my poetry

by

Match Point

They stepped into the shadows
where, he struck a match
and lit her cigarette.

Tendrils of smoke waltzed,
above their heads.
She whispered
(through wine-dyed lips),

“Have you got it?”

He reached into his breast-pocket,
and pulled out a tan paper, folded,
as her slender gloved hand waited to palm
it from him.

It slid, so easily
into her clutch and she clicked it
shut.

It was then, he decided,
all too much had been confided
—she had to go,
so as she turned—
to slink away into the night,
his leathered hands surrounded
her long neck.

Though she struggled—
valiantly (he’d have to check that
bruise on his right calf),
eventually, she slumped,
and he dumped her
to the cold cobbles, where
rain was starting to spit.

He did a flit, but not before
sliding the letter once more behind
his lapel. Just as well,
he remembered, but
he did not recall that she had
held the box of matches as he lit her smoke
(such a gentleman)
and poked them in her pocket,

until he was sitting at the hotel table
with a cup of muddy coffee,
pulled out his case of cigarettes
and pat his hip for a light.

Kat Mortensen©2010

by

Displacement

You were, long ago,
embalmed—suspended
in brain fluid,
to float
with your counterparts.
Now and then,
you surface, unbidden
when I immerse my hands
in water.

At such times, I wonder:
do you ever call me to mind,
as you lie, immobilized
in someone else’s water-bed?

You never said, those “three words”;
now, all your Ess Oh Esses
are engulfed
in my swelled head.

Kat Mortensen©2012

by

Black Magic

I am drawn to your intoxicating aroma,
as if you were my lover, come to me each morning
with a hot, dark kiss.

You arrest me—hold me captive;
in seconds, I am yours.

You fill my pillowed head with notions,
as I swallow each gulp of you;
your potion unstops my tongue.

Again, you have unleashed the tumble of madness,
I mistake for genius. I should shun you.

Too late! I have shared this flow of
idiocy with the world.

You are culpable.

Even so, I am your willing sidekick;
I shall return to this ritual—
drink from your duping-cup again.

For today, the spell is broken—
I am free of you once more.

Kat Mortensen©2011

by

For Mirjana

Baltic beauty, your wide smile,
always full of fun and fate.
You filled up the cabin of that dusty
brown Camaro with the clouds
from your Du Mauriers.

Lusty language
spilled off your tongue—
a trailer-trash imposter.

To look at you was to feel envy in ones bones—
those lips, those eyes, a voluptuous body,
silked in voluminous violet.

Luminous on the dance floor;
you were coveted by all.
Clink-ice Chivas, in your glass,
as you mesmerized the boys who dared
make a pass.

We’d laugh all the way home in the car
while your smoke, poked through the window—
cracked to appease me.

We’d say G’night! knowing those times
were so rare—
you weren’t really my fair-weather friend—
we were just there as conveniences
for each other: a ride, another voice in the car,
someone to share the exploits—
to be real with.

Sometimes we’d go weeks without a call,
but always we could fall back
on each other for the company
when others failed us.

One time, we stretched it out too far—
a few missed calls,
and no messages on the machine,
‘til no machine at all prompted my persistence,
to learn your existence had met its end
in a motel shower-stall.

I was K.O’d—
held the phone at arms’ length, looking
down at my lap, listening to the foreign voice
the receiver was making.

No reasons were there to reassure.
(I had my own theories and scoured the pages
of the library periodicals for a crime-blot with your name.)

I’d missed it all—
the death, the funeral, the sad scene at a cold February grave,
but now whenever I hear “Hot, Hot, Hot!” I see
a flash of purple, and note the ice clink
in my glass.

Kat Mortensen©2010

by

The Calling Card

His trademark
always involved
the same shade—
russet-brown,
like the downy patch
on the peach
that has turned.

Oh! he was so
precise—
the artist at work
on his canvas,
creating
his masterpiece.

Each time
he touched those lips
with his magick
wax-stick,
the rush made him blush.

So sad, he had to
always abandon her
amidst the debris,
but you see
they’d have to find
his work of art.

Besides, there would
be others.

Kat Mortensen©2010

by

Sex Ed

Ooh, yeah!
Hey, remember that time
we found that stack
of Playgirl mags
all wet and raggy
in the middle of the wood?

Slick, but wrinkly,
sun-kissed bods,
appendages…
dangling.

Woowee!
Juice-inducing stuff.

And then
there was that blue movie
(when I stayed the night)
with the slattern
in the sleek car
her silk scarf
caressing her tresses—

slipping out of
her dress
letting it slide
to the floor.

What they were up to
on the bed
went over my head,
but it was so cool
the way she wrote
in lipstick
on the mirror.

Kathleen Mortensen©2009

by

Stuffed Shirts

Ausbank

We’re banking V.I.Ps,
Who loiter ‘round with ease.
In suits we dress,
We must confess—
The working sod’s Big Cheese.

We look a little stiff,
Could use a snuff of sniff.
Some of us stand
With folded hands—
Perhaps there’s been a tiff.

We like to have a puff,
If someone’s in a huff.
We blow the smoke
To make ‘em choke—
We don’t take any guff!

We charge the highest fees.
We’re corporate, if you please.
We rake it in,
It’s not a sin,
To bring them to their knees.

Kat Mortensen ©2010

by

Piano Man

His old, joint-jumped fingers
Pump the keys and he’s pleased
With what he hears.
Foot-stomping on the pedals below,
He’s goin’ goin’ with the tide
That flows from the out of tune piano.

Music, music, music!
It takes him home to
Smoke-filled rooms and dahlias in their hair.
He wears a pork-pie on his silver head,
Insignia on his hand – no wedding band.

Grimy ivories tell tall tales of
Being fingered by the greats.
He remembers all the dates—
The late-night gigs and swigging beer
‘Til dawn.

He may be losing sight,
But his touch is light—
In his head he’s still playing
To an adoring crowd,
While his decrepit heart
Keeps time.

Kat Mortensen ©2011