The Ghosts of War
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.
They march in time
(for old times’ sake)
as medals clink
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
|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.
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.
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
We cling to our dinghy,
and try to sleep.
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
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
Photo by Kat
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!”
Visit the Theme Thursday website for more worthwhile post experiences.