
though the dark of night
may seem unbearably
long, know that soon comes
the dawn, bright and beautiful
breathing life and light into
every living thing…always
~kat

though the dark of night
may seem unbearably
long, know that soon comes
the dawn, bright and beautiful
breathing life and light into
every living thing…always
~kat

Ode to Bluebirds of Happiness
outside my window
eastern bluebirds happen by
azure wings, orange breast bows
causing me to sigh
how they make these hours inside fly
~kat
With a focus on the ordinary (as in ordinary, everyday people, places, or things) I created a new form I called the Horatiodet. See what I did there? It’s a portmanteau that combines the words Horacian+Ode+et. A Horatiodet is a total of 5 lines, syllable count: 5-7-7-5-9 / rhyme scheme: ababb. In other words, it is a short Horacian Ode (only one stanza), a form based on the style of Horace, Quintus Horatius Flaccus (December 8, 65 BC – November 27, 8 BC), the leading Roman lyric poet during the time of Augustus.

there is a
hush
a blaring din
life
as we once knew it
on pause, love draws near…from a distance
~kat
Because it is still March…
The Pi-Archimedes verse is:
○ a hexastich, a poem in 6 lines.
○ measured by the number of words in each line 3-1-4-1-5-9 to match the numerical sequence of the first six digits of Pi.
○ unrhymed.
Pi=3.14159…

everything seems normal in
a strange abnormal way, spring
is slowly blooming, song birds
twitter away and children home
from school on break are bored,
too bored to play; so normal, all
these little things, the moon and
stars by night, the sun by day and
gentle rain showers damp the
earth, now turning green from gray
but here behind these looming walls,
where home seems more a prison
cell; how long must we be doomed
to shelter here no one can tell, we
wait and hope our loved ones will
be safe from harm and well as days
grow longer, longer still, in this our
taste of hell…meanwhile sycophants
deny and lie and count the sick and
dead and scheme behind their
hallowed halls rewarding haves,
the have nots scraping stone for
bread; we’ve lost our heads, this
much I know, it’s true, if you are
sane you know it too, but there is
not much we can do but count the
hours, days and weeks, our hands
cleaned raw, faces untouched, sparse
company to keep, with nothing left
to do but sleep, to pray our weary
souls to keep beyond this valley
shadowed by the sowing that
we’ve reaped as history repeats
~kat
Week 1, Day 2 of sheltering in place, keeping my distance, washing my hands, feeling helpless yet hopeful we all make it out alive, knowing some of us will not.