Author: katkarney

Every year, around Valentine’s Day, I long for the joy of Spring.  I know that real warmth is a few months away, but my whole heart desires it.

In February there are small victories.  It stays light later in the day.  I go on more walks after work. The birds get rowdy.  Chocolate is everywhere, on sale, and ripe for the taking. The whole earth seems to know a secret: the thrill of anticipation is often sweeter than the event.

Audio Note: I’m trying something different!  A few friends have told me they don’t ‘get’ poetry, or like reading it.  Do you like hearing it any better? Would you like listening to me talk with other weird nerds about weird words?

Image Note: I took this photo with a Canon SLR from the bathroom of our rental bungalow in Akron.  I balanced with my feet on the rim of the old cast iron tub, steadying the camera on top of the open window.  The dog looked on, judgmentally.  Most of the photos I took were blurry, since I was laughing at how stupid I looked.  I’m glad I took my shot: the thaw, the moon between two icicles, that elusive Mid-February Feeling.

one more cleveland winter

do not fear the cold of march
for nothing is eternal

wildflowers will bloom
in the frozen soil
after many false starts,
flurries,
and blighting frosts

relentless setbacks
to an inchoate spring
will give way to
warmth, hope,
and beauty.

our spirits endure
the same transformations

if our souls survive death
surely, they will make it
through one more
cleveland
winter.

(13-FEB 2014 – Copley, Ohio)

I was late for work but I have poetic excuses.

winter cemetery blues

me and the crows
and the trusty old oak
share the tumult
of a winter sunrise

i abandon my morning routine
to lean against the cemetery oak
to rest my hands on the trunk
to feel something solid

sheltered from icy gusts
i scan headstones with unfocused eyes
waiting for the transient joy
of sun clearing the hilltop

the wind blows harder
three crows cry
racing clouds radiate
the promise of daylight

me and the crows
and the shadowed gravestones
cold among the branches
the clouds fade first

During a recent visit, my grandparents told me about Black Sunday, a day in 1950 where the sky turned black at noon in Northwestern Pennsylvania.  It was caused by a Canadian forest fire, allegedly.  But nobody really believes that.

Please enjoy the synopsis of that day, from the viewpoints of my Grandma and Grandpa.  This poem is much better if you can imagine it in the soft and slightly sad accent of the hills near Sheffield, PA.

a dark cloud

it was midnight black
when louise and gene
left the matinee
they ran two blocks home
where granny had knelt
in front of candlelit icons
to pray for their soul salvation

holy mary,  mother of god 
the rapture is upon us!

ominous clouds crept on
larry and freddie paused
their manual labors
on the hill outside of town
they set down their tools
and the deep, cool forest
darkened even further

if the world is really ending,
we may as well go home and eat!

(13-APR-2018 – Allegheny National Forest)

This is the mostly-true story of my futile attempt to be a good Samaritan.  Like many mostly-true stories, it ends with a decapitation.

the finch’s prayer

on the searing asphalt,
a paralyzed finch is dying
golden on the center line.

the broken wing extends
a supplication, a benediction
while drafts from passing traffic
pull him closer to the track of tires

i run to him, raise him
crying out, unable to fight
his panicked eyes meet mine
keenly conscious of finite time

wrapping the bird in a towel,
i beg help from three men in a field
who are embarrassed enough by my tears
to pause their summer labors

we watch the slow throes
the lungs fill with blood
the men calmly repeat
“put it out of its misery”
until one takes a spade
and all the suffering
brave into his hands
and bids me “turn away”

lord, don’t be hard on your songbirds
if we are ever slowly fading!

may a kind soul uplift us
a swift edge sever all knowing
let a soft heart grieve the passing
with a garden to rest our bones

I’m often stuck inside my head.  Traveling should theoretically provide clarity, but in practice, the hurt often compounds.

