Poetry ála Kat

Splattered upon a bone-colored blotter,

Splotches and splashes of mottled gray

Once slick as asphalt after a rain,

Now flaking, peeling, faded and jaded,

As sere as sand in a glass of the hour,

Particles that dimmed like Sunday’s dreams

On a Monday morning commute. 


It’s hard to get excited over

A still-life ant’s-eye view

Of undefined shapes and colorless hues,

A two-dimensional existence

That longs for color and flight

And dreams of candy apple reds

And cool South Pacific blues

That lap rhythmically across

Sun-baked grains of gold …


This paper-bound motionless

Old, cracked and moldy

Portrait of charcoal and gray

That used to imagine exuberant days

Of leafy green peaks sprouting off a

Canvas of rich pastes and shiny glazes,

A dripping wet wonderland of color,

Jumping off the page,

Alive like the wind ‘neath an eagle’s wings,

A bird’s eye view

Of a living landscape of dreams come true…


Am I the painter of the still life gray

That I dwell, not live, within…

Or am I the draft, perhaps,

Of a Master Painter not ready to begin

To pencil in

With depth and shape 

A colorful scape

A living canvas, no longer gray

Nor flat nor dull, 

But vibrant as a Moroccan sunset,

Or morning coffee at a Parisian café,

A bold adventure, the painting of me –

A breath of fresh air, a tropical breeze …


I imagine the colors of my someday summers,

From the comfort of my groove,

Wistful wisps I cannot reach,

And thoughts too brief to remember

As I slip once more to slumber

where urgent, non-important matters

fill my dreary palette.

There is little time left to butterfly net

The elusive inspirations

That come hither and yon like a fickle flame

Passing me by, in retrospect,

The time is nigh to intercept.


Creaky cracks of nickel and slate

Are far from pretty in their present state

of dissolution and decay

But stay the execution for there is

A revolution to be made

As gesso spills across the page

And lays a new foundation

For a multi-hued creation

Of cobalt beginnings and crimson shapes

Coasting on crests of sea-foam greens.

The paintbrush glides across the scape

Drenched in orange I can almost taste,

An eleventh hour renaissance awaits…


(Or am I still dreaming?)

Gray Still Life

  © Kat

October 2016

How do you repair the bleeding of a heart,

A ruptured soul,

A fractured mind –

When the onset began before the molars came in,

And took root and spread like dandelions,



And you went about your days

And you counted sheep by night

While dreams were tucked in lovely boxes

Neatly tied in ribbons bright, waiting

For tomorrow’s quickening touch,



That something was broken.

And below the facade of someday soon

Lie a lot of yesterdays gone, 

Cracked and crumbling,

Stomach rumbling,



What went wrong.

But not for long.

A million things to do were done

Which left no time for dwelling upon

Diaphanous possibilities on ice, at least,

For now…


Until… Reality screams

“You are what you are!”

And the pain of that

will not be assuaged

Nor waived, nor rain-checked, nor wished



On this day

When school bells ring no more

And lunchtime whistles cease to blow

You may remember cats in hats,

now sleeping underfoot and dressed from head to toe

in Charlotte’s web…


“Someday” bided its time,

Hiding craftily while years passed hastily

As you rode the waves of calendar days

And followed the queue that followed the queue,

But you…

You never saw it coming!


Dial tones made way for ring tones

Then pages were scrolled, not flipped,

It’s all good, you said, until the Paper died

And the ink evaporated, and then

Your bread & butter melted in your mouth…

Not in your hands.


Another day dawns (or is it night?)

I’m not sure anymore.

The shadows on my wall look the same.

I closed my blinds one year

To facilitate the screen and

(Not be seen).


I had dreams when fountains ran blue on my hands,

And held them still when tadpoles swam in the creek. 

I put them off and put them on hold,

And saved them for a rainy day

And wished upon a painted star, that time would wait…

That time would wait...

