The Ghosts of War

At Ease

The Ghosts of War
annually arise
in camaraderie
to make a toast
to lost limbs and senses
and battles never won.
They raise a glass
of whiskey or stout
as they lie about on grass
between the stones
that bear their names.

Ten hut!

They march in time
(for old times’ sake)
as medals clink
like bottles
at a bar.
A few may even crack a smile
or laugh, but all the while
the haunted looks they
keep well hid
cannot be far.


And when the party’s done,
they slap each other on the back,
blow a kiss to one,
and all who miss them,
then sleep again.

Kathleen Mortensen ©2016


In Remembrance: A poem about poppies

Van Gogh, Field With Poppies


In open field, the poppies tall,
Wake from sleep so deep, to fly;
Their paper petals, blush, enthrall,
Flat out, they flout their blooms, unshy.

The winds will blow, red men will fall,
Blood-tears shed—bled into sky;
Tossed to heaven, once-silenced spirits all,
With no word ever heard, they cry.

Kat Mortensen©2010


In La La Land the temperature is just right,
your ideal weather prevails
in La La Land, you can see everything without your glasses
and your hearing is amazing
in La La Land, everybody is dressed comfortably; nobody ever wears
shoes, only socks sometimes
in La La Land everyone breathes through the mouth,
their hair is very messy, yet nobody cares
in La La Land, pain does not exist, nor worry;
there are no hungry to feed, no wars to fight; no one dies.

There’s only one catch, in La La Land:
a big clock in the centre of town is always there
to remind you, you cannot stay.

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Listen to a voice-recording of this poem here:


We are at sea.
A wave washes against the stern
and races across our decks.
The sails flap wildly in the wind;
our port-holes are made blind.

We heard the storm-warning—
the “Red Alert”,
but as we lie, inert in our beds,
we are fearful of being carried off
to a distant shore by this
October torrent.
We cling to our dinghy,
and try to sleep.

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Oh what a beautiful morning! (On the Poetry Bus)

Chicco-real (a fellow Ontarian) is maneuvering the old Poetree Busso today, so watch out! (I hear she’s hell on wheels!)

A wonderful challenge she presents for us this fine week.  I don’t know about you, but for me, it’s tough to get up in the morning (and getting tougher all the time), but I will endeavour to meet her request and write a poem about what the morning is to me.

Make sure to visit all the Poetry Bus riders for this week at Chicco-real’s blog, LogB




Those prized moments

before I rise

sleep-crumbs stick to corners

of my eyes

the bed so soft and warm

the curtains air-lift with

zephyrs that blow by

the birds hammer out their

mangled Morse code on trees

and to the sky they cry—

I lie. I lie. I lie—and do not stir,

until it’s truly time

to jog the joint-juice

in the limbs and spine—

all places where the bends occur.

The knee-backs no longer leap;

they snap to attention

with a whip-crack.

Somewhere between my

morning prayer

and the hot coffee-sips

past my lips

I awaken, knowing there

is much to do, before I

sink back in and close

my lids again—

permit my tired body

to recharge.

Kat Mortensen©2010 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Theme Thursday: “bread”

bin 001

Photo by Kat

Wonder Bread


Tucked inside this treasure chest,

A stash of dough delights—

Local bakery multi-grains

Are treats we toast on nights

When settled sleep’s eluding us

And slice of warm loaf beckons;

A carbo-crust and peanut butter

Plus warm milk, doc reckons,

Is just the thing to put us

In that mental  Morphean mood,

So to naysayers shunning toast

We say, “But, bread is good!”


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

Visit the Theme Thursday website for more worthwhile post experiences.

Original Poetry Sunday


Percale: A Sunday Poem

Cool breeze blows across the bed and wakes me from my sleepy-head

the tangle of 300 count sheets the ginger feline loves to mount

and beat down with his feathered feet as I languorously roll and stretch

in the 300 count sheets with sticky crumbs at lashes tip I rub with fists to

loosen the debris the damp pillow from my open maw through the night

on the 300 count sheets the patch of damp where my body gave off heat

now cooled by the breeze on the 300 count sheets where I try to rouse my

mind with the mental tempts of caffeine that I spill on the 300 count sheets

crumbs from my toast with the drips of manuka and butter blend with the

sweat on the 300 count sheets I place my feet on the cool wood floor and

out the door I go trailing the 300 count sheets.

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

***Note: Please see the podomatic podcast in my sidebar at top left to listen to this poem. Thanks.

Other participants in Original Poetry Sunday:

Robert Frost’s Banjo

Amazing Voyages of the Turtle

Apogee Poet

Yes is Red

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