Spuds – The Mag #177

Photo by Augustin Berrocal

Spuds (never potatoes)
were compulsory
in our house.

Unthinkable! that a week could pass
without a bowl of them on the table,
steam rising from the cracks
in their skin
burst blisters waiting
for a buttery salve.

Boiled, mashed, fried—
roasted alongside a slab of beef,
or stewed.

Left-over, cold, heaped in a bowl,
in the fridge—
beyond reheat.

What a treat!

We knew not of “carbs” back then.
All we knew was to
thank the Lord for spuds
and say,


Kat Mortensen©2013Creative Commons Licence

Please visit The Mag website and discover a multitude of talented writers who have a variety of perspectives on the image featured above.


You Again

Click the image by  René Magritte to visit The Mag Thank you!

Of course.
It had to be you.
I’d recognize the nape of that neck,

You were always duplicitous,
so it comes as no surprise
that you’re reflected

You, with your pompous books,
and pristine collars—the I-just-brushed-some-dust-
off-my-shoulders look.

I’d bet a dollar,
You set up a tripod
and photographed yourself.

You haven’t changed
a bit.

Kat Mortensen©2013Creative Commons Licence


Please click image to go to The Mag website for details.

I should drown in your unending love;
You will always pull me to the shore.

As I traverse these seas of doubt, I lose my way;
You reach out your hand to rescue me.

Yours is the unquestioning love—
Tireless and without fail.

I fall to my knees and beg you to forgive,
You lift my head and look me in the eye.

Why do I betray you, countless times?
Why do I forget you are my one true love?

I let you slip from me; I navigate alone.

I am adrift on the waves—floating, floating …
You save me once again.

Kat Mortensen©2013Creative Commons Licence

Ashes to ashes

Image by R.A.D. Stainforth

You used to smile and say,

“Cancer sticks”,
Whenever you lit one up,
Placing it between your coral lips.
I’d watch you wave the match, to
Snuff it.
I liked the rustle of foil
As you slipped one out,
and tapped it on the table.
You were such a beauty then—
Hair coiffed and nails done; 
You smelled of Chantilly and ashes.

Men turned their heads,
Until too much suck and blow made them
Turn away.
“Cold Turkey” was the only way to go
In those days.
(You never had much will power.)
I caught you hiding a pack 
In the bin at the back of the counter;
You put your finger to your lips and said,
“Don’t tell Dad.”
(I never did.)
Fifty-two is too soon,
For a heart attack.
I brought you a basket of marigolds
from your garden.
In the parlour,
Everyone remarked how much you had changed.
(Along with the obligatory sleeping line.)
I bent to kiss you in the casket,
Inhaling the faded scent of Chantilly,
And ashes, one last time.

Kat Mortensen©2013Creative Commons Licence

The above poem is the result of a prompt for The Mag #149. Please visit to read fine interpretations of the image at the top of this post. I missed contributing earlier as it was in the midst of the Christmas/New Year business.


The below poem has been prompted by this photo, courtesy of The Mag #151. Click the image to visit the website where you find other exceptional takes on this bizarre photo. Thank you.


Putty pink
Soft and spongy.
I draw you in to my lair.
Hairless and helpless—
The unborn is not
Pink putty,

Kat Mortensen©2013Creative Commons Licence

Father Time* Comes In From The Rain

The tide is in,
and time rides on;

the wedges hold strong,
while Father Time
takes his tea.

When the squall halts
and roygbiv crack the sky

it’s back to work,
keeping the edge straight—

wrenching gravity
into submission.

Kat Mortensen©2012Creative Commons Licence

*The saga of Father Time continues.  Read the original poem, “The Occupation of Father Time”

Both this poem and the original one linked above are the direct result of images posted at The Mag #144. Please visit the link for other excellent pieces inspired by the following image this week:

“Squall” by Andrew Wyeth (1986)


I am open to suggestion

Garbed, for the gale
that will sweep us both away—
You with your lens,
and I,
your subject.

My hands stump you.

Here is the open door;
enter now, before it shuts

See, El Shaddai
is watching.

Kat Mortensen©2012Creative Commons Licence

This poem was spurred on by the compelling image below.  It was provided by Tess Kincaid @ The Mag #142  Go visit, and see what others see, that I did not.

Charis, Lake Ediza, California, 1937 by Edward Weston