Tag Archives: poetry

poem, writing

A Goreyesque-ly Good Day

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The weather is savage.

Wind churns the bay into frothing whitecaps.

The waves batter against the bulkhead with force that resonates through the cottage’s foundation. Two feet of concrete seems like a flimsy barrier upon which to depend when salty droplets pepper the windows.

Leaves and pine needles fall before the gusty assault, turning into missiles that sting the flesh, scoring it with reddened welts.

You feel small and mortal and anxious before such force.

It’s the perfect start to Halloween weekend.

To make it even better, the online literary journal Goreyesque has published my poem ‘Ogre’ in their Halloween edition.

http://www.goreyesque.com/cat-jenkins

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Always a fan of the subtle, sublime, and unsettlingly brilliant author and artist Edward Gorey, I am honored.

Once again…

…Happy Halloween…

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poem, writing

Another Farewell…

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A raging beast, the disease came back.

At the end her memories rose to the surface,

effervescing.

A champagne distillation of her life.

Words halting and slow.

‘City lights,’ she said. ‘I saw them

like a belt of stars against the night.

Do you know, I could find their echo in the streets…

Fairy lights twined through iron balconies

like a giant’s brush of glitter.’

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Her eyes closed.

‘Smiles. I never realized I’ve seen so many…

so many…

Do you know, thinking of them makes me feel warm…

in here…’

A decimated hand touched the hospital gown

over her heart.

Eyes opened, so earnest.

‘I think the most precious thing is trust.

I used to think it was love, but…

Do you remember the rabbits I found?

How the mother let me help her babies?

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That wasn’t love. It was trust for love’s sake.’

Her words grew fainter.

‘Maybe it was born of love,

but trust comes first.

I’m going to miss all of you.’

For the last time, lids lowered.

‘I’m going to miss weather.

I hope there are storms…’

 

She left us

with the image of a woman

raising her face to taste rain and thunder.

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poem, writing

Good Friday

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A quickie post, because it doesn’t happen all that often.  Just frequently enough to keep a writer hanging on.

But it’s one of those moments when a thousand rejections are worth it, to know there was an acceptance waiting in the wings…

Thank you, Page and Spine Literary Magazine!

http://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/poems.html

 

 

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writing

Niteblade Magazine & The Newbie: A Fond Farewell

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A couple of years ago I stumbled across something sharp and edgy and winsomely wicked. It was inspiring, and it sort of felt like home. It was Niteblade, a magazine devoted to horror and fantasy and sporting an encouragingly feminine…yet sinister…logo.

I’m a newbie compared to the seasoned writers comprising an astonishingly vast subculture that feels like a simmering presence once you’ve discovered the literary haunts of the internet. But newbie or no, I was compelled to submit to Niteblade. I just had to.

When my story was accepted, I gave a fan-girl squeeeee!! and then began to worry about how the editing process might work. Every editor is different. And I had no idea what Rhonda Parrish would be like.

I’d only had a couple of stories published, but for one, the editor rewrote at will, adding his own bits that only came to light when I received my contributor’s copy. It was then I also realized he’d written my bio himself, publishing my full name and the city where I lived. This led to readers tracking me down and coming to my door. A bit unsettling. I moved and got an unlisted land line.

But maybe that was par for the course, my newbie-brain thought. So, drawn by the magnetic lure of Niteblade, and yearning with every fiber of my writer’s soul to be granted a place among its contributors, I waited to see what would happen.

What transpired was courteous, professional, yet painstaking, as Rhonda led me through her editing process. It was like being steered with velvet reins. I learned a lot. I was proud of the final product. It was also the first time a story of mine had been illustrated. I promptly bought the original rendering and hung it over my workspace.

It proved inspirational, because Niteblade accepted a second story.

And soon after, Rhonda short-listed two more for inclusion in her anthology ‘Metastasis.’ The one that made the cut was shorter and tighter and more powerful than at its birth, thanks again to Rhonda’s scalpel-keen editor’s sensibilities.

I’ll miss Niteblade as it prowls off into the wings, but I’m grateful for its edgy, sharp, winsomely wicked influence on me and my writing.

And I have a feeling it might sweep back to the forefront someday, black wings spread wide to foster other newbie-writers…

So on the eve of Thanksgiving it seems appropriate to say….thank you, Niteblade…and thank you, Rhonda Parrish!

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cat image from theinfinityplane.com

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Just bitchin', poem

A Page Turns…

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A tiny thing has vanished.

