Category Archives: Random Thoughts and Musings

learned acquiescence


learned acquiescence

I am domestic
learned from my mother, 
from her mother,
private, distant,
a shadow
I act the part
as time whistles through
one day I plan to be

~kat

A Blackout Poem inspired by poem by Suzanne Buffam, seen below:

Enough
I am wearingdark glasses insidethe house
To match my dark mood.

I have left all the sugar out of the pie.
My rage is a kind of domestic rage.

I learned it from my mother
Who learned it from her mother before her

And so on.
Surely the Greeks had a word for this.

Now surely the Germans do.
The morewords a person knows

To describe her private sufferings
The more distantly she can perceive them.

I repeat the names of all the cities I’ve known
And watch an ant drag its crooked shadow home.

What does it mean to love the lifewe’ve been given?
To act well the part that’s been cast for us?

Wind. Light. Fire. Time.  
A train whistles through the far hills.

One day I plan to be riding it.

Suzanne Buffam, "Enough" from The Irrationalist. Copyright © 2010 by Suzanne Buffam.  Reprinted by permission of Canarium Books.
Source: The Irrationalist (Canarium Books, 2010)


3 A.M.

3 A.M.

I forgot to lock my head
left it wide open, in fact, how
careless of me, before stretching
my toes to the memory foam’s edge,
wrapped to my ears in satin-lined
down. Of course I can’t sleep, with
that incessant drip, drip, drip, because,
wouldn’t you know, I left my brain on too,
just a smidge, enough to dry up the well
water, water everywhere, dry to my bones,
tired of counting sheep, stupid sheep, at
three A.M. while a moth slams Itself
against the strobing blue-green light
from the smoke alarm on the ceiling. I know,
I know it’s hard to resist crazy, when
it courses through your veins, damn weak
link in the old double helix, instinct perhaps,
but, about that door, we don’t live in a barn
here you know…yeah, I know, but what about living in a barn is meant to dissuade me? It’s
4:27 A.M. now, two more hours before dawn
or the alarm clock, whichever comes first,
ruining a decent REM cycle…if only
I’d locked my head before turning in…
4:51 am and counting…4:52…4:53…

~kat

alternative mentality

alternative mentality

science warned of global warming

hoped the world would heed their call

now ancient forests burn and fall,

tempests rage, o’er oceans, swarming,

plagues, death, riots in the streets

and through it all, our leader tweets

nothing to see here, all is great

it’s all a hoax, you’ll see, just wait…

our only hope is his defeat

~kat


For today’s challenge at Ronovanwrites, write a décima where the word FALL must be one of the B line words. Then the other B line(s) word(s) must rhyme with FALL.

A Décima is a 10-line poem with 8 syllables per line. The rhyme pattern is: abbaaccddc. Further study of this form indicates that the subject matter of a Décima tends to be more socially conscious than some poems, taking on topics such as philosophy, politics, dogma, and religion. It can also be in the form of satire, criticism or insulting to an enemy/opponent in a situation. 

Sometimes you break the rhyme into two stanzas using the following rhyme pattern.

abba/ccddc


I Don’t Get It – A Décima

I Don’t Get It

Please tell me, how do you defend
the vile actions of the prez
the awful things he does and says
while guzzling down his koolaid blend
of hateful rhetoric and then
you want to give him four more years
to level all that we hold dear
and sell our souls to oligarchs,
do you not see his evil heart?
That you are lost for good, I fear.

~kat


This little poetry form gives me license to vent on the politics of the day. Honestly, I just don’t get it. 😳

For today’s challenge at Ronovanwrites, write a décima where the word BLEND must be one of the A line words. Then the other A line(s) word(s) must rhyme with BLEND.

A Décima is a 10-line poem with 8 syllables per line. The rhyme pattern is: abbaaccddc. Further study of this form indicates that the subject matter of a Décima tends to be more socially conscious than some poems, taking on topics such as philosophy, politics, dogma, and religion. It can also be in the form of satire, criticism or insulting to an enemy/opponent in a situation. 

Sometimes you break the rhyme into two stanzas using the following rhyme pattern. abbaac/cddc.


…and still

Last year’s pretty, porcelain pot was perfect, roomy, plenty of space for her roots to settle, to meander through miracle soil soaking in tap water and raindrops. She thrived as all good potted plants are want to do, her emerald plumes leaning east toward dawn, she grew and bloomed and grew, white-tongued symbols of peace pushing from her shoots, cocoons at first, to sleepy side-eyes, opening, her prickly heart revealing…then spring, then summer…

then COVID, sheltering in, mask-clad fear-ashed faces, black souls rising from blood spattered bedrooms and spit-stained asphalt, covered in flowers, trampled by broken, fierce legions chanting, ‘ENOUGH’ under tear-gas curtains peppered with rubber bullets, vigilantes, anonymous armies looting, rising from hell to disturb the peace, hurricanes, floods, shuttered storefronts, the dead stuffed into frozen trailers, not enough soil to contain them, mourners left to mourn in absentia, single file food lines doling out bread…lies upon lies

It took only two seasons for her roots to tangle, clinging tightly to pretty pot’s edges, only two seasons for her leaves to tinge yellow, her skirt of fading fronds to wilt under the confining walls of porcelain that once cradled her. She needed my intervention, clearly unable to move, to thrive, to breathe. What a journey it has been from beaker to pot to pot to pot, and yet still, she blooms, despite my oblivious tending, despite my errant caretaking, she blooms as if to remind me that she is, and refuses to stop.

in November, I will vote

I found another pot, a roomier pot, filled it with miracle soil, untangled her roots and set her gently down in it. We will likely cross this bridge again in a season or two or more…because that’s what peace lilies do…they grow.

~kat


So this is what happens when the muse returns and the dam bursts after months of holding in, holding on. Peace my friends.


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