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 
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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!

One of Our Own

Photo by Peadar O’Donoghue

TFE has informed those of us who ride The Poetry Bus that one of our members has passed away.

We take for granted, I think, everyday, that those with whom we communicate in this cyberworld will be here each day, to make their posts, or comment back and forth or even e-mail or “message” us or friend us on Facebook. The real world only occasionally usurps our guilty online pleasure.

Today, join with me and others who are comrades over at Totalfeckineejit and please follow this link to honour one of our “fallen” who was a lovely and caring individual and a wonderful poet and has recently passed from our presence and from this earth.

TFE’s link to Drama Queen’s post.

Thanks,

Kat

Blame it on the TFE! (Monday Music Poem)

Gypsy Wife

Even before it begins,
I know how it will go–
a smooth merlot
or two,
and you will
chase me up
those stairs again
fall upon the bed again,
to his voice – that voice
and sweet refrain:
“My Gypsy Wife”.

Was I that wild
in your eyes too?
when first we met
and love was new;
you chased me
up the stairs
back then
without the balalaika’s
strain.
Where, where
has she gone?

Pour me
another one.
Let’s see if we
can find her once again–
your gypsy wife.

Kat Mortensen©2009

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(Leonard Cohen: The Gypsy’s Wife)

 

Okay, so I lied. Check this out!

As you can see, I have the will-power of a 4 year old. I just wanted to draw your attention to the sheer genius that is my good friend, TFE (Totalfeckineejit, to those in the know). Don’t be fooled by the “eejit” bit. He is right up there with Einstein, Da Vinci, Dante Alighieri and more recently, Ken Jennings (google if you don’t know).

You MUST go to his blog straight away and see his Magnum Opus: Hippo on a Motorcycle…

The man is wasted, I tell you! (Wait, I mean that in the nicest possible way.)

You’ll need to take the following along if you’re going to pop ’round: tissues, a glass of water, and or diapers. Just trust me on that.

Don’t worry about getting bogged down in the jargon: just drink in the incredible talent and inspiration of this prodigy I’m so proud to call my friend.

Laters,

Kat