAdam
On that farm up the hill, but I remember
Cuddly kittens in the barn and sticky-sweet fresh cows’ milk.

I don’t know who was there that summer,
But I can feel the chilly outhouse hole
Beneath my bottom—see the fireflies
Dancing me back to bed.

I can’t retrace the paces to that folk dance
We mastered at St. F’s school,
But still I see the red-wool ribbon pulling back my hair—
My favourite long, plaid peasant-dress.

I don’t know who checked us out
At the clean green, grocery-store,
But I can feel my leotards slip on the shiny, stiff
Plastic horse by the front window—hear the nickel-clink.

I can’t resurrect the old man’s face again,
Down eastward on that 1960s train,
But I can hear his accent inquiring of me,
“Parlez-vous Francais”?

I’ve packed away those long-dead kisses
From men and boys-gone-by;
Lips soon forget, but I yet inhale
The pungency of Jovan Musk and Brut.

I’ve no clue to the colours of their eyes—
Guitar-toting guys on Ingonish beach,
But still the memory comes back to me each time I hear
Hotel California,

But each time you walk out the door
Of my life every single day
Your face remains indelibly traced
On the walls of my mind.

Kat Mortensen copyright 2008

Drowning

Please click image to go to The Mag website for details.

I should drown in your unending love;
You will always pull me to the shore.

As I traverse these seas of doubt, I lose my way;
You reach out your hand to rescue me.

Yours is the unquestioning love—
Tireless and without fail.

I fall to my knees and beg you to forgive,
You lift my head and look me in the eye.

Why do I betray you, countless times?
Why do I forget you are my one true love?

I let you slip from me; I navigate alone.

I am adrift on the waves—floating, floating …
You save me once again.

Kat Mortensen©2013Creative Commons Licence

Bird’s Nest Soup

Bird’s Nest Soup (an aside)

My love requires bird’s nest soup,
She thinks it better than the rest.
The quack prescribed it for her croup.

It’s not a soup found in the west;
I’ll need to shoeless, climb and stoop.
My love requires bird’s nest soup.

I scrape and bow at her behest;
She won’t have chicken, from the coop.
The quack prescribed it for her croup.

Some things sure put me to the test;
I jump when e’er she holds the hoop.
My love requires bird’s nest soup.

Arsenic, she might ingest,
If introduced into the goop.
(The quack prescribed it for her croup.)

Of course, you realize, I jest—
(Unless I added lemon zest).
They’d find it, if they checked her poop.
My love requires bird’s nest soup.

Kat Mortensen©2012 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Image by Parke-Harrison

The above image was the prompt this week at The Mag.  Please visit the link to find other takes on this quirky offering.  Thank you!

PYPIASM: Poems that didn’t make it

1

Put your poem in a shop-month, is nearly done;
There’s still rhyme-time for elves, left to have some fun.
Here’s a card with a note, penned to make you smile,
As you stand in the line— it could take a while,
Since you’re shopping so late, yes, it’s Christmas Eve;
It will all work out great, if you just BELIEVE!

2

What you buy will fade from mind,
Sooner than you think.
Doesn’t matter what you find,
The thrill goes in a blink.
My advice is this, to truly make the season bright:
Tell someone you love them, then hold them really tight!

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

ECHO

We played hide and seek to The Killing Moon
In between the mid-century chairs;
Up and down dark stairs (your parents weren’t there).
We were laughing, but the joke was all on me.

It felt like love —that rush of blood to my heart.
(You were never really part of it at all, were you?)
You couldn’t fall off your high horse.
(Well,  I suppose I put you there.)

Must have been a lark, having me on your string
Was it? (Silly little thing.)
I’d crop and dye my hair for you, wear whatever turned you on.
(Silly little pawn.)

You once called me Calypso, but you lied;
I had no power over you —you were no hero.

Now, I sit, snug in a booth, chop-sticking Thai
Across from the man I’ve loved for years
(He can stop my heart’s tick with a semi-smile.)

Music plays; I recognize the tune: The Killing Moon.
It surprises me; the old wounds still sting
For a while.

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Found poetry (scribbled notes, stuck in the back of a drawer).

Scan10004

Photo by William Davison circa 1964

Metamorphosis

You were ever the elusive one;

I was effusive enough for all.

Our downfall was that we

Would never be conducive to love.

I fashioned dreams, knowing

All along that they were wrong.

You wrung, tears and blood

From my body and soul.

You got what you came for;

I lost what I had—

That little girl, eluding me,

When you took off.

Kat Mortensen©2010 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker