Author Archives: Kat Myrman

enough

A Cleave poem for today. Three poems in one. Read the first section top to bottom, then the next top to bottom and finally, read each line in full top to bottom.


enough

years of oppression / reeking of privilege
have led to this moment / opportunistic instigators
they gathered in peace / seeking to cause unrest
to appeal for change / their racism and hate exposed
to be treated equally / inflamed by an impotent president
to feel safe in their own country / take up arms
to take their place as citizens / there can be no peace
it is not too much to ask / as long as fear
basic, human dignity, justice / incites violence
healing from trauma / a population asleep
the American dream / seduced by lies of greatness
accessible to all / meant for the few
people of good will / the different others
stand beside their sisters and brothers / must be contained
enough is enough / kept in their place
the tide is changing / to make America great again

~kat


mother to mother

mother to mother

I can’t begin to understand
the everyday of life for you
I can’t begin to understand
I want to help, what should I do?
my privilege blinds me to your plight
the everyday of life for you
the fear that you must feel each night,
each time your children go outside
my privilege blinds me to your plight
your suffering, the tears you’ve cried
enough’s enough, the time has come
each time your children go outside
that all our kids are safe, not some
I hope you know I stand with you
enough’s enough, the time has come
for me to listen to your truth
I can’t begin to understand
I hope you know I stand with you
I can’t begin to understand

~kat


For today, a Terzanelle. Sculpture: Melancolie in Bronze by Artist, Albert György located in Geneva, Switzerland, photographed by Mary Friona-Celani of Buffalo, NY.


white noise

white noise

I am bones, marrow,
a song in mute, white
noise silence, a blank
nothing, my soul red,
I am a glimpse, a breath
I am undone by worry
turning to dust

~kat


A Blackout Poem inspired by the poem below by Afaa Michael Weaver.

Flux

I am a city of bones
deep inside my marrow,
a song in electric chords,
decrescendo to mute, rise
to white noise, half silences
in a blank harmony as all
comes to nothing, my eyes
the central fire of my soul,
yellow, orange, red—gone
in an instant and then back
when
 I am, for a glimpse,
as precise as a bird’s breath,
when I am perfect, undone
by hope when hope will not
listen, the moon wasting
to where I need not
 worry
that bones turn to ash,
a brittle staccato in dust.


the rose

we need not crush 
the petals of the
rose to smell her
sweetness...she bares
her soul freely
on the wind

~kat


Magnetic Poetry – Original Kit


Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 31 May 2020

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” ~Mr. Rogers

I used to think this was a lovely sentiment for the late Fred Rogers, meant to calm our fears when the world grew dark and scary. “Look for the helpers…” These days the “helpers” are harder to find in the midst of a pandemic when we cannot trust the words and actions of those in the highest ranks of our government, when those charged with serving and protecting us are fatally flawed human beings who act on the vile depths of hate and prejudice toward people of color, when the greatest nation who once welcomed the refugee now separates babies from their mothers caging them, causing lifelong harm, when our children are expected to bear the burden of our spineless inaction by enacting active shooter drills in schools, when our commerce-driven government believes the bottom line is worth allowing the vulnerable, the sick, the old among us die so that others may get a haircut, gather at rallies and throw back a few brews at the local bar. Who and where are the helpers in a time like this? What good does peaceful protests, what good even does burning our cities to the ground do, when the helpers are dwindling among us, because we all need help right now. We are all broken.

I don’t have any answers and it makes me feel helpless and sad. It has been a bad week. Now over 100,000 people have died, many of them alone, from the virus in the U.S. 100,000 that we know of. It’s impossible to know the true cost because we have no idea how many of us have the virus. And no less significant, the world watched in horror as one black man was murdered in broad daylight by a policeman, while three others stood by…helpers but not the good kind. This has been happening for too long. Too long. I don’t have any answers. All I do know is this. Enough. Enough. Enough.

Stay safe, be kind, keep each other safe. It’s all I know to do right now. I wish it were more. Maybe it could be if enough of us do it. Maybe it’s time for each of us to stop looking for the helpers and be the helpers that we seek. Peace!


Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 31 May 2020

evil comes in phases
I don’t venture far from home
it was too much
I don’t miss normal
the nest abandoned, no time to mourn…

~kat


A ReVerse poem (a practice I started many years ago) is a summary poem with a single line lifted from each entry of a collection of work over a particular timeframe and re-penned in chronological order as a new poem. Unlike a collaborative poem, the ReVerse features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week.


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