Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes

And that's the truth ... almost.

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 16:37:00 +0000

Click for photo source.

I saw this over at Rachel's blog, "More About the Song" and couldn't resist testing my followers to see just how well they think they know me.
The list below contains one blatant lie. See if you can pick it out.

Good luck!

1. I love black olives.
2. I do not like camping.
3. I have an older half-sister and a younger adopted one.
4. I love to watch American Football (Go Bills!)
5. I was a radio disc jockey in university
6. I once dated a French Canadian who wore harem pants.
7. I am afraid of heights.
8. I have fished brook trout (dug worms, baited hook, caught, cleaned and cooked them).
9. I despise shopping malls.
10. I have been on the back of a fast-moving Kawaski 750.

Please bear with me.

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 20:20:00 +0000

Click for photo source.

I'm sure some of you think I've gone all schizo or something with the constant changes I keep making to my background on this blog. The truth is, I have yet to find THE one that satisfies me. I'm not really a "hearts and flowers" type, nor am I all scrap-booky, or buttons and bows.
The problem is, I do want something unique, but now showy and when I find colours I like, I seem to get some flower or button thing thrown into the mix. This is the reason for my losing the most recent background that was present until this morning.

The reason I'm telling you this is because you may have to put up with a few experiments over the next few days, so please just bear with me as I come to a resolution. The good new is, I am delighted with the background for my haiku blog, "Kigo of the Kat". (If you've not dropped in over there yet, I urge you to do so). Give it a try! My haiku/senryu are a little bit out of the ordinary.

I'm also pleased as punch with the background I've finally found for "Blasts From the Past". It's got the retrospective colour-scheme I've been searching for and accommodates my posts and sidebar very nicely. I realize I've been a bit slow with the Blast posts recently, but I hope to get back on track with more regular offerings soon.

That's the lowdown. I haven't lost my marbles—yet!

Kat

Theme Thursday: "Late"

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 13:16:00 +0000

Of Late

Lately,
I think of you—
my late one;
the latest question being,
do I disappoint you
with my crisis of faith?
A belated after-effect perhaps?
I test the bounds of freedom—
never quite losing my credo
altogether,
yet knowing
I can choose
to partake, or not
with no consequences
is heady stuff.
Later on,
I'm sure—
long before the need
for a death-bed confession,
I shall return
before it's too late.

Kat Mortensen©2009

Thank you.

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 11:55:00 +0000

Thank you all so much for your generous and sympathetic comments on my last two posts. You made the day so much more bearable for me and I will not forget it.

Sincerely,

Kat

Sorting through some old mementoes…

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 02:02:00 +0000

(Unfortunately, the quality of the image of a painting by William Holman Hunt (1827 -1910) cannot be captured adequately with my scanner.)

I came across this card I had given to my father for Father's Day, back in the 1980s. It brought a few tears to my eyes, but it made me glad that I had given him something so significant. The image on the card is entitled, “Her First Sermon” and that would have been important to him, reinforcing the fact that all his teachings about my faith had not been lost on me.

Inside the blank card, I had copied a poem by e.e. cummings. For me, this poem is truly significant, not just for the words in it, but for the fact that I chose it particularly. I’m sure I did not know cummings's work very well (still don’t, if I’m honest), but I did know that this poem would have meaning for my father—express how much I loved him. I only hope he’s proud of what I’m doing now, proud of my attempts to be a poet and a writer. He did love words, my father, and he passed that love on to me. What a great gift it is.

(Taken from “my father moved through dooms of love”. Please note: the verses are not in the correct order.)

My father moved through dooms of love

through sames of am through haves of give

singing each morning out of each night

my father moved through depths of height

Joy was his song and joy so pure

a heart of star by him could steer

and pure so now and now so yes

the wrists of twilight would rejoice

My father moved through they of we,

singing each new leaf out of each tree

(and every child was sure that spring

danced when she heard my father sing)

and nothing quite so least as truth

— i say though hate were why men breathe—

because my Father lived his soul

love is the whole and more than all.

This time, last year...

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 14:54:00 +0000

At this time last year, we were participating in a vigil and waiting for my father to leave our midst. This is a poem I wrote some short weeks before that. It captures somewhat the thoughts that were in my head at the time.

Hole

Hole…

Round and black,
Low in your back,
Pack and re-pack;
You ride the track—
To your last stop.

Hole…

In the ground,
Where you are bound,
We’ll make the mound,
Scarce with a sound—
After you drop.

Hole…

In my head,
When you are dead,
Soft shall we tread,
Our feet of lead—
Your spouse and scop.

Hole…

In my heart,
When you depart,
Tears can not thwart
The sorrow, smart—
Let sound my "YAWP".

