Catching up to the Poetry Bus (Wait for me!)

Before anyone starts to comment, I must add this disclaimer: I did not come up with the integral lines to this poem.  I can only credit Peadar, the Totalfeckineejit (best blog in the world, by the way) for the first two lines, although I did make a couple of changes.

Deux étoiles (Two Stars: A villanelle)


She was wearing McCartney—Stella;

I was sipping a Stella Artois.

The girl sang Piaf acapella.


I sat penning my latest novella;

Her perfume hung, breaking all lois.

She was wearing McCartney—Stella.


She’d a body like Lawson—Nigella,

And hair like Medusa, je crois.

The girl sang Piaf acapella.


I ordered some sliced mortadella

With potage blended from quelques pois

She was wearing McCartney—Stella


She looked a before Cinderella

In a dress slashed to bits—un, deux, trois

The girl sang Piaf acapella.


I paid for her favourite paella;

(Oh, to kiss her just once!— Je dois!)

She was wearing McCartney—Stella

The girl sang Piaf acapella.


Kat Mortensen©2010 
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Please visit Totalfeckineejit’s blog to ride the bus or at least check out what the other riders have to say on the journey.


Changing lanes on the Poetry Bus


Acrosticquain (train poem #1)


Riding rails

Away from Petersburg.

must mine at


Kat Mortensen©2010 


Beginning at the End  (train poem #2)


We slide into Sligo

with a world of expectation

(it’s our honeymoon).

I’m astounded to see

the end of a line—

the terminus,

and pray to God

it’s not an omen.

Kat Mortensen©2010 
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Visit Totalfeckineejit for other riders on the trail-blazing Poetry Bus.

Another spin on the Poetry Bus (Two Roads)

Please note: I’ve written two pieces for this prompt.  The second was an after-thought.

Faith and Death and Faith


I find Him when I hear the notes of Mozart,

And when a voice can thrill me to the bone;

I find Him in a taste that is exquisite,

Or outside in the yard, beneath a stone.


I find Him in the eye of my adored one,

Whose cheek so soft and tender touches mine;

I find Him in the petals and the branches,

And Sundays in the water and the wine.


I find Him in the grizzle-headed hunched ones,

Who fill up all the seats at Mass each week;

I find Him in the toddlers at Communion,

Who don’t know yet, the Kingdom that we seek.


I fail to see Him in the stone-faced statues,

Or wooden boxes draped with cloth of gold;

And ornate altars, edged with gilded touches,

Cannot arouse an ardour that’s gone cold.


I find Him in the hymns of Middle Ages,

and prayers and lines the Ancients wrote and said,

but since he took my father from my presence,

a part of Him, to me is all but dead.

Kat Mortensen©2010 
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On Dying


I’m a hypocrite.

I’ll tell you I’m anti-euthanasia,

but only for the rest of them—

not for me.

I’m patho-logical.

If I’m sick with some

untreatable illness,

do away with me—

let’s get the suffering over,

so we can all go home.

Don’t lie me in a bed,

to shrivel up,

in wailing agony;

cut me loose,

and walk away,

knowing I’m free from it all!

Then incinerate me

and take me to a place

where the birds sing sweet

and the creatures of God

gambol, as they do.


Mix me with the dirt

(take some home with you)

and dust off your hands.


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

For more participants in TFE’s Poetry Bus, please visit his site: Totalfeckineejit for the links. Thanks.

Monday Poem for the Poetry Bus

Between The Lines


You won’t find anything in this room to tell you who I am.


There’s nothing much in my wallet—a few receipts for groceries,

some small change and a library card (haven’t used that since the dispute

with my neighbour, the librarian).


Nothing in the dresser drawers will give me away—

the sort of junk no one knows what to do with—

pens, buttons … scraps of paper … strands of yarn (never did

get the hang of knitting.)


The closet isn’t crammed; it’s tidy and spare with

a care-free, casual wardrobe (half was culled for charity

just last week.)


The room itself, won’t tell you what you want to know—

there are no bright colours on the wall—

no popping fabrics or polished furniture

(just a few pictures of animals in the yard).


Type-A, it boasts in its neat-as-a-pin appearance

(trying to live down the snide, “she never made her bed”).


If you really want to know who it is you’re dealing with,

read between the pages of the books, stacked on the table

on her side (she picks them up at random).


Flip through the stashed notepads in zipped purse-pockets,

or small drawers within reach of the pillows (along with the

Tiger Balm and pristine prayer-cards).


Read between the lines.


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

Please visit Totalfeckineejit to find links to other Poetry Bus Riders,or hop on the bus yourself!

Got my ticket on the Poetry Bus. (I unearth a little Plath).

Click picture for Flickr source.

the end

Reactance (Surviving Sylvia)

Hark! To the

     gravelly voice,

         the war-reel patriot

            from a grainy screen–


grating…prating on.

Do you feel your time is come?

Does it pull you


that deep, lull, calling up

that urge, to purge

your sins

in one, fell swoop?


Nay! Contrary,

to the mood,

are you not re-birthed

by the bloody-mindedness

of it?

Want your life–

all the more?

Want to go on…



Say you feel like


(on someone’s


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

N.B. This piece evolved from watching and listening to a Youtube video of Plath reading “Lady Lazarus”.

For more participants (or to get a ticket) on TFE’s magical Poetry Bus ride, see my sidebar under “Sick Transit”.

To listen to a reading of “Reactance (Surviving Sylvia), check out this podcast: