OSI: “insomnia”

Pin-heads

 

In the scheme of things,

we are all just dancing

on the heads of pins;

our voices com-

bined, rise in

particles

to dis-

sipate

in the

celestial

skies.

We hum.

We are the

enduring

hum that

emanates from

the mantle

—upwards

to other

spheres:

tropo,

strato

… exo.

Less sig-

nificant

than ants

— to us,

are we—

mere

dots

on the

map

of exis-

tence—

in a con

stant

state of

in

som

ni

a.

 

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: “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: dropped

Click for source

dollhead

Head

Sometimes it feels as if
I may have been dropped
on my head–as a child.
Those days when I can’t
string two sentences
together,
or I’m having
conversations
with myself,
like a little old lady
in her rocker,
furiously knitting
and muttering
to herself.

Also, I find I sing
quite a lot these days–
nothing on the radio
or even my cds,
just tunes
with words I’ve made up
that make no sense
at all.
The cats seem to like them,
at least,
or my imaginary audience
of fruits in the bowl
and crumbs
on the counter–
all listening
with rapt attention.

I know I was
born a month too soon,
but no-one ever said
if I was actually dropped
on my head.
Perhaps.

Kathleen Mortensen©2009

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