Kathleen Mortensen©2008

Singular New Poetry Blog from the man who brought you "Robert Frost's Banjo"

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 21:27:00 +0000

Looking for a really good read? Like your poetry with some edge, a bit of bite, something a little unexpected? Then head over to John Hayes's new blog, "The Days of Wine and Roses".

John's been putting a lid on his poetic muse for a spell, but the muse has been kicking up a fuss and finally got her way. So this new blog is where John is sharing some older pieces and will be giving us lucky bloggers in the know a look at his new works too.

You do NOT want to miss this. Trust me. You trust me, don't you? I wouldn't steer you wrong and I know you're going to love it. (Incidentally, Robert Frost's Banjo is still very much alive.)

Don't dilly-dally! Get on over there! (And tell him Kat sent you.)

One of Our Own

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 11:43:00 +0000

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

Friday Feast of the Week #10

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 15:26:00 +0000

Click photo for source.

Kat’s Pasta e Fagioli

Ingredients:

3 Tbsp. olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 can diced tomatoes

1/2 cup fresh parsley, chopped

1 tsp. each basil and oregano

1 cup canned, white kidney beans (rinsed and drained)*

freshly ground black pepper

1 cup pasta (I use whole wheat or spelt penne, fusilli or farfalle)

parmesan cheese

Method:

Cook pasta and set aside. Saute garlic in oil for 2 minutes. Add tomatoes, parsley, basil and oregano. Simmer for 15 mins. Add beans and simmer for 5 more minutes. Season to taste. Add pasta and mix well. Serve with grated parmesan. Goes well with a vinaigrette salad and a French loaf.

*In a pinch, a tin of baked beans works really well too.

Theme Thursday: “Telephone”

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 16:34:00 +0000

Hold The Phone

A black bakelite box with heavy handle

used to rest on the cherryw00d

end table, but it never rang

for my tiny ears or hands to hold,

not until I reached high enough

(on the hippy-dippy, flower-power chair)

to grab the smooth, green receiver,

off the new box on the kitchen wall

in the new house, and say, “Hello!”

I’d slump down in the doorway

between the hall carpet and the shiny lino—

just shootin’ the breeze with the gal-next-door

(though we’d be meeting up in minutes to discuss it all

once more).

Later, it was the Time-Magazine free gift

of a Chinese-cheap, push-button

with the long, long, long, long cord;

the rat-a-tat-tat of the pulse-tone

(couldn’t afford the beeping one)

hammering the side of my head,

as, filled with dread

I made that morning-teacher call.

Dates—blind and otherwise (some

previously viewed)—

most, not living up to the sounds of

their voices on the other end of the line,

made disappointing arrangements.

That’s fine.

Too bad, that cad after cad

came and went with ring after ring.

And yet, this plastic thing

would bring true love.

(It was a telephone that facilitated

my felicitous union and

I am grateful to Mr. Bell, or Gray—

whomever did it first.)

Now, I charge and recharge

my little, cartable communicator;

flip, my trippy techno-wonder,

but still, I insist on a land-line

to keep me grounded.

Tell you a secret:

After, “Sorry,

Wrong Number”,

I always wanted

a princess.

For the Fallen (reprise)

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 16:53:00 +0000

Click image for source.

Dear Mother (A Son's Letters from the Front)

Dear Mother,

It's me, John— a warrior, made
I'm all kitted out
With a gun and a blade.
My boots are so heavy,
My helmet's too tight,
But I'm ready at last,
To join those in the fight.

Dear Mama,

I've only a minute to pen
This letter, before
We march off once again.
My boots are so heavy,
My helmet's too tight,
But the General says go!
So I'm quelling my fright.

Dear Mum,

This stain's not a tear from your son,
It's only the oil that I
Used for my gun.
My boots are so heavy,
My helmet's too tight,
But I’ll follow the charge
When our foe is in sight.

Dear Mom,

I'm sorry, I'm not coming home
For your Thanksgiving dinner—
I'm off to the Somme.
My boots are so heavy,
My helmet's too tight,
But I've made it so far—
Say my prayers every night.

Dear Ma,

It's so muddy and
Cold in this trench
Each night as I lie in this
Filth and the stench.
My boots are so heavy,
My helmet's too tight,
But when dawn comes it's over
The edge, wrong or right.

Dear...

Kat Mortensen©2008

And We're Back! (Kat eulogizes some family pets.)

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 21:03:00 +0000

Poetikat's Blasts From the Past: Reigning cats and dogs (and birds, and fish and rodents) - Part One.

Hey folks! Don't be afraid to post your comments over on the Blasts blog! (And I'd just love it if you decided to sign on and follow me over there too.)

Theme Thursday: “castle”

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 18:31:00 +0000

Fairy Tale

A long, long time ago,

You, were the tall, dark and handsome Prince,

to my Fairy-Princess.

Ruling with an Irish fist,

you fed me on coconut-cakes

and cherry-almond tarts.

