Tag Archives: Poetry

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.

~kat

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.

~kat

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?

~kat

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


Magnetic Poetry Saturday

may we only
remember the warm
blush of healing
after all the dark
secrets of men
come to light

the deepest peace
falls over me like
frost on blossoms
between breaths…
only love

I cannot help but
compare the moments,
each holding the full
promise of sweetness,
for some touch my soul
so deeply, they take
my breath away

do not urge me
from my lazing
for I have a thousand
dreams to dream…
the day’s madness
can wait

~kat

Magnetic Poetry Online


Of Flying Pigs and Truffles

From “Valley of the Black Pig”…

‘The dews drop slowly and dreams gather;’ —W.B. Yeats

Of Flying Pigs and Truffles

Those pigs! They are flying…fleeing in droves,
exposed by the truffles they guzzled with glee,
their gluttonous bingeing, now everyone knows.
Soon they will pay for their vile thievery.
Those truffles! So rare…such delicacies.
They should be savored by pallets discerning,
their place on the plate given prominency,
respected and honored in delicate servings.
It’s been quite the scandal, this wild exposé.
The talk of the barnyard, in locker room speak.
Oh, those pig’s days are numbered, not sorry to say,
and to truffles uprising, the victory tastes sweet.

~kat

Inspired by the news of the day, the slow dripping drop of the dews and the title of the Yeats poem, for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats’ – Day Eighteen Poetry Challenge.