That time would… 



© Kat

   August 2016

Lovely Boxes

I clutched my wealth

In the crisp white bag

Tight in my hand

And I ran, and I ran

(Home, to boast).


Laces of licorice,

Luscious and long,

Chocolate buttons

And sweet bon-bons.

Lemon twists, a penny for three –

Dozens of delectable morsels

For me!


“I want some!”,

My sister cried,

So I threw her a piece 

And I tried to hide;

But she could glimpse my treasure

From around the corner –

Thirty-five candies

Bought with a quarter!


And so it was, in retrospect,

A richer life, although not perfect.

After bills there was money for fun,

Like bowling and dining

And dancing, and then some.

With necessities purchased, it seemed to me

There was plenty more green to be footloose & free.


Mom and Dad ordered pizza when we were in bed,

And they watched TV on the brand new set.

Our old grey Dodge ran for many years ..

‘til it died of old age, or cancer of the gears. 


Whatever happened to the “Good ‘ol Days”

When gas and electric were nominal fees ..

When stamps were purchased in bulk, dirt cheap,

And you never imagined they would climb so steep?


The village folk turned red in the face

And they shook their fists about the State

And like an army of ants they marched to the place

That was the source of their disgrace.


But that was then, and this is now,

Or so the saying goes ..

And I wondered if and when

It would happen again, 

But who knows

When the vicious cycle will end?


Is the rise and fall of the marketplace

The fulcrum for our fall from grace?

Do we mock ourselves,

Fight for the side

Of the shoe that we happen to be wearing this time?


Trade with me,

And you’ll see what I see –

The plight of the mere majority.


“I want some of yours!”, I cried,

So they threw me a piece

And tried to hide;

But I could glimpse their treasure

From around the corner.

The Plight of the Mere Majority

© Kat  ... circa 1979


In the prison of my body

held captive by my mind

in the torturous silence

of my reclusive life ..

In the absence of touch

of the romantic kind

I am an island

bare of trees,

I am a stone

on a deserted beach ..

I am the rain

seen from inside

by fireside lovers lost in time.


Someone for everyone,

I’ve heard it said.

Good things come to those who wait.

Have patience.. pull up a chair..

Have faith and yours will be there!

Stop looking and then you’ll find

the matching bookend

the word that rhymes,

the key to the lock

the shoe that fits,

the sound of music,

the number one hit.


I am tired.

I’ve lost the shine of youthful skin,

as well as the splendor I dressed it in.

I lack the sparkle of eager eyes

that viewed a sea of hopeful nights.

Along with the dreams

I buried the smiles,

and fastened the shutters

and gone inside.

Earth recedes from my fading view

(am I real?)

while visions that never did come true

are tossed aside, unused,

in favor if the concrete truth.


In the prison of my blood and bones,

I fight no one.

I stand alone.

That fate decrees I do my time

in single file,

I must abide.


I touch no one

and no one touches me.

It surely must be

the stiffest penalty..

for what crime, I cannot be certain,

but the bars of fate

have drawn like a curtain

across my sight

on every side

a total enclosure 

from the light of life.


I am alone,

not circled by a lover’s arms,

I am alone,

not mirrored in a lover’s eyes,

I am alone,

not lulled by a sweetheart’s song,

I am,

as I have been all along,





© Kat

Feb. 18, 1987

The Pedastaled Princess

© Kat    

June 20, 1983

Who art thou, fair princess —

A flower rare —

Or a bad weed?

For she is the envy of the Ladies

with their vicious gossip fare,

and of the Lords’ attention

she begets their lustful stares.

What power hath the maiden

to affect the people so?

Is it charm .. or wit .. or beauty?

Or does she cast a spell?

Can she spin straw into gold,

does she wear a slipper of glass?

Is she fairer than the fairest —

the brightest in her class?


Where art thou, fair princess —

On a throne above the crowds?

I see no gilded dancers,

and pray tell, where are the clowns?

