A Few Minutes

One of those Monday’s with few minutes to spare, and so, a few Minute poems (8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4/aabb, ccdd, eeff)for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats’ – Day Twenty, Poetry Challenge inspired by the verse below from Yeats’ poem, ‘The Old Age of Queen Maeve’. The painting is IvanBilibin‘s illustration to a Russian fairy tale about the Firebird, 1899.

‘out of the dark air over her head there came

a murmur of soft words and meeting lips.’—W.B. Yeats

breath to death

in dim-lit sterile cells we wait
to meet our fate
the reeper’s sweep
our souls to keep

medicated interventions
good intentions
stripped dignity

we rage against eternity
our destiny
is but a breath
to peaceful death


it’s comes to ‘do you believe them?’
all the women
nothing to lose
who claim abuse

for if you side with privileged men
know in the end
you’ll share their shame
for selfish gain

it really does come down to this
you can’t dismiss
you’ll wear the brand
of where you stand

~ kat

Magnetic Poetry Monday

we are not promised
a charmed life with
no cares…everyone has
a sad song to sing
but there is always something
to be thankful for
each day is a gift filled
with thousands of moments,
tiny bits of joy and light
to hold us through the night


Magnetic Poetry – Love Kit

Shi Sai Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 19 November 2017

I’ve noticed a trend in my poetry of late. I am generally easy-going and have even been accused of being too optimistic. That girl is still in there behind my baby-blues somewhere, but extreme times call for extreme measures, and in my case, poetry and prose. I am grateful to have a voice in the midst of the madness. It’s gets the scary thoughts out of my head. Sometimes I can even manage a bit of wit to soften the angst. But if I didn’t have words…I am sure I’d be a mess. I do find moments to take in the scenery. The good stuff. To snuggle my fur kids. To settle my spirit with a warm cup of tea. Though I take the state of our world very seriously, I don’t extend that intensity when it comes to myself. It’s always good to laugh at that face in the mirror when her brow becomes too furrowed.

And so…I do want to thank you, the readers of my rants, for indulging me. I am encouraged by your occasional “yeah!” and “I feel the same way” comments. Some things just need saying and reading out loud to take the edge off. I am daily reminded that we are all in this together.

Peace to you.

Shi Sai Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 19 November 2017

penetrating every crevice
we have only ourselves
hearts afraid of shadows, quaking
they say ‘twas old age that stopped his heart
flickering remnants of once starry nights
but she still loves with grace to spare
breezes smoky, spice-infused
willing to face demons, armed with truth
time is too too short
once they were trees
landed in a thud
a life alone, not death, to fear
the gullible gush
Those pigs! They are flying…fleeing in droves,
the day’s madness
promise of sweetness,
the deepest peace
blush of healing…
Survival’s a game that so few of them win.


A shi sai or ReVerse poem 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 shi sai features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week.

Praying…Not Praying

‘We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
Being weary of the world’s empires, bow down to you,
Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.’—W.B. Yeats

Praying…Not Praying

Those of us who have lost hope in praying,
pray that there is a special place in hell
for those self-righteous zealots in churches
defending vile monsters high on the hill.
Piously waving tomes filled with fables,
quoting their misplaced contextual creeds,
heaping full judgment on anyone other,
claiming compassion while lowly hearts bleed.
Surely a just god would be disgusted
by vacuous souls who claim him by name,
who pour salt on wounds; hang with abusers,
no tinge of conviction, remorse or shame.
If you are listening god, if you’re out there,
isn’t it time for your rapturous sweep?
Call forth your faithless; send them wherever.
If they’re not here we might actually know peace.


Another verse From ‘The Valley of the Black Pig’ for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats – Day Nineteen’ poetry challenge. And it’s those pigs again! My poetry as a result, of late, seems more like rants. But I do find them cathartic. Living in this alternate reality is not for the faint of heart! Peace!

Valley of Forgotten Souls

Valley of Forgotten Souls

They hide inside layers of second hand clothes,
loudly conversing with monsters and demons,
roaming the streets, their treasure in buggies,
nightmares in flesh, they come out every evening.
Calamity haunts them wherever they travel.
Long since abandoned, no family or kin.
Begging for pennies with no place to call home.
Survival’s a game that so few of them win.
Outcast, these destitute vagabonds rally,
warming their hands at makeshift barrel fires,
bedding down in dark alleys; shelters of cardboard,
no dreams of a future where they can retire.
Where is the hope for these life-burdened souls?
Untreated insanity rattles their brains.
Could they be angels, to test our compassion,
or are they just people with forgotten names?


Almost didn’t make it in time for this week’s MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie Sunday Writing Prompt. But an encounter with a homeless man, screaming obscenities as he shuffled behind a shopping cart loaded with refuse and cardboard, gave me my heartbreaking inspiration. The prompt was to choose a title to write about. I chose “Valley of Forgotten Souls”. The photo is by Miriam’s-Fotos at Pixabay.com

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