Waiting for boosters;
Birds roost outside my window
(Reading Proust (I lie)).
skat@2022
rhyme
The Death of Me
Something is killing
My love of the printed page.
I try hard to delve
Into a good book,
And end up shelving it.
When did it go wrong? Did it happen
In stages, catch me unawares?
I long for those days of yore
When I waited patiently
For the book-filled truck
Bringing volumes by the score,
Every Wednesday.
When I would load my arms
With as many as I could,
Carting them home to pore through,
And take each word to heart.
Is it this device
I have afore me now?
These easy keys allow
The sharing of all my secrets,
Trying not to bore
With what might make
You turn elsewhere?
Is it brain-circuits, not
Firing as before, unable to absorb
Anything of length or strength
Or train-of-thought?
I ought to shut this down,
Pick up a tome that rests in dust
Upon the weighty shelf,
Or else, I’ll lose myself.
Or else,
I’ll lose
Myself.
Kathleen Mortensen ©2016
For Edgar, love Annabel
It was many a year ago, ’tis true,
In a kingdom by the sea,
A maid was I, when right on cue
Arrived Mr. Edgar, A.P.;
And this maiden lived with no other thought
Than of this man to be free.
I was a child, and he was a man;
In this kingdom by the sea;
But he loved with a love—a possessive love—
This Mr. Edgar, A.P.;
With a love he claimed the angels of heaven
Envied of him and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago
In this kingdom by the sea,
I stayed out in the cold night, chilling
Myself, to shed Mr. Edgar, A.P.;
So that my “highborn kinsman” came
In order to set me free,
And shut me up in a sepulchre
Of this kingdom by the sea.
The seraphs, now twice as happy in heaven,
They soon befriended me;
Yes! That was the reason (but no one knew,
In the kingdom by the sea)
For the wind came out of the cloud one night,
And of Edgar I was free.
But his “love” was stranger by far than the love
Of gentlemen saner than he—
Of many more normal than he;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the devils beneath the dark sea,
Could permit the twit’s obsession
So they hood-winked poor Edgar, A.P..
For the moon never beams without filling my dreams
With the unstable Edgar, A.P.;
And the stars never shine, that I don’t hear him pine
Over poor interred little ol’ me;
And so, all the night-tide, he lies down by the side
Of his “darling”— “his darling”— his life and his “bride”,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
Unaware that they cremated me.
Kathleen Mortensen © 2016
Time On My Hands IV
I wake and stretch;
fingers resist, insisting
on their preferred curl—
unfurling
reluctantly along with
tired limbs.
There’s black dirt
trapped beneath short nails—
residue from mulch
hand-spread on parched ground.
We are both drying up,
the earth and I.
This organ, this skin
is burnished by the sun,
all-weathering.
Its network of fine lines
weaves organic leather
preserving the underneath.
These hands,
God willing,
may serve—’til my death.
Kathleen Mortensen @2016
Please visit the below links to read the first three poems in this series. Thank you.
My Piano and Me
The door shuts behind them
when they go; the key clicks their good-bye.
I sigh, and then stroll
over to my piano.
The wooden legs scrape
my maple floor.
I ease along the leather seat
and open up the lid with the heels
of my hands.
Daddy bought my upright-
grand piano
(Mother always says he did)
when I was twelve years old.
Crafted by a Toronto company
of note
(pardon the pun),
she’s a Heintzman.
Anyway, today’s the day
we get to play,
just her and me.
She’s a “she”.
You see, we decided that
a long time ago.
She and I have our favourites:
Schubert, Chopin,
Mozart—naturally,
but Kermit’s song,
we love to play,
and Elton John,
can make our day too.
Together, we struggle;
I never practiced
much as a kid, and
she’s older now,
but I got her a tune-up
for Christmas.
(Well, Mother did).
Ludwig’s Sonata comes easily
we both enjoy the ebb and flow
of waves and keys;
I stretch short fingers,
and she seems to shrink to meet them—
as if she were a friend.
Don’t ask us to share
our rare time together
(we’re a bit selfish that way),
and we don’t have
much time before
the key
is in the lock
and I go back
to my day.
Long ago, it was decided by those
in the know that
I’m no virtuosa.
Mercifully,
my piano
wasn’t paying attention.
Kathleen Mortensen @2016
Many thanks to oglach at Na Trioblóidí for challenging me to write this piece in response to a comment I made on his blog. I cannot recommend his blog too highly; you really must see it for yourself.
If you enjoyed this poem, you might also like these:
Marmalade
I bought for my mother,
A marmalade treat,
To have with her breakfast
On toast for to eat,
But next morning
She never got up from her bed;
From her pillow,
She did not raise up her tired head,
So she never again will taste
Thick-cut orange spread,
That she so used to love
On her golden-grilled bread,
But forever, the memory of her
Will not fade,
When I spread my toast with
Her orange marmalade.
Kathleen Mortensen @ 2016
Snow Day
It’s grey and foggy here today;
There’s a haze on the hill across the way.
I hear shrieks of delighted kids at play,
As they fly down the hill on their plastic sleigh!
Remember the hill on a snowy day,
Pushing and pulling your favourite sleigh?
Then you’d all pile in—everyone could play!
And you’d run right down what was in your way.
A small dog barks as it makes its way,
Through the haze on the hill where the children play.
Oh! what fun it sounds to my ear today,
As he keeps in time with the plastic sleigh.
I’m outside too, but not on a sleigh.
Dogged ice sticks, as I make my way.
Pushing plastic spade, I am not at play;
How I’d like to be on that hill today!
Kat Mortensen©2011
Orson Swells
With every peanut that he’s found,
Orson swells.
With seed that’s scattered on the ground,
Orson swells.
He’s rotund as a vat of wine,
His butt’s the biggest in the line.
Each time he dashes in to dine,
Orson swells.
With every snack he snatches up,
Orson swells.
With tidbits tossed from plastic cup,
Orson swells.
Of ravenous rodents waiting for,
The click that signals opening door,
He seems the squirrel who munches more;
Orson swells.
In greedy maw he stuffs them in,
Orson swells.
I swear, he’s got a double chin,
Orson swells.
His ears are short, his tail is long,
His appetite is ever-strong.
I hope you have enjoyed my song,
Orson swells.
Kathleen Mortensen © 2008
Bird’s Nest Soup
(Image by Parke-Harrison)
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
When Sidney Came To Tea
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| Illustration by Jessie Wilcox-Smith, 1914 |
I’m sharing this today with my friend Janette, who blogs her fantastic art and haiku HERE.
Janette recently made reference to illustrations she recalls from childhood books and it made me think of this. I hope you enjoy my foray into the juvenile realm.
When Sidney Came To Tea
One day, when I was lonely, a monkey came to tea.
(We say “a monkey”, don’t we, when we mean a chimpanzee?)
He wasn’t like my other friends who were a frightful bore;
When Sidney came to tea, he simply never made one snore.
He poured a spot out just for me; he wanted to be “mother”,
Then gulped his down with monkey-glee, and poured himself another.
Before he’d even asked if I would “lemon”, or would “lump it”,
(He thought I didn’t see him, but I did—he swiped a crumpet!)
But maddest thing, he smiled and begged a jar of Grey Poupon,
And when old Smithers brought the stuff, he spread it on his scone!
We had ourselves a topping time, tho’ Sidney spilt some crumbs.
I cannot hold him to account, he really is all thumbs!
Kat Mortensen©2012 
This poem is the direct result of an image at the now-dormant, “Monday’s Child” poetry site. Such a shame that lack of interest has caused its demise.
3-5-3, 3-7-5 