A poem for you, written from the loft of the coziest Airbnb cabin in Maine.

baby grand blues

there’s a little cabin
on the morgan bay
with a time-worn baby grand.
i once touched the keys,
unworthy of the honor.

the piano
was beyond
my understanding.
as were the tides
and their sliding schedule.
i felt them slip beneath my fingers
towards the sweet release of knowing.

i cried but the tides
could not return a time
when you belonged to me.

i cried but the tides
could not inure me
to the present.

the tides replied:
learn to love yourself
or at least to play the piano.

(01-OCT-2018 – Surry, Maine)

Dostoevsky says it’s hard to find a sister if God hasn’t given you one.  I guess I got lucky, so this poem is for her.

(Please see: Hiraeth pronunciation)

hiraeth

jane says
there are five seasons
in everyone’s heart
all interspersed with hiraeth.

a welsh word
with no direct translation.
a homesickness,
yearning,
longing for something
that is not attainable.

kind of like the blues.
blue like daydreams,
blue in kentucky,
blue for losing
an ideal that
never existed.

i told jane
i know this
silver thread
that connects
the sorrows of
our pining hearts.
everything she’s said
i’ve lost before.

(Crater Lake, Oregon – October 2010)

Gram Parsons was a talented and beautiful musician.

Due to his artistic vision, I have met many people, traveled to new places, and experienced sensations that somehow already felt like part of my soul.

This is an ode to Gram and the restive, creative spirit in all of us.

fallen angel

i am captivated by your cosmic reveries.
soft-spoken and gentle,
like the warm touch of desert air
on bare shoulders.

johnny-on-the-spot, singing morphine hymns
with an easy voice, like powdered sugar.
don’t say i could love anyone like you.
don’t say my faith is just a hitch in time.

crowned crisp white,
blue stars burnt the brim,
you knew the rhinestones
foretold your falling.

A little backyard melodrama of recent development.

between cats and kestrels

the kestrel perches on the poplar
to survey the stream
and regally scans the embankment.

the fat black and white barn cat is poised
noiseless on the stony hill
patiently biding her sovereign time.

the field mice, with their tawny winter fur,
are hiding… if they are smart.
death simply waits for an opening.

the cat knows she could kill the whole damn world,
if she only had the chance!
the bird knows his limits of skill and strength.

each hunter feigns to ignore the other –
professionals often do –
barely masking the disdain between them.

My 2-year-old niece got a kaleidoscope for Christmas.   It was fun showing her how it works. She was mesmerized by the endless combination of elaborate patterns and the play of light across the mirrors.

She worked really hard to coordinate her movements, and was finally able to do it herself.  Nobody can perceive the designs in exactly the way she sees them.

Life is pretty cool like that.

reflections

into ardent minds.

one that never fades,

even when the scope

has shifted.

 

A wallflower’s perception of the anxiety-and-hope combustion-engine known as “live music”.

atom and ether

the patrons here are soft-spoken bards a far trip from home
in the twilight humming of lights,
in this painfully slow showcase of pride and pity,
they can’t hide under the neon red cover of nightmare fueled prose.
their burning eyes tell of fire-branded, grass-stained hopes.

all the ticking pipe bombs of heart-shorn analysts
slide from the streets to slow-drawled songs in saloons.
drifters in the tavern, a Kid with a crooked smirk,
that Kid drinking at the bar on an old stool
with a poised posture for his friends and lovers

the handsome rake of light and songs,
sitting gracefully twining his legs,
sitting at the bar, smiling with wide unguarded eyes,
sitting and half-daring
to hunt the cricket sawing a star in time

he pulls down a bright white sunbeam,
wended and trapped with rhythmic chills.
his pallid lust slays as the cold slow waves of smoke carry –
the ether of his mouth and fingers are fatal
within one second of his smile.

a haze of ether steeps and falls cross-wise
on the gilded beer cans, stacks of papers;
steeps and falls cross-wise for twenty dollars,
steeps and dies with a slip of time, a cap of lies,
on sheets of scribbled set-lists and unanswered prayers.

it’s all a game to them, Kid, to land on the end goal:
we all weave a loom in time forever, of truth and pain.
drifters in the barroom,  we go up this road forever.
fame only tells of atomic hell.
and on Sunday, something different.