Poetry

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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Imprint

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

My body is tight in
the stillness of dawn.
I long to touch toes,
to have purpose in my reach.

I can feel your imprint
in the bed beside me,
and I know it is probably
the craze of mourning but
I swear I heard you in the
next room.

I do not open my eyes.
I refuse to look for you
and allow the knowledge of
your absence.

I prefer this gentle
hallucination. The shift
of muscles in
early morning to bind me
inside the comfort of yesterday.

“Imprint” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2020).