You dressed me in frilly finery

and shiny shoes.

We lived in the castle on the crescent

and watched the moons wane

through Palladio’s panes.

Time and again,

I incurred your ire

for my fool-hardiness.

Always, you granted

your pardon—

deluged me

with adornments

and adoration.

Many years had passed,

then Darkness cast its sleepy charm.

Pulled you down

under

Lethe’s deeps, to do you harm.

You lay, in sweet oblivion

under a casket of glass.

I touched you,

but your eyes would not open;

I kissed your hand,

but I could not break

the spell.

*Please visit the Theme Thursday link in my sidebar to see other participants’ offerings.

Reflections on a gloomy day.

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 20:27:00 +0000

Click picture for original source.

Hope

November embers—

ashes from my father’s grave.

No. Wait!

He was buried.

It’s merely dust,

fusting up my head.

Clouds (or were they

clods?)

of earth

chucked in

behind him,

but we weren’t there

for that

(neither was he

if you believe

in All Souls).

November first—

I thirst for life,

yet fear the worst.

My own gets closer

to its end

with every leaf

that drops

and every

feather on the ground

signifying…

November exposes

last summer’s roses—

strips them and they’re

g o n e.

I saw a robin

fence-sitting.

It gave me hope

for Spring.

Fire burn and cauldron bubble…some animated treats.

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 14:50:00 +0000

A few cartoon memories from my childhood:

Everybody’s favourite witch: “Witch Hazel”, has Bugs Bunny for dinner.

I don't recall ever hearing my father laugh as hard as he did at the headless horseman scene in this one.

Happy Halloween folks!

Theme Thursday: “Halloween”

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 19:57:00 +0000

Click pic for Flickr source.

Great Expectations

Kat Morten's Podcast

Great Expectations

All Hallow’s Eve, she was naive,

and he had charm.

Doe-eyed and tall, he held in thrall—

proffered his arm.

She walked beside him, like a bride

in wedding gown,

And when he smirked her strings all jerked—

his puppet-clown.

For party night, she looked a fright,

at her own hand.

Mom’s marriage-dress, her hair a mess—

talc through each strand.

The faded rose of drooping hose

and ragged frill,

she looked the part—the broken heart

from Dickens quill.

He wore no rig, to match the gig—

mask set in place.

Drawing her near, he nipped her ear

and licked her face.

As in those tales of ingenues

who meet their fate,

he knew that now the time had come

for his check-mate.

They stole away, shut out the fray

and found a room.

The steel-trap door, an icy floor

she, with her groom.

There Havisham, for swift wham-bam,

gave up the ghost.

Her nuptial gown, rode up and down—

her virtue lost.

Bus-riders: A missing page of notes! Insert between these lines…

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 23:43:00 +0000

See previous post: An Acid Trip on the Poetry Bus.

I’m drowning.

I’m …

I am at the bottom.

Shh!!!

Ceolacanth rising

those tiny eyes

spy me—

little teeth like a clavichord

Violins! The Violins!

Nails on a blackboard.

The Dead float by

their hollow

sockets seeking

me. Come they say.

Who are you?

Come, they say…

Wake me up.

An Acid Trip on the Poetry Bus.

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 18:43:00 +0000

Let it be known that I responded to this piece without being aware of the last two words in the title. Thus, I make no apologies for a lack of reference to anything to do with the event implied.

Impressions of Threnody For the Victims (of Hiroshima)

She’s coming for me,

the ghost of myself.

Am I paranoid?

What? What?

What do you want?

Why me?

The birds are shrieking

or is it violins?

or is it violence?

Now! The bees, buzzing

and the gulls, insisting

quieter,

quieter

Oh Africa!

Stomping on those drums

Jungle insects,

birds in a frenzy,

the lions are pouncing

elephants lurking,

they’re so quiet!

What can it mean?

Where have they gone?

Was it my dream?

Was it my dream?

My heart is rising

with the sirens

in the distance.

Floating—

a dead thing

beside the limp

jellyfish,

as little glitterfish

sparkle

then the whale comes

to swallow me whole.

I am in the belly;

call me Ishmael!

call me Job

call me Pinocchio—

I am a liar!

On Shakespeare’s stage

we begin

the fencing match!

I am pierced!

It is the end!

My blood runs

so cold!

Silence deafens me

and then the waves begin

to sweep in…

Tidal!

Over my head!

I’m drowning!

I’m…

Wake me up.

Wake me up now!

My head is pounding,

about to burst;

my temples throb.

Seabirds en masse—

a mountain of terns

calling my name.

Rise from the depths!

I’m floating now,

floating to the surface.

Calmed. Calmed.

I am breaking

the waterline.

You are invited to taste…

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 15:11:00 +0000

Click pic for source.

… a bit of Haiku.

Dear Friends of Poetikat’s Invisible Keepsakes,

I invite you to visit my new satellite-site devoted exclusively to the Japanese, poetic art of Haiku.

