homecoming
soaking the treetops
aflame in red, amber, gold,
cool rain in autumn
cannot quench the fading leaves
but softs the loam to tend them
~kat
A Tanka for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday.
Tag Archives: digital art.
Sunday’s ReVerse Poem – 27 September 2020
it’s been a few weeks of random. Some days I was inspired to write several poems. Others, I struggled to find words. Several jots never made it past my notepad. Working from home in our new weird alternate reality has taken a toll on me, I’m afraid. Sleep has eluded me. But I’m not giving up nor am I giving in. Baby steps. A word here, a flash of brilliance there. Like two pieces of flint tapping together, I know eventually there will be a spark great enough to ignite the fire in me again. And like a phoenix I’ll spread my wings and rise from the ash. For now I’m tending to necessary self-care. Working on getting more sleep. Watching less news. Staying safe. This is my favorite season. That is the one true thing that sustains me.
Peace and kindness to you. Pass it on. ❤️
Sunday’s ReVerse Poem – 27 September 2020
and yet still, she blooms,
that you are lost for good, I fear.
nothing to see here, all is great
I forgot to lock my head
one day I plan to be
as if we needed more heartbreak…
apple cider, cinnamon steeped, nips my tongue
~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…or in this case, the past few months!
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
…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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