Poem inspired by Niamh’s chat with TFE




butterfly wings—so paper thin

their dust flickers and floats—

sticks to my fingertips

leaving traces of the places they’ve been

how many days can they fly?

before their wings will dry out—

crumble and flutter

to the ground for good.


Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker


The Poetry Bus: Fasten your seatbelts! Kato has her hands on the wheel and the pedal to the metal!

Bus Pub

This week we’re going to do something a bit different.  It’s going to be fun and fantastic and surprising.
I’ve had this notion in mind for a very long time.  In fact, I wanted to do it the last time I drove TFE’s Magical, Mystical Poetry Bus, but then an image cropped up that I could not ignore.  Actually, the truth is, I knew this prompt would have its demands and I wasn’t on the right track to write my OWN, but THIS time, I’ve got some good  ideas.
Ready to get rolling?
I want you to think of your favourite Pub.  (Mr. Eejit, I know this prompt was tailor-made for you!)  If you don’t favour a particular pub, think of a bar or restaurant even, but a Pub would be ideal.  Now take the elements from the name of the pub, for example  “The Fox and Fiddle” and create characters out of those elements.  Now write a funny and fun poem (preferably with end-rhymes) that tells a good story.
Think of childhood verse like, “The Owl and The Pussycat”, or even, “Jabberwocky” and write something light and witty and entertaining.
I want us to have fun with this and to end up laughing our socks off!
Are you up for it?  Well, start wracking your brains for the perfect pub-words and get cracking!  (If all else fails, have a shot of something to get those wheels in motion.)
Come back here and tell me when you’re done. Give me your link and I’ll be delighted to post you all, so we can enjoy everyone’s results.
(Is it still Mondays that we strive for? I’ve lost track.)
Vroom! Vroom!
And we’re off!

CHEERS! ( Translations provided by the Alternative Whisky Academy )

Bus Riders:

The Stammering Poet
Bubba’s Place
Bug’s Eye View
120 Socks
Poetry Matters
More About the Song w/ Rachel FoxI Didn’t Know That!
Have Genes Will Travel (Nanu)
Child of a Frosty Morning
Pics and Poems (Dave King)
logB with Chiccoreal
Various w/ Niamh
Titus the Dog
Enchanted Oak
Revolutionary Revelry w/ Jeanne Iris
Alias Jinksy
Mrs. Trellis and Cad
Stop! This is getting very SILLY w/RC-W

The Poetry Bus Rides Again – With Pure Fiction


(Photo by Kat)

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, TFE’s Poetry Bus is setting sail, er, on the road once more. This time, Pure Fiction is at the helm and I’m not just a little “chuffed” as you, British/Scots/Irish are wont to say, that there are chocolate digestive biscuits on board. Yahoo!

She’s looking for a monumental spiritual event, and though I’m a believer, I can’t say as I’ve ever had one of those, so I’ll have to resort to a vicarious one. Here ya go!

Have I lost the plot completely? (Or just missed the bus?)


The female feline, ghostly white,

Gazes up at the swirl-swept ceiling.

Fills us with uneasy feeling;

What does she see—a wispy sprite?

There’s no one there, whom we’d invite.

I feel a chill run through each bone;

Blanche stands stock-still—a pale tombstone.

I find the spot, she’s fixed upon;

Was something there? For now, it’s gone.

Were we perhaps, too impolite?

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

On second thought, this might do nicely,



the smoke


spirals high

is subsumed

by the

streams of



that gleam

the path,
by which my
spirit may
choose to rise



with Yours

is revealed,



is once



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

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 
Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape


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 
Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

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.



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
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)