Like the barest tip of an iceberg, its disappearance signifies something much bigger. Something as vast as sorrow and as limitless as history.

Every year, no matter where I’ve lived, the weekend of Veteran’s Day will find an elderly gentleman sporting a military hat, or sometimes a chest of medals, sitting at a small table, handing out red, paper poppies in exchange for a small donation. Often these simple tokens are handed out for free when  their bright color catches a child’s wide, untutored eye. It’s just a pretty thing to them. They don’t yet know what it means.

But this year there is no table at the usual place. No poppies. No veteran.

When I asked about it, I was told that there were no more of the old school soldiers left to take on the task of dispensing poppies at this locale. They have all passed on.

So for those children who won’t see the poppies this year, know that they were the first flowers to grow among the graves of soldiers in a faraway place called Flanders.

Remember…

 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.

                     —– John McCrae, 1915

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Just bitchin', poem

Letter to the Ghost of Osama Bin Laden

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The page has turned.

Another anniversary.

There is a qualitative difference this time around. Previous years were rife with remembrance. Sharp shards of unavoidable history.

But this year, I was hard-pressed to find them. What had previously been a deluge, now a trickle.

Maybe it’s me.

With the extraordinary adaptability of the human animal, I have subsumed you into daily life, feeling not terror, but wariness.

Such a lukewarm legacy. Was it worth it?

I see no time when our beliefs and cultures will mesh.

Enemies eternal. A common view, me and you. I bet it bothers you to share something, anything with the likes of me.

Like children in a schoolyard; one offering his lunch money, eager to make friends, form bonds, buy them if he has to. A little desperate to be liked.

The other filled with nameless rage and bared teeth, hating those whose very existence he feels invalidates his own. Acting out.

You envisioned a roar, but left only an echo.

Part of it is the passage of time.

But most of it is because I love my country with a ferocity that surpasses your fanaticism.

We’re still here.

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poem

Dark Side

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She sees her in the mirror
from the corner of her eye.
Pretending to be strong,
she’s actually quite shy.

When she sees others suffer,
she sometimes feel her grin.
As much as she dislikes her,
she’s trapped within her skin.

She’s cold and mean as iron.
She helps her get ahead.
She stole someone else’s husband
in someone else’s bed.

She tries to reason with her
before she lashes out,
but her anger and her cruelty
are all that she’s about.

So she looks into the mirror
and once again she’s there.
When she asks her why she’s bad
She shouts that life’s not fair.

Her charity and kindness
are things she can despise.
She sees them as a weakness
in a world that runs on lies.

She wonders what to do
to make her go away,
but she’s everything that’s strong,
so in shame she hopes she’ll stay.

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The Drive Home

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She walks along the brink,
a land of moon-washed stones
and white-lipped currents.
Whispers hang over the water.
She inhales their damp,
dark call.

This late, only one car passes.

She is framed in his rearview mirror,
for a moment
at the edge.
Odd, he thinks, that someone
is there.
On the cliff.
So late.

He spares another glance.
The mirror reflects her absence.
But it’s late,
and dark,
and he doesn’t think
she’ll mind
if someone else finds
the body.

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poem

Sparrows Fall

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No one saw the sparrows fall
or noticed when they ceased to call.
For weeks their flinty beaks were still,
unable to announce the kill.

At night a wanderer fleeting past
saw the feathers in the grass,
felt the first foreboding chill
at tiny corpses on a hill.

Stumbled back when at his feet
bony wings began to beat.
Launched into the moonless sky
a flock of things that would not die.

So have a care when sparrows fall;
they may not be true birds at all,
only husks of restive dead
who fly a darker path instead.

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Dream Lover

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Sleep is such a risky thing
knowing what the night may bring.
What visitations may come
before the rising of the sun.

What creature’s lidless eyes may peer
from ravaged face that once was dear.
What fetid draft may mist your cheek
redolent with graveyard reek.

Whose scrabbling fingers, jointed bone,
struggle for purchase on your own.
The twilight grin and tender touch
once adored, now missed so much.

But not the one from your mind’s eye
this fragment left when he did die,
beckoning with fleshless arms,
hungry for your mortal charms.

Leaching color from your skin,
a lipless kiss, a rictus grin.
Soundless whispers in your mind
trap you in this fevered time.

In sleep is when he comes to hold
a body free of coffin-mold,
when lust survives the fleshly state,
when bones and dust still wish to mate.

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