A Reminder for the Frustrated Poet:

Katrina Kaye

It’s not all poetry;
sometimes the words don’t have much
weight other than their grouping of letters.

Sometimes it is just the sound of a car door slamming
or a pale strip where the watch once sat on left wrist.
Not all birdsongs praise the morning or carry a sweet tune;
some merely squawk or warn the cat is in the yard again.

It’s not poetry,                        but a brick house,

all bones and no spirit,

with the phantom of history

pressing its nose against window glass.

Poetry doesn’t always appear at the break of day
or in the eyes of a loved one.
There doesn’t need to be poetry in all daily pondering,
and for many, there is little thought to poetry at all.
And even when a poetic sentiment is expressed,
the intent can be lost, miscommunicated, forgotten.
Poetry doesn’t always do what we think it should.

But, you have the power to create poetry:

to see the warped floorboards as a symbol of home,
to find song and prayer in the bloated squirrel of
the side of the highway.

What a miraculous gift to see a poem or two in a blade of grass

            a strangely formed cloud,                   an empty coke can.

It’s not all poetry, but if you are able

            to shift your focus,                              look between the cracks

            allow the mind to spiral and ponder,

                        poetry can be created.

Remember that the next time your heart breaks.
Remember that the next time the cloud blocks out the sun,

            or you forget your coat on a chilly morning.

Remember poetry is there for those who seek.

 

 

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Ghosts of California

Katrina Kaye

Curled in brown wicker,
I bask in the stories of dead men.

Sun drenched cowboys who have
long since stepped foot on a farm;
no longer able to ride a horse.

Their eyes reveal they have
put up with California for too long.

And now, as each of their ghosts lean
into the basket and poke at my red face,
they embed legends on childish palms:

say it is for luck,
say it is one of their rituals.

They don’t realize the calluses they create,
never suspect such power in stirring
the clouded skies of a child.

She sings

Katrina Kaye

in the bath
not the shower

her showers are too quick
splash, dash done

but in the bath
she lingers

and she sings

she is an exquisite singer
not because she can
carry a tune

she can’t

but after two glasses
of wine she doesn’t try

she sings the words she knows
and makes up the ones she doesn’t

it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t stop her

she sings,
not like no one is listening,
but like everyone is

she sings like the world is dangling
on her every word

she sings like she has a song
buried inside her and it is

now

finding its way to the surface

she sings like she is not just being heard
but understood for the first time

she sings

in the bath
when there is time and echo

she sings and it is beautiful