The Kigo of the Kat blog aims to explore each of the seasons as they unfold with observations of the natural world.

These enjoyable daily poetic exercises are my sudoku with words.

Here’s a sample of some recent entries:

Haiku #6 - Autumn

Black knights joust with winds
Wings tilt against grungy sky—
Errant paper kites.

Haiku #3 - Autumn

October winds rail
Over boneyard stones yonder—
August's widow grieves.

Please join me at Kigo of the Kat, for some swift seasonal impressions that may remain in mind for a long time to come.

Thank you!

Friday Feast of the Week #9

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 14:29:00 +0000

Click for source

Kat’s Ratatouille Linguine

Ingredients:

1 medium eggplant (aubergine)

1 medium onion, chopped

1 zucchini, chopped (courgette)

1 green pepper, diced

2 large cloves garlic, minced

10 cremini mushrooms, chopped

1 can unsalted, diced tomatoes, drained

1/2 jar organic pasta sauce (your choice)

1 tsp. each, dried oregano and basil

(or use fresh if it is available)

1/2 tsp. black pepper, freshly ground

salt to taste

goat’s cheese to top

Packaged linguine (I use spelt - about a quarter-size diameter per person)

1 Tbsp. olive oil for cooking

Method:

Puncture eggplant all over with fork. Bake at 375degrees for 40 mins+.

Section eggplant, peel skin off and discard. Chop pulp into cubes. Heat oil in pan and saute eggplant, mushrooms, onions, zucchini and green pepper until soft. Add garlic and stir-fry for a few seconds. Add tomatoes, herbs, pepper and salt to taste. Add pasta sauce. Stir to heat through. Turn saucepan down to low and cover. Cook linguine until just tender (al dente). Drain. Spoon 1/4 of sauce over pasta and toss. Serve on plates 0r in shallow bowls. Add more sauce and top with crumbled goat cheese.

Theme Thursday: “traffic”

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 12:59:00 +0000

Click pic for source.

All green-light nightmare
Confused crossroads crushed with cars—
Mind-traffic gridlock.

Kat Mortensen©2009

To read more participants’ offerings, or to sign up, please see the link in my sidebar.

I invite you also to visit my new blog devoted exclusively to haiku here:

Kigo of the Kat

Announcing Poetikat’s New Zone: The Den of Zen

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 19:43:00 +0000

Poetikat humbly invites you to visit her new blog exclusively for the poetic art of haiku.

Please assemble at Kigo of the Kat and share your thoughts. (Don’t forget to sign up to follow as the Kat unveils the seasons.)

Arigato! ありがとう!

kat

OSI: “conquer”

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 15:58:00 +0000

Click for source.

Temporary Insanity

i have conquered my day

with cups of coffee;

my mind’s a gerbil-spiral

spinning with imaginings

of self-importance.

i rise to the bait—

keen to get the ramblings

on the page;

this rush, this influx

of crushed bean’s-juice

sluicing through my veins,

boosting my ego

to unseen heights.

too soon it fades.

my tired limbs invade

the heady buoyancy—

my rat-round slowing

down

the ride,

i find a place

once more

to hide.

Got my ticket on the Poetry Bus. (I unearth a little Plath).

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 14:36:00 +0000

Click picture for Flickr source.

Reactance (Surviving Sylvia)

Hark! To the

     gravelly voice,

         the war-reel patriot

            from a grainy screen--

grating…prating on.

Do you feel your time is come?

Does it pull you

under--

that deep, lull, calling up

that urge, to purge

your sins

in one, fell swoop?

Nay! Contrary,

to the mood,

are you not re-birthed

by the bloody-mindedness

of it?

Want your life--

all the more?

Want to go on…

forever?

Say you feel like

dancing!

(on someone’s

grave).

N.B. This piece evolved from watching and listening to a Youtube video of Plath reading “Lady Lazarus”.

For more participants (or to get a ticket) on TFE’s magical Poetry Bus ride, see my sidebar under “Sick Transit”.

To listen to a reading of "Reactance (Surviving Sylvia), check out this podcast:

Reactance

Kat Morten's Podcast

More Breaking News in the Backyard:

poetikat46@yahoo.ca (Poetikat) — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 17:22:00 +0000

Photos by Kat

Sunday Headlines at the Hyggehus

Downy woodpecker

Brooks no limbed interference--

Secures seedy feast.

Grey-coats launch assault

On wire-wrapped vault of goodies--

Fan-tails, quick-flicking.

Crimson crusader

Sounds shrill signal of alarm--

Fur-clad foe scurry.

Ever-wary, Chip

Keeps his head, steering well clear

Of frontline action.

Stay tuned for more breaking news as the seasons unfold!

*Please note: Downy Woodpecker did not wish to appear on camera.