Writing

Writing Prompt: I Told You So

/ Katrina Kaye

Let’s talk about gut feelings. Those times when you knew something or understood something without being told. I don’t mean paranoia and insecurities, but those moments when your instinct or intuition took over and it was correct.

Describe the situation, the feeling. Did you tell anyone? Did they believe you? How did it feel to be “right”? Did you listen to your gut? Change your behavior because of what your intuition whispered to you? You might also choose to explore the idea of trusting your gut verses following expectation.

You might be able to create a poem or short story from this prompt, or it might feel good just to vent on the page. As always, choose your own adventure! Feel free to share your creation in the comments section.

To the student who introduced me to Philip Glass:

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

There must have been more to you.

A strength kept far
below your commonplace skin;

a philosophy found
in the keys of grand piano.

Perhaps I never noticed it
because it was in your hands,

the clean nails and posed
fingers of a pianist.

I was looking at a face
too eager to avoid my glance.

Maybe you didn’t play at all and
that secret was resting beside ear drum

and closed eyes as you followed
the notes with nodding head.

But oh,
how the staccato pierced me,
repetition and awakening,

The familiar and the cloaked
taking turns at who leads the dance.

The known or unknown, sage or novice,
Teacher becomes student and student-teacher.

Of all I have learned from doing
nothing more than listening,

this lesson is one of the sweetest.

“To the student who introduced me to Philip Glass:” is previously published in Verse Vital (2023).

Twenty Poems of Love by Pablo Neruda 

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment
Katrina Kaye

You should have bought me a book of poetry. You could have inscribed it, scrawled signature, a pet name, an inside joke to remind me.

Remind me of an acoustic guitar plucked slow and staccato, mingled with a baritone voice and words of revolution, the fumble of fingers.

Remind me of a motel room off the highway, the road roaring in the backdrop, the air crisp through cracked window as I sucked breath through your lips.

You should have wrapped it in shiny paper before placing it in envelope, addressed my name on orange folds with your unknown, but I imagine, careless script.

 A token to remind me of songs about trains, long and slow, my head on your chest listening to the horses of your heart. Coffee at midnight and hunger pains at dawn.

The drip of your sweat falling from your face to mine, the cramp in the arch of my foot. It could have arrived a week late but still in time to souvenir my shelf, a keepsake to outlast you and me.

You could have said your favorite poem reminds you of me, it would become my favorite too and I could recite it in my head long after I forget the sound of your voice.

If you told me of one that you found beautiful, then when you called me beautiful, I might believe you. I’d know you have the ability to recognize beauty.

The beauty of rose gardens guarded by chain linked fence and two rows of razor wire. The beauty of a white no trespassing sign and the way your eyes twinkled as they sought a way around barrier.

I was disappointed when my mailbox remained empty. When the gift you were rumored to give, never arrived. I wouldn’t even know your handwriting if I saw it.

I crave the tangible, weight of hard cover, furl of pages, underlined passages. I would like to see it on my shelf, fulfilling a promise never given, providing a reminder of our time, a memento of something precious once longed for but never actualized.