Iron and Sulfur

Angela’s Angel

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Falling leaves,
red and gold,
scatter around your oak.
The wind holds,
a safe caress,
until your name
sends them hurtling
through the dusk.

I find you.

Perching upon
rotting gravestones,
counting the passing
time in sunshine
and rusting grass.
Patient as the dead.

Decomposing angel,
eyeing moldy lettering,
neatly carved dress
billowing in absent wind.

I wonder how long
to wait before
breaking the stillness
with scattered words,
as inconsequential as
fallen leaves around
the footing of oak trees.

“Angela’s Angel” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories like that Anymore (2011).

Now Available: No Longer Water by Katrina Kaye

/ Katrina Kaye

It’s finally here!

Pick up a copy of my newest chapbook released from Echobird Press!

No Longer Water is a collection of poems welcoming raw emotion regarding the process of aging mindfully into a truer self. Here, aging is regarded as a gift rather than a burden. In particular, a woman’s personal journey from who she once was to who she is now. With growth, either physical or mental, there are aches and discomforts that hurt to the core. This collection allows the aches to blossom. Discomforts become fuel to grow without outside influence. The speaker is no longer looking outwardly but inwardly. In this journey through poetry, there is a momentous shift where the mind, body, and soul understands both the trials and challenges of maturity, along with the rewards. Ultimately, life is a gift. The journey is tranquil, enlightened, and blessed, even if the trail is muddy.

Follow this link to order directly from the publisher (the price is cheaper than Amazona and B&N). My book, no longer water, is in the lowest row.
https://echobirdpress.com/shop/

Echobird Press Bookstore

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Soundtrack

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

You prefer to listen to my soundtrack:

my sigh at your touch,
the chords of gasp curse moan prayer,
the rhythm of my laughter.

The pulse of your lips on bare shoulder
sends a harmony throughout my body.

I continue to interlace my notes with yours,
eager to wrap my coda around you,
hold you tight inside this melody of morning.

I purr for you,
a vibration between skin and bone.
The treble of your embrace hums
inside the length of my octave.

It’s a tempo in my shoulder blades,
the meter in a Monday morning
and a half night’s sleep,
residing in the throat of me.

I hold my song still,
take my heart off my tongue
and put it in the drawer by my bed.

The cadence of our time together
is still rattling against exposed skin,
though your lips sing static.

You embedded a beat inside me
and left your refrain to reverberate
between spine and sternum,
long after the music died.

“Soundtrack” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories like that Anymore (2011).