June 5th – June 11th

Days 157 – 163 — Quite a long stretch, this one.  I’ve been down and out with a flu/cold for the past 5 days.  Prior to that is was a much needed un-wind from CUPE business.

So, to recap the last five days:

Me and My Flu

Fever, chills.  Sore throat.
Achey muscles, achey joints,
hacking, coughing, sweating,
rinsing, gargling,
popping pills, lemon,
ginger, honey, shivering,
sleeping, tossing, turning,
cursing, flailing.
Doctor, drugs —
Now, hopefully,
recovery.

In response to Sethsnap’s Your Story photo/writing prompt: Keep Out

Keep OUt

by Kathy Larson

Who was it
first uttered those
words? Keep out.
Keep.
Out.
Keepoutkeepoutkeepout
keepoutkeepoutkkepout.
They’re not nice.
No way
how you say them,
how you dress them up.
They’re loneliness
like a bare-branched-tree-lined
lane in winter.  with a
sign crucified lopsided
neat black letters on
hunter yellow:  KEEP OUT!
It catches the eye, draws you on,
draws you in, begs your attention.
Keep Out?
Who was it first
uttered those words?  What
was it they needed
they craved, they suffered
so much for
they couldn’t connect,
couldn’t say
couldn’t tell
they were
left
only with:
Keep out.

 

All Rights Reserved
No copying without permission of the author.

Starry Night

In response to Viewfromtheside’s weekly prompt.

Starry Night

If there was a way to touch the sky,
Would I?

Those stars that shine so bright
From where I stand gazing
in rapt wonder, would their brilliance
hold once captured?

To walk a million lifetimes gone
beneath the light of the unknown
breathes magic into my day,
makes treading earth light, fantastic.

That light I see, I’ve been told,
does not exist; was extinguished eons
ago.  Is nothing but a trick
of time and space.

I prefer to be bedazzled, to hear music
in the stars, to believe that winged horses
and star-crossed lovers live enchanted lives,
That for one brief and shining moment

So can I.

 

©KLarson 2012

All rights property of Kathy Larson

I’d Bake You a Cake

Just something to celebrate the past week, and well, because it’s Friday.

I’d Bake You a Cake

To see a smile
On your beautiful face,
To catch a glimpse
of the stars in your eyes,
To hear the dance
That is the rythym of your heart,

I’d bake you a cake.

It’s such an easy thing
To pour love in a bowl,
To mix it with laughter,
To infuse it with joy.

And, it’s a small thing, I know
And certainly not lasting,
But, with each bite that you take,
With each indulgent sigh,
I hope my secret ingredient,
The abundance of my heart,
Goes straight to yours.

©Kathy Larson 2012
All rights reserved.

If I Were a Bear — a poem for a winter morning

If I Were A Bear

If I were a bear
I would pay no never-mind
to the rolls of fat around my middle,
to the graying, un-ruly hairs upon my head
or the wiry, scratchy ones sprouting
on my legs and beneath my arms.

No, if I were a bear
I’d snuffle out a place
warm and cozy, full of all the smells
that bring me joy and comfort,
and then I’d wrap my heart in pictures
of those I cherish so that my dreams
would be nothing but sweet.

And, if I were a bear
I’d stay snuggled down
inside my little cocoon until
the green smells of Spring tickled
my nose and my winter-claws
could no longer scratch through the matted
fur on my sun-starved hide.

If I were a bear
I’d emerge, blinking
into the bright sunlight of promise
and I’d go snorting and snuffing
looking for news of all those I left behind
while I slumbered and grew sleek
and hungry for life to return.

If I were a bear.

 

©Kathy Larson 2012
All rights reserved

Fields in the Fall, October 2011

Here are some pictures I took this weekend of the fields around Bon Accord, County of Sturgeon and County of Westlock.  Just to give you an idea of how beautiful it can be in this lovely season.  I took them between 5;30 and 6:45 in the evening.

I played around with the colour in some of them, because one thing I did learn in my solitary photography class a few weeks ago is that the colour captured by digital cameras will never be as good as what we used to get with roll film.  So, going in to tweak the colour is not cheating.  It’s representing what your eye saw.  Hopefully, you like what mine saw.

Thanksgiving, a poem

©KLarson 2011

All rights reserved

Thanksgiving

It’s Thanksgiving weekend.
Here in Canada.

A quiet time of family
and turkey dinners,
table games and catching
the last glory of Fall,
pretending that the snow
won’t come, but feeling
its  icy kiss brush your cheek
as you kick through fallen leaves
while holding  tight to the hand
of someone you love.

It’s a time for last weekends
at the lake, last hikes on trails
gone to gold from green;
a time for Northern Lights
and sitting around a fire under
a big dark sky. It’s trail rides
and one more time out on the boat;
it’s driving dusty country roads
in search of one perfect tree,
one the winds haven’t
yet stripped naked of autumn’s splendor,
for that ever elusive family photo,
the one that there’s always
next year for.  And,
if this is not the year, no matter;
the heart will capture what
needs remembering.

It’s Thanksgiving.
Here, in Canada.

Feeling sorry for myself. . .

Today is the official last day of my summer holiday.  Sigh.  Huge sigh.

Such Big Plans
© KLarson 2011

 

The dappled days I dreamed of
Six weeks ago, weary from work
From stress and from a winter
So long and cold we despaired
To ever see an end to misery
And snow and wind and lethargy,
Are all gone now.
Scattered like dandelion fluff
On wild winds blowing
Wicked out of the West.

My aspirations of a summer
Spent lounging in a chair, book
And beer always within reach,
Seem, somehow to have hitched
A ride with the constant wind
And gone joy-riding with
High-scudding clouds somewhere
Far beyond my grasp.

There were other plans, too,
For novels and short stories and
Poetry all to be penned and
published.  All it needed
Was a vein to be opened
While days of leisure
Stretched out before me
Immeasurable and vast
and never-ending.

The truth is six weeks
Is barely enough time to squeeze
In obligations left too long.
Friendships, like gardens,
Need tending, and visits with family,
Planned deep in the heart of
Winter when summer
Hovered on the horizon
Like a saviour, take the
Lion’s share of mid-summer days.

So, bedroom walls will remain marred
And splotched, my new deck
A vision.  Sandpaper and caulk
And rust-remover, all still in the bag
I carried them home in, have no
Shelf-life.  I think.  Anyway, they
Will be there, I’m certain,
Next summer, when, like my eyes
My intentions are too big
For such a tiny treasure of a season.

Alberta Summer sky

Good Friday morning

Sunrise, Sedona

Morning Has Broken

Cat Stevens’ falsetto
on a loop playing inside.
My eyes flutter, open wide.

Please, a half-hour more;
but the sun gently peeking
tempts, and I’m up seeking,

Meaning and coffee.
The latter, black and strong,  first,
because — well,  I guess I’m cursed.

There is no black bird,
no new-day song spoken;
It’s just me who’s awoken

To greet the new morn’.
Cat’s gentle refrain
now a whisper as day begins again.

© Kathy Larson 2011

View from the Side’s weekend challenge — January 22, 2011

My contribution to The Challenge this weekend:

 

©Kathy Larson
All rights reserved

 

No Pity

 

I am a very proudful person, she said

So much so, that I have lost my sight.

Now, as I stumble in the darkness

I wonder: what good is this silly pride

I cling to?  The bruises on my heart

and on my body are not badges

Of honour, they mark me as a fool.

I, who would not bend

Am broken.  Had only my hearing

also been taken I would

Not have to suffer your pity.

 

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