For Seamus Heaney RIP

So Labor Day Weekend begins! Where will you be? I’m excited to do…very, very little. Laziness is a 21st century luxury. 

On a more serious note: Seamus Heaney died from illness today. I loved his poetry, and so this poem was born.

You died today.
I met you, once,
my hangover
aching 
just above my eyes
as I gulped thin coffee, praying
for my body’s forgiveness.
You rested
on the kitchen table, coy
and silent.
I read you and
fell for your bitter 
sweetness,
perfect for bright 
mornings, love’s lance
and whiskey
biting the tongue. 

And now you’re gone,
leaving only words
and spaces.
Could we sit by Galway
Bay, discussing important
nothings:
How light hits the water
and children laugh 
through broken teeth? No
longer. My mind 
replays your Irish accent,
my ego wonders: 
what you would think of my 
words, my need for a 
nod or a 
smile?

These questions are foolish:
The reaper stole your
tongue.
My question
mark hangs, waiting for a period
that will never come.

What will you be doing this weekend? Writing/making anything fun? Let me know!

Advertisements

Oh Hey Wednesday!

Half way through the week *slam dunk*. Yeah, it’s a good feeling to get here. I was going to watch the machinist…and then it’s 930. Seeing as I have to be up in 11 hours? Yeah, so not happening.

But, I have a poem for You. Yeah, I was pretty pumped about it too. I’ve been thinking about patterns of late. So this baby was born. I hope you enjoy!

Pattern’s Two Faces
A/N: SFW, Rating: G

There’s comfort in pattern’s
endless consistency: 
the way the sun rises and 
sets, 
the moon’s changing faces, 
how the tide just 
kisses 
the shore.

But then I recall,
the way a father rejects
his son, just as 
his father rejected him.
How an 
eye 
for an eye 
for 
an eye 
spreads only 
blindness and rage 
through space and time.

Patterns lacking hope
are a night without 
stars,
a morning devoid of 
dawn, the horizon 
absent 
from the sky.

I’ve signed up for wewriwa *bites fist* so stay tuned for a new section of Hagar and Ishmael’s story 🙂

Struggles Continue…but I have been taking photos!

Once again…Katie fail. But I’ll get back into shape. I’m gonna come up with a new system to keep up to date on this. For now: pretty pictures. Have a lovely Friday and I’ll be back come Sunday!

 

My puppy...isn't she cute?

My puppy…isn’t she cute?

 

Games Discarded

Because my office is a bunch of grownup kids

 

 

Apocalyptic Light

Light manipulated…to be the end of the world

 

 

Fall into the Dredges

And into another world

The Dead of Cairo and Poetry

Happy Friday! I hope you are having a good day. I can’t say the same for all the people of Cairo. If you haven’t heard, there are violent clashes right now between the military and the muslim brotherhood. I can’t do the situation justice here, but check out NPR for great coverage. Listening to NPR last night inspired this poem for the dead.

This poem is specially formatted. For best visuals, please read on a full size screen (aka get off your smart phone!)

Warning: Deals with death. While not graphic, it may be triggering for some. 

Sweet Trash

Death smells sickly sweet,

democratically for all.

the same perfume for humans,

     for fruit,

          for meat,

               and the wide eyed fish.

No air freshener will hide it,

        no perfume will overpower it.

                                                                         Death lingers in all air.

Do the garbage men of Cairo

         remember work as they smell

the dead?

         Do their hands feel dirty

not from flesh

         but yesterday’s trash?

Who will remember these faces?

Not their li

ng

er

ing

smell

but their lives: once full of

sweat and sugar,

blood and tobacco?

Or, will these memories

be forgotten,

faded       mental

trash?

Thanks for reading and I hope you have a fantastic weekend!

Work is interfering with my blogging

Faithful readers: I’m sorry. I just started a new job, and well some things have to give. That being said, I will try and continue to post new fiction/poetry/photography here. And I will try to be regular again. But yes: there will probably be bumps along the road. So thank you for being patient, and continuing to read!

Today, I have a quick poem for you. I saw an old house blueprint…and well this came out. Strange where inspiration comes from. What inspires you?? I’d love to know!

Love in the Blueprints

Rating: G. SFW

He left me notes hidden in blueprints,
coded whispers for my eyes to decipher.
His arrows smoothly caressed my fingers,
his sharp lines wooed my eyes.

I gave him my dreams half built,
locked in words and hand gestures.
With only a pencil he translated,
hearing more than sound but the
shapes of my deepest desire.

Though my voice touched his ear,
I never saw his face. Though his
drawings beguiled my eyes, I never
saw his hands. I  wonder what
meaning underlies these coded hints.

My house stands tall now: a vision of grace,
wood shining, windows wide to the sun.
He has never crossed my threshold but
I hear his voice in the walls. Sometimes
I imagine his feet peek around my corners.

Do you drive by in the moon’s light,
watching through the window? Do
you look at your creation or me,
sleeping peacefully inside her?
Don’t you recall that these warm
walls were built wide enough for two?
Or is solitude preferable to you?

As always thanks for reading!

I’m Still Alive!

Sorry for the silence folks. I have just started a new job and with everything going on… I have been a bit neglectful.

But, I am still writing (amazingly, somehow I still find time for these things). Today we are back to ze poetry!

The Ringmaster

Rating: G

I watch you, tall
and full of life, the
crowds hypnotized
by your voice. Yet
I yearn to tear down
your gilded mask. How
do you speak in the
dark? Do you walk tall,
lost in a crowd? The
world has your many
acts, but I want you.

 

If you look closely...you can see me

If you look closely…you can see me

 

Back to the Desert

It’s Saturday which means time for another installment of WeWriWa. You must write either 8 sentences or 150 word limit for poetry. Lots of great writers participate. You can check em out via ze button above.

For those who are new, I am continuing my story about Hagar and Ishmael in the Desert. For understanding the backstory, go here. For previous installments: Part onePart two, Part threePart four, and Part five. Can’t believe how long this is getting! Hopefully it will be finished over the next few weeks. Where we are now: Hagar is flashing back to life while Sarai is pregnant.

Rating: G totally sfw

Life went on: we roamed with the sheep and Sarai’s belly grew round as the months passed. Though a miracle, it was no easy pregnancy. She struggled to keep any food down. She needed me more than ever, though never at night.

Previously, I had slept in her tent, even during my own pregnancy. She claimed I snored, though she shared Abram’s tent. Whispers of Sarai’s strange dreams moved through the camp and her strange fear for her baby. Though haunted with an ill feeling, I watched the future come towards me as her pregnancy lengthened.

feedback, thoughts, questions always welcomed. Thanks for reading and have a great weekend!