What of the gala feasting,

the servants waving plumes —

Princess, where is the merriment

all far and wide assume

is yours for being.. who you are — 

Which is what, shall I presume?


There she is —

Not lovely —

Streaked with tears —

Wet hair clings to her cheeks.

Alone in an ivory tower

where no one comes to speak.

Not wise, for words are wasted

where they echo off the wall —

Not special when in solitude,

not anything at all.


Once upon a time,

there was a knight who came to call,

A man of strength and valor

for whom her heart enthralled.

Upon his steed he carried her

across the Kingdom land,

and gave to her the sun and stars

and gently held her hand.

From the gaze of his eyes

that kissed her soul,

there emitted such a love,

that the princess truly felt

she’d been blessed by gods above.


Then one day, the princess woke,

and found her pillow bare —

she looked in all directions

but he was neither here nor there.

Sadly, she returned

to her lonely prison tower

and she waited for an answer

to explain his absent hours.


He came at last, her precious knight,

But the Princess barely knew him —

He wore a heavy armor, and,

refusing to remove it,

told the princess he would leave her now

because she so confused him.

“I cannot accept your reason”

spoke the princess to her knight —

“I’ll find the truth behind it,

I’ll search with all my might”.


She thought about his actions

and she pondered on his words.

She would have purged him from her heart

Had she believed what she had heard.

Eyes don’t lie and feelings matter,

and she was sure that he still had her

in his system —

though he denied it —

the princess was determined to find it.


The days went by,

the nights were long,

he did return — with his armor on.

I guess that he was lonely too,

for finally, the shell was removed.

Never had the lovers been

as close as they now were.

Their hearts, their souls,

their bodies were one,

and their desperate love was pure —

Until the sunlight hit his brow

and the knight rose to his feet.

“I apologize for being here,

we really mustn’t meet.”


"Pray tell, why must you leave me so?”

the princess cried.

“Because you are the pedestaled princess,

and I, a lowly knight.”

And he told her of his jaded past,

thinking she’d run in fright.

But the princess stood her ground

for she knew that he was wrong —

No matter what his reasons were,

she knew where she belonged.

Her lover was a stubborn one

and he rode off once again —

and although she could not touch him,

his mind still let her in.


Too good for you — too good for them —

so wonderful and great —

Yes, isn’t life a royal treat

in this tower where I wait!

I hope you’re very happy

out there in the world that is yours —

for I am very empty, she whispered,

as she closed the iron doors.


Reflecting on a past that was my present,

of a time that could have merely been a dream,

the senses answer not my mind’s fond memory,

and reality may not be all it seems.


Through tinted glass of chameleon hues,

the yesteryear takes form,

from a variety of emotions,

the ‘good old days’ are born.


So true, you know, that glistening memories

pale the day that is now,

and weepy eyes waste time on this —

the after-taste it found.


A pretty pool of pity, fool’s delight disguised,

I waded, languished .. to wallow.. or be wise?

But sad yet I am to release you — 

a fading part of me..

wherefore art my investment in

the Being I used to be?


In acceptance of change comes maturity

through which (I saw through your clear blue eyes)

we begin to understand charity and

(how you worshipped the sunrise!)

the important facets of life,

such as survival of

(you and I, we had such dreams!)

our fragile human make-up

which resists the high tide

never wants to wake-up

from reminiscences of time.



© by Kat

August 1981

Still-life Earth

branded on glossy pulp,

a veritable facsimile

of countless aged happenings,

to treasure and to hold

for as long as the image

is likewise in the mind.


These, our priceless receipts

from events, perhaps imagined,

for nothing remains

save the altered personality — 

our memento of time.


My latest, greatest photograph

takes form now on the screen,

where to my soul’s eye

it ever shall be seen.

Not at this point developed,

I must bide my time to know

if it’s beauty is as true to life

as the artist feels it’s so.



© by Kat

sometime in the ’80's

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