We aren’t much to look at, we poets, unless you look very closely, which most aren’t wont to do. It’s not that they don’t get us. They just don’t have time for us, missing the chance to see the blue feathered heron, one pencil-lead leg fixed in the sludge of the runoff in the morning. […]
They say the hands will do what the heart has felt. Not knowing who they are (might be indigenous wisdom or merely a good meme from Facebook) I immediately think of hitting hands, because I clearly recall anger in fingers that had touched too much of life, the plated skin on their palms, ridged at
What They Say about Hands – a draft Read More »
By Katherine M. Gotthardt
Last night I dreamt again you appeared,
thin and limping after what I could have sworn
was your final parting, last heavy sigh and whimper,
all of us laying hands on your haunches, private room
with wordless music, pet pictures, candles. And as always
What I want to do is stop remembering
the rainy morning you drove 50 miles to my house
to help me find car keys I’d dropped in the trash.
Do not silence your life. Disregard fears of tonsillitis, laryngitis, infection. Sing. Sing what is, what was, what isn’t. Trill your years. Match pitch with decades, tone with seasons. Entice octaves with each drink of ice water, followed by spoons of soup. Sip. Hear how clear your truth sounds? Copyright Katherine M. Gotthardt from Weaker
It’s what happens when an orb flies freely, escaping the glass of a world glaring with human imperfection, industry, idols, what passes for intelligence and integrity– it oversees London, the iris of England’s art, the reputation of queens, the relaxed accent of ancient history revered or scorned or adored. A balloon– now there is something
Ode to a Balloon Let Go in London Read More »
Women there know how to live, flippers and sunshine and sea, scales adapting to sand or saltwater, tawny skinned, smiling, escape nearby whenever mood or tide arises. Meanwhile, somewhere, collapsed at a laptop, stiff-necked skeleton, tie still strangling a calcified sense of self. Skull on keyboard, glasses abandoned, he is visionless, hollow eyed, a man
Springtime and everything switches on, electric song of peepers and honeysuckle. Nature’s extraordinary reboot.
