Please bear with me.

Click for photo source.




I'm sure some of you think I've gone all schizo or something with the constant changes I keep making to my background on this blog. The truth is, I have yet to find THE one that satisfies me. I'm not really a "hearts and flowers" type, nor am I all scrap-booky, or buttons and bows.
The problem is, I do want something unique, but now showy and when I find colours I like, I seem to get some flower or button thing thrown into the mix. This is the reason for my losing the most recent background that was present until this morning.

The reason I'm telling you this is because you may have to put up with a few experiments over the next few days, so please just bear with me as I come to a resolution. The good new is, I am delighted with the background for my haiku blog, "Kigo of the Kat". (If you've not dropped in over there yet, I urge you to do so). Give it a try! My haiku/senryu are a little bit out of the ordinary.

I'm also pleased as punch with the background I've finally found for "Blasts From the Past". It's got the retrospective colour-scheme I've been searching for and accommodates my posts and sidebar very nicely. I realize I've been a bit slow with the Blast posts recently, but I hope to get back on track with more regular offerings soon.

That's the lowdown. I haven't lost my marbles—yet!

Kat

Theme Thursday: "Late"

Of Late

Lately,
I think of you—
my late one;
the latest question being,
do I disappoint you
with my crisis of faith?
A belated after-effect perhaps?
I test the bounds of freedom—
never quite losing my credo
altogether,
yet knowing
I can choose
to partake, or not
with no consequences
is heady stuff.
Later on,
I'm sure—
long before the need
for a death-bed confession,
I shall return
before it's too late.

Kat Mortensen©2009

Thank you.

Thank you all so much for your generous and sympathetic comments on my last two posts. You made the day so much more bearable for me and I will not forget it.

Sincerely,

Kat

Sorting through some old mementoes…

(Unfortunately, the quality of the image of a painting by William Holman Hunt (1827 -1910) cannot be captured adequately with my scanner.)

I came across this card I had given to my father for Father's Day, back in the 1980s. It brought a few tears to my eyes, but it made me glad that I had given him something so significant. The image on the card is entitled, “Her First Sermon” and that would have been important to him, reinforcing the fact that all his teachings about my faith had not been lost on me.

Inside the blank card, I had copied a poem by e.e. cummings. For me, this poem is truly significant, not just for the words in it, but for the fact that I chose it particularly. I’m sure I did not know cummings's work very well (still don’t, if I’m honest), but I did know that this poem would have meaning for my father—express how much I loved him. I only hope he’s proud of what I’m doing now, proud of my attempts to be a poet and a writer. He did love words, my father, and he passed that love on to me. What a great gift it is.

(Taken from “my father moved through dooms of love”. Please note: the verses are not in the correct order.)

My father moved through dooms of love

through sames of am through haves of give

singing each morning out of each night

my father moved through depths of height

Joy was his song and joy so pure

a heart of star by him could steer

and pure so now and now so yes

the wrists of twilight would rejoice

My father moved through they of we,

singing each new leaf out of each tree

(and every child was sure that spring

danced when she heard my father sing)

and nothing quite so least as truth

— i say though hate were why men breathe—

because my Father lived his soul

love is the whole and more than all.

This time, last year...

At this time last year, we were participating in a vigil and waiting for my father to leave our midst. This is a poem I wrote some short weeks before that. It captures somewhat the thoughts that were in my head at the time.



Hole

Hole…

Round and black,
Low in your back,
Pack and re-pack;
You ride the track—
To your last stop.

Hole…

In the ground,
Where you are bound,
We’ll make the mound,
Scarce with a sound—
After you drop.

Hole…

In my head,
When you are dead,
Soft shall we tread,
Our feet of lead—
Your spouse and scop.

Hole…

In my heart,
When you depart,
Tears can not thwart
The sorrow, smart—
Let sound my "YAWP".

Kathleen Mortensen©2008