Now and Then

Now and then, I remember
when we were young.
We made love in a cold room
with plastic sheeting on the window.
We rocked and rolled
beneath the patterned quilt—
(our un-guilty Christmas gift
to each other),
and kept our socks on.

We didn’t care about the blare
of Seger’s “Still the Same”
coming from the flat upstairs,
and “Jagged Little Pill”
across the hall.
We only knew our own
small world under the covers.

We worked temp
to pay the bills,
shopped “no frills”
for yellow-labeled cans
and made plans for the future …

milestones have transpired,
but we can smile
at how happy we were
and how we still have some fire—
we’re still the same lovers …
now and then.

Kathleen Mortensen©2017

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Through the Looking Glass

Lost my looks
some time ago, at least
that’s how it feels,
despite appeals of protest
from the man in my life.

Gone more grey, recently
from the strife of just being alive.

Sure, I scrub up well,
and maybe only I can tell
my hair is thinning
and a thickness is winning
at the middle.

I’m not exactly an old biddy yet,
but there’s no surprise in eyes anymore
when I reveal my age.

I look in the bathroom mirror
and wonder when it happened?
There must have been a solitary day
where I crossed that line
between youth and … anyway,

don’t know where I’m going with this,
and then I think,
nobody’s waiting for it—there’s no deadline,
all these changes will still be here
to write about tomorrow …
unless I’m not.

*wink, wink

Kathleen Mortensen © 2017

New Album (for David Bowie)

The plastic tears
The record slips out
The dust-cover squeaks
The needle clicks
The speakers blare
The song thrills

The voice excites me
The eyes seduce me
The hands beckon me
The leather entices me
The pose confuses me
The face distracts me

My heart throbs
My hands tremble
My eyes succumb
His face relaxes
His voice halts
The music fades

My mind wanders…
…No one’s home
I play “Heroes”.

Kathleen Mortensen (nee Davison) © 1979

ECHO

We played hide and seek to The Killing Moon
In between the mid-century chairs.
Up and down dark stairs (your parents weren’t there).
We were laughing, but the joke was all on me.

It felt like love—that rush of blood to my heart.
(You were never really part of it at all, were you?)
You couldn’t fall off your high horse.
(Well, I suppose I put you there.)

Must have been a lark, having me on your string
Was it? (Silly little thing.)
I’d crop and dye my hair for you, wear whatever turned you on.
(Silly little pawn.)

You once called me Calypso, but you lied;
I had no power over you—you were no hero.

Now I sit, snug in a booth, chop-sticking Thai
Across from the man I’ve loved for years
(He can stop my heart’s tick with a semi-smile.)

Music plays; I recognize the tune: The Killing Moon.
It surprises me; the old wounds still sting
For a while.

Kat Mortensen©2011

Impressions (Memories of Youth)

I can’t remember who worked the pumps
At that gas station on the Eskasoni Road,
But I can taste their orange-pineapple ice-cream
Like it was yesterday.

I can’t envision a single one called MacAdam
On that farm up the hill, but I remember
Cuddly kittens in the barn and sticky-sweet fresh cows’ milk.

I don’t know who was there that summer,
But I can feel the chilly outhouse hole
Beneath my bottom—see the fireflies
Dancing me back to bed.

I can’t retrace the paces to that folk dance
We mastered at St. F’s school,
But still I see the red-wool ribbon pulling back my hair—
My favourite long, plaid peasant-dress.

I don’t know who checked us out
At the clean green, grocery-store,
But I can feel my leotards slip on the shiny, stiff
Plastic horse by the front window—hear the nickel-clink.

I can’t resurrect the old man’s face again,
Down eastward on that 1960s train,
But I can hear his accent inquiring of me,
“Parlez-vous Francais”?

I’ve packed away those long-dead kisses
From men and boys-gone-by;
Lips soon forget, but I yet inhale
The pungency of Jovan Musk and Brut.

I’ve no clue to the colours of their eyes—
Guitar-toting guys on Ingonish beach,
But still the memory comes back to me each time I hear
Hotel California,

But each time you walk out the door
Of my life every single day
Your face remains indelibly traced
On the walls of my mind.

Kat Mortensen copyright 2008

ECHO

We played hide and seek to The Killing Moon
In between the mid-century chairs;
Up and down dark stairs (your parents weren’t there).
We were laughing, but the joke was all on me.

It felt like love —that rush of blood to my heart.
(You were never really part of it at all, were you?)
You couldn’t fall off your high horse.
(Well,  I suppose I put you there.)

Must have been a lark, having me on your string
Was it? (Silly little thing.)
I’d crop and dye my hair for you, wear whatever turned you on.
(Silly little pawn.)

You once called me Calypso, but you lied;
I had no power over you —you were no hero.

Now, I sit, snug in a booth, chop-sticking Thai
Across from the man I’ve loved for years
(He can stop my heart’s tick with a semi-smile.)

Music plays; I recognize the tune: The Killing Moon.
It surprises me; the old wounds still sting
For a while.

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker

Found poetry (scribbled notes, stuck in the back of a drawer).

Scan10004

Photo by William Davison circa 1964

Metamorphosis

You were ever the elusive one;

I was effusive enough for all.

Our downfall was that we

Would never be conducive to love.

I fashioned dreams, knowing

All along that they were wrong.

You wrung, tears and blood

From my body and soul.

You got what you came for;

I lost what I had—

That little girl, eluding me,

When you took off.

Kat Mortensen©2010 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker