Swing-set

It was your day.
We went for a stroll
to while the time away—
just like you, to keep it simple.

The sun was glaring at us
and we’d left our shades at home,
still, we roamed along
the new cement that lines the road—
listening to a jay’s shrill cries,
as if to say, happy birthday.

I was keen to fool around,
running across the road to the
green playground,
where old-time swings
hang waiting to sway.
The seat was soaked,
from the night’s rain.
I wiped my sleeve back and forth
in the pool of water;
you whipped out a tissue
to mop up the rest.

It’s your day, you first! I laughed.
You were quick to settle in
to the rubber sling, your feet
rising from the sand.

I pushed the small of your back
with splayed hands,
and felt like a kid again,
waiting for a turn
to be the one having all the fun.

Up you rose, higher and higher,
flying back into your childhood memories,
where I don’t belong.

Those strong chains,
held on and I let you go,
pumping those legs like a little boy
with grass-stained knees,
rising up to the trees and sky beyond.

“Don’t jump off”, I warned.
You dragged your toes,
until the swing came to a halt,
and stepped away,
a fifty-four year old married man again.

Then, I grabbed the iron chains,
lifting my seat
into the black, rubber swing.
You stood and gave a good shove;
I drifted high into a dream of
hazy days when

it was my daddy
behind me.

Slowing down, I looked over
at the plastic slide
on the other side of the park,
recalling the singe of metal
on the backs of thighs
and felt the sting
of time.

Kathleen Mortensen ©2016

Advertisements

Now that’s funny!

Funny,

how pop stars and politicians used to look so old—
now they look like kids;

I never liked kalamata olives,
then one day, I did;

T.V.’s just not as good,
as the book I’m halfway through;

some words just don’t feel right in my mouth,
like “awesome” (others too);

the mirror used to be an obsession,
now I really don’t give a damn;

radical fashion was all the rage,
now it could be my Hallowe’en costume;

everybody seemed to live forever,
now wakes and funerals take up space in my calendar.

Before you know it, it’s 3:00 p.m.
Before you know it, it’s Thursday again.
Before you know it, it’s New Year again.

Funny.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Two Poems For the Real Easter





Triduum Triolets

Triduum Triolet I (2009)

When the season’s over I’ll be glad;

Though He died, for me, it’s you who’s dead.

These three days I know I should be sad—

When the season’s over I’ll be glad.

If I hear that hymn I’ll feel so bad;

Your voice, the one that sings, “O ‘Sacred Head”

When the season’s over I’ll be glad;

Though He died, for me, it’s you who’s dead.

Triduum Triolet II (2012)

When the season comes, I shall rejoice

Now I am to sing, and years have flown.

To Passion and  to Victory, I’ll give voice—

When the season comes, I shall rejoice.

I will sing that hymn again, by choice;

Though the one, your voice will ever own.

When the season comes, I shall rejoice;

Now I am to sing, and years have flown.

Kat Mortensen©2012 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

LA LA LAND

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.

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Listen to a voice-recording of this poem here:

In spite of myself

 

RUN-OF-THE-MILL

Again, it’s time to put it to the page
(She always pulls me up short;
Her invisible hand be-stills my pen.)
The red stop-sign springs up in front of my face—
my raging critic reminds me once again,
that I won’t amount to much
(and half my life is done).
Time is running out,
yet I let it waste away—
the days come to nothing.
My mediocrity has me on the rack;
it twists and turns me ‘til I crack.

I want to make a comeback,
but I was never on top to begin with.

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker