A lot of us are liars,
telling tales long past our days
of being out of school.
We’re the quiet town criers
selling our souls
on every street corner.
You may think you know us,
but every word we say could be truth
Anyone who uses—
anyone who chooses
their words so carefully,
should arouse your suspicion.
And when the muse conspires
with us to summon up
some notions we want to disperse
(be it story, tale, or verse),
we must discern
if we even dare trust her.
Just because you follow
us in our addiction—think
you’ve got us sussed,
(maybe I’m the biggest liar—
or worse, someone else entirely).
Kathleen Mortensen © 2017
How many beaches over time
have borne the weight of
The sands, depressed,
the wells of sadness
at the bottom
left their souls
forever on those
desperate, washed out
Time and time,
the sweetest child,
found nothing, but a cold
damp pillow, on which to plant their
faces at the last.
The past, becomes the present—
will be the future.
All of us must
learn the lessons of the dead.
It may not be a beach,
where we come to rest our head,
but the earth awaits,
our rotting flesh,
scattered for posterity.
Kat Mortensen ©2015
Inspired by this work by Elan Mudrow.
Where life begins,
Hawk their voo-doo
On the wall—
Heed not, their call.
Now that the spirit
Step out, in your
It will do no good—
Your soul is setting off
On its journey
And you can’t
Visit The Chocolate Chip Waffle for links to other Poetry Bus participants.
Please note: Yesterday, when I posted this, I was a bit pressed for time and as a result I neglected to mention that it is the charming Terresa Wellborn who hosts the above blog and who provided us with this intriguing photo-prompt.
We pray for our friends in Australia who have recently lost so much.
Photo by Graeme Pinniger(2007) on Flickr
(Banksia “men” after an Australian bush-fire)
After the Fire
After the fire, we will need to rebuild
Not just the house–but ourselves;
Raise a new roof, hang some pictures,
Put up some new-built bookshelves.
After the fire, when there’s merely,
The cinders, the ashes, the grime;
We’ll start up from scratch, with fresh linens–
Make new beds for the very first time.
After the fire, once we’ve settled
With nothing we knew from before;
We’ll reach back to recapture the treasures
From old lives, we still crave at our core.
After the fire, we’ll have nothing,
Save each body, each soul and each mind,
But we’ll hold in our heart all the memories
Of those days that have blown to the wind.