Wednesday poem for OSI: “single”

Singled Out

 

A single wine-glass, smeared with red gloss;

a single napkin, lying on a table for two.

 

A single key, in a grimy lock;

a single gold band, dropped in a dusty ashtray.

 

A single black sock, lying on a filthy carpet;

a single blonde strand on a white shirt collar.

 

A single paste ear-ring, beneath a bed-skirt;

a single bar of soap with a single dark hair.

 

A single pillow, punched into submission;

A single cup of coffee, going cold.

 

A single Monte Carlo with a dented fender;

a single shadow in a dank hallway.

 

A single dove, signalling the dawn;

a single lily, on a single grave.

 

Kat Mortensen©2010 
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OSI: “blowing the curve”


The Curve


Some folks think it’s all about the grade;

it’s worse than that.

When you cross that median—

going full-tilt,

you can’t help but recognize,

you’re in God’s hands now.

What’s it all for, anyway?

A few points?

The score?

Seems like you’re always going to be

stuck at the side of the road

with nothing, but

a pair of crossed sticks

and a bunch of dead flowers.

Kat Mortensen©2010 Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

OSI: “conquer”

gerbil Click for source.


Temporary Insanity


i have conquered my day

with cups of coffee;

my mind’s a gerbil-spiral

spinning with imaginings

of self-importance.

i rise to the bait—

keen to get the ramblings

on the page;

this rush, this influx

of crushed bean’s-juice

sluicing through my veins,

boosting my ego

to unseen heights.

too soon it fades.

my tired limbs invade

the heady buoyancy—

my rat-round slowing

down

the ride,

i find a place

once more

to hide.

Kat Mortensen©2009 Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

One Single Impression: “allow”

gemstones

A Swelled Head

Allow me to explain:

When the hazing settles in–

the fog, descending–

a dense murk

like a Dickens backstreet

or a Halifax harbour;

then the sounds of droning mowers

or snarling trimmers

gorging on bushes–

the low murmur

of music on the radio

and the lights! Oh, the lights!

Turn them down low,

for pity’s sake!

Or switch them OFF.

ALL can spiral

you into madness.

The aura, they call it–

drawing eyelids down,

and down

lower and lower;

tightening teeth

as if endlessly flossed;

plugging ears

with sponge bullets.

If all the sheet-rags

mother used to rip

and wind in wet hair

were packed into

the cranial cavity—

to capacity,

you’d have it!

Nothing is going to

EXPLODE. No!

Yet the pressure adheres

in the hemispheres,

as if some bomb

were set

to go off.

Retreat,

to the restfulness

of a dark room,

and an unmade bed

with too many pillows

where a head can hide,

but first,

take the magic,

green-gel pill–

a fairy-tale gem

stolen from the queen’s corona.

Drink,

in blind faith of pharmacology

and anticipation

of relief.

Sink into

blessed oblivion.

Kathleen Mortensen©2009 Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

OSI: “copse”

Southern Entrance (by Highbury Bridge) to Blackaton Copse Nature Reserve, Dartmoor. Click Flickr pic for source

The Copse

Often found amidst the copse…

is something nasty, putrid—rotten,
a homeless person, long-forgotten,
or child who wandered after school,
a teen perhaps, who once was cool…
At least that’s so in books I’ve read
contrived in mystery author’s head.

One murdered, dumped in dead of night
is sure some day to come to light.
A cur will scamper round and rout,
some lovers seeking refuge, scout
for just the ideal spot to lie
and hands to open mouths, they’ll cry!

A body, battered black and vile
will rise up in their throats some bile,
or kids at play, who lose a ball,
will find their game’s no fun at all.
The cold corpse is a sticky wicket;
a copse is often just the ticket!

Kathleen Mortensen©2009 Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

OSI: “ocean”

cbbeach Click Flickr pic for source

Getting Ducked

I remember, whipping off

our sweaty clothes so fast

wriggling into taut swimsuits

salt-faded from the past.

Down, down, to the ocean went we…

our childish laughter…

floating out…to sea…

Tripping, tumbling down the bank

with just one goal to reach

grazed up knees and elbows

wouldn’t keep us from that beach.

“You go first!”, “No, you!” we’d yell.

“It’s too cold!!!!”

(Our fears we’d have to quell.)

Rolling tides on sun-baked shore,

we dipped our toes and screeched;

ankles, calves, then knobby knees–

Atlantic depths were breached.

“Hen, rooster, chicken…duck!” above the din,

of warming winds— then we were in.

Summers that we dove and dove

through rushing wake and wave

plunging from the wharf of stone

we fancied ourselves brave.

Down, down, to the ocean went we…

our childish laughter…

floating…out…

to sea.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2008

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