Tag Archives: free verse

döstädning

döstädning

I am a tree in autumn,
limbs stiffening from
dawn’s first frost,
clinging wistfully to
the dying remnants of
summer, old photographs,
books, trinkets, effigies
of a life lived long and
full, roots deeply
entrenched in the
familiar, yielding to
the wind whispering, it is
time to let go, to render
to yesterday its relics,
to turn the brittle page
in naked abandon, to rest
my soul in the cool present,
to sleep, to dream of
another glorious spring

~kat


Döstädning, which means “death cleaning” in English, is a method of downsizing and organizing from the Swedish author and artist Margareta Magnusson. Death cleaning isn’t about getting rid of all your stuff, but rather streamlining your life so you’re only holding onto what makes you happy.

I am moving from my big two story home in a month into a sweet little one level home on a hill in foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Hence, I’ve been a little less prolific in my writing here, obviously preoccupied with the details of moving. I am hoping my daughters appreciate my efforts to leave a smaller footprint for them to dispose of when I’m gone. And as for the years I have left (which I hope are many) I am excited to begin a new, simpler chapter. Peace!

Here’s my new view…


A Complicated Mother’s Day

A Complicated Mother’s Day

It’s just a Hallmark holiday, a day of
profit for florists, restaurants and
chocolatiers, a day of burnt breakfast
in bed, macaroni creations, brunches,
lunches, love and adoration, sweetness,
sleeping in for some, queen for a day….
but not for all, for others there’ll be no
fawning children, no candy kisses, no
skyping, text-ed, voice-mailed wishes,
out of sight, out of mind, some will count
the loss of children never born or lost
to death too soon, childless mothers on
the outside looking in…while others just
beyond the veil will swoon from summer
land listening to the whisperings of
children young and not so much who
wish that they had one more day to rest
their head upon their mother’s breast
to hear her heartbeat one more time,
just one more day…and others still who
wish that they could reconcile the mothers
that they wanted with the mothers that
they got and mothers who wished they
could have been more, or better, or less
flawed, we are a complicated lot, mothers
young and old, passed on, passed over,
clinging to memories, sifting through
old photographs, the beautiful, the
melancholy, bittersweetness, children
come and they grow, regret’s a futile
exercise, so please remember to be
kind, don’t assume that just because
she’s had a fruitful womb she’s feeling
blessed, for some, it’s just hallmark
holiday at best, hearts put to the test.

~kat


it can’t be winter…NaPoWriMo 2019 #25

it can’t be winter…

if I believed the calendar, the wavering
in my stride, my fading memories, the
thinning of my hair and skin, I might
be convinced that it is winter, as you say
but my heart still sings sweet odes to
spring, of quiescent vales greening,
blooming buds, air fragrant with lilacs
and honeysuckle, it was only yesterday
a robin called my name and it was
dawn, I am sure of it, the day flushed
with golden haze, the breeze a-buzz
with the hum of honeybees, of gardens
laden with tubers, beans and peas,
it could be summer after all, my heart’s
refrain, a reverie of endless days, of salty
air and sand, tree leaves pitapatting in
the wind, like the sound of my children’s
tiny feet, growing heavier with each passing
day, it can’t be winter yet, I’ve still so much
to do and say, no matter that the night
is looming, there are dreams yet to
be realized, a reckoning, as chill sets
in, a letting go, a harvesting, how like
the autumn trees I cling to every turning
leaf until it’s time to let them go, now
that I mention it, it must be fall, it can’t
be winter yet…and yet…I saw a snowflake
flutter by, it caught my eye, suspended,
drifting slowly, I suspect a few more
still, and in the silent winter white perhaps
I write; I’ll weave a tapestry of spring, of
summer, and of fall, time slipping through
my hands like sand, I’m tired, I admit it,
how beautiful, how still, the muffled hills
look dressed in snow, how blessed am
I to be here still to see it ‘fore I go

~kat


For NaPoWriMo 2019 Prompt #25:
write a poem that:

  • Is specific to a season
  • Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
  • Includes a rhetorical question, (like Keats’ “where are the songs of spring?”)

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anthem – NaPoWriMo 2019 #22

Anthem

Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light

mothers counting empty beds, oh, how they weep, take to the streets where their children sleep in pooling crimson seas

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?

tiki torches blazing, raised stiff hands salute, ‘all hail’, exposed white faces spitting bile would smite true patriots who bend a knee

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,

those who dare, rise in humility, to challenge twisted liberty, lay prostrate at the mercy of the courts for fans to see,

O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?

throngs clamoring at the gates, fleeing terror, death and hate, hoping they are not too late, but freedom is not free

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

blinding smoke bombards the moat where orphaned children flail and choke, acid tears now streaming down their cheeks

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.

barely recognizable, flaunted proudly, all for show, allegiance pledged as madness grows, this bitter fruit we sowed to reap

Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

with nothing left to show but our disdain for truth, our love of lies, all this is proof that we have squandered our humanity

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

cowards all, ignoring the call, from our tongues deadly poison falls, scorching the ground from shining to the rising seas

~kat

For NaPoWriMo 2019 Prompt #22write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.

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on the shelf – MLMM

antiques-2

on the shelf

you barely notice him there
shadowed face, darkened, looming
in the mirror, whispering tales of
masked heroes, of brilliant valor
old as wheels and of damsels not
distressed, save for the sting
of fearful, pursed lips flapping,
judgment over fabricated scandals,
pants not dresses worn, oh there
are tomes stacked high as heels
spitting lies of petulant patriarchs,
women have their place, they bark,
captured on celluloid, idolized but
muted objects on a shelf, no self for
selflessness, ignored, she feels the sun
at her back, his shadow growing
longer, looming in the mirror
barely noticed there, barely worth
noticing, from plastic eyes she stares

~kat

For Mind Love Misery’s Menagerie’s Sunday Writing Prompt: Choose an Antique.

 


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