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Kathleen Everett


postage paid

I am writing to you
from this side of life,
though I know your answer will only be
in birdsong
or the autumn breeze
in the cedar boughs.

Longing for word
in faded ink,
written in your strong hand
or a picture postcard
from the other side-
‘Wish you were here.’

I await your reply

Going thru your desk, I find
the note you wrote
on the day I was born
and I know the longed for missive
has arrived.

postage paid
​

Paper Cranes

The path folds into itself,
an origami of leaf mold and gravel.
Its edges drift into stiff hedges of
deep dried grass,
shifting ever so slightly in the spring breeze-
fluttering like paper,
paper cranes,
that fold their wings
and unfurl to fly.

Someone, once, folded a thousand cranes,
a symbol of peace or redemption or grace,
I forget which.
These cranes took flight
and flew with ibis and stork,
heron and egret,
until the fragile paper wings drifted slowly,
silently
into the flame,
consumed.

All that was left
was an origami of ash,
for me to shovel into the garden
and work into the soil
to feed the roots
and nourish our souls,
with peace or redemption
or grace.
​

The Moon Makes Me Laugh

The moon makes me laugh.
Her face pink-gold with exertion
Pushing past the horizon,
Filling the constellations,
To rise in her nights journey.
As she climbs, she prays
in the voice of my mother,
“I see the moon, the moon sees me.
God bless the moon and God bless me.”

The moon makes me laugh.
Her bright face silver with light,
Gracefully easing into space,
Moving in celestial dance.
As she rises, she sings
In the voice of my father,
“Don’t the moon look lonesome,
shining through the trees.
Don’t the moon look lonesome,
when your baby packs up to leave.”
The moon makes me laugh.

From the dark bedroom
My sleepy voiced husband calls,
What are ya’ll doing? Come to bed.
We can’t, I answer.
We have moon sickness.
As the dogs and I moon-bathe,
Naked on the back porch.

it's not the weight but how you carry it

its not the weight but how you carry it
loaded onto your back
like a pack mule
or ahead of you
wheel barrowing down the lane
no
it’s more how you think and feel
and digest
all manner of thoughts and feelings
how your tongue feels
as you voice
those longings and fears
or maybe how your lips part
when you sing
a love song
or maybe it’s just that everything we think is heavy
is just as light as a feather
it’s all in how you carry it
rising balloons tied to a string
or tied to your heart
maybe you are light hearted
and drawn to whimsy and mirth
or maybe glum and in need of a digestif
or a good hearty pat on the back
maybe you are light on your feet
dancing up a storm
or a jig or a pas de deux
balancing between sky and earth
its all a balancing act, you know
we are not merely players on a stage
but acrobats
and clowns
following the gypsy caravan
with all our worldly goods
tucked into our backpacks
or pushed along in our barrows
light hearted
or not
its all in how you carry it

Oscillation and Displacement

waves ruffle across the water’s surface
sunlight glinting at the crests
sends dazzling sparks of light
across the rocky cove

waves oscillate through space and matter
without seismic displacement
sends shocking particles electrical
across the spatial disturbance

waves of grief wash across my heart
tears displace my resolve
as you look back and raise your hand
shielding your eyes from the suns bright glare
or is it to wave goodbye

Rapture

dark as pitch,
I drive along the spine
of the Ozarks ridge
no other car on the road
not a soul in sight

but me

I suddenly wonder

did I miss the heavenly trumpet
have the righteous risen up
soaring into the air
exchanging their earthly
garb
for heavenly robes
sparkling white
washed clean
in the Blood of the Lamb

and I am left

until
turning towards home
the headlights catch you
standing in the doorway
illuminated by the light
and I know
I will remain

unrepentant

Picture

​
Kathleen Everett's profile 

well and rightly

Loss becomes more common
place next to years lived,
well and rightly,
left to grass covered hillocks
and gravestones.

I know now that kith and kin
includes the land as well as the relations
that one inherits in blood
and bone and breath
and love

and life,
the last time I thought about it,
includes losing those
both kith and kin
and I will end
with a small hillock of my own
of green grass and
the breath of wind,
well and rightly.
​

The Prodigal

She’ll get her back up if you ask her about it –
that life before
when she left home and ran around.
But she never says a word
and shoos you away from the porch
if you keep on pesterin’ her.
We all know the story
but never get to hear the juicy details
of those high livin’days.
And the stories of when she came home-
bruised and barefoot,
no better than the pigs in the sty.
They ran all the way down the road
past the mailboxes
when they saw her-
wrapped her in their best cotton sheets
and covered her hair in honey.
Calling all the neighbors,
they butchered their prize hog
and we ate like kings,
all the sweet meat and greens and potato salad
we could hold.
And, my, oh my, that coconut cake.
But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.


Ever since then,
she’s kept to herself,
minding her daddy til he passed
and now her mamma,
tied to this porch like there was a chain on her,

never uttering a solitary word of regret.

Or remorse neither.
​

Daylilies

petals
shatter
one
day
daylily
a single day
an ephemeral beauty
a beautiful, ephemeral life
I am weary of death
his low whistle
in a minor key
has been heard too often at my door
I am ready to be relieved of his visits
I am so tired of tears
and the beautiful arrangements
of roses
and
all
the
beautiful
beautiful
lilies
an ephemeral beauty
a beautiful life
life

Things said and not said all the Possibilities

wait
tone and pitch
mean everything
the sound of the liquid vowels and
rock hard consonants
that spill on the water way
cascading over the falls
into that pool
that will be memory
of this
moment
wait
just now
the thought
held
just so
not spoken
but
seen
in your eyes
blue as the sky
as the wing of a bird
that takes my notice
away
as you stop to consider
the next words
that will spill from your mouth
that mouth
a hint of a smile
tasting of life and ocean
where the truth will be spoken
or withheld
wait
don’t say a thing

How many kinds of rain

The warm spring rain
Soft against the window panes
The cold winter rain
Splotched with ice
Almost snow
The summer rain storm
Fierce and full of thunder
Leaving the dry summer leaves
Quivering in the wind
The warm winter rain
Breaking the chill of January
Bringing the mid winters thaw
The fall rain, gray and foggy
Mists rising through the falling leaves
And the rain
On the morning we met
And the rain
On the night
You left

Dove Season

My people were dog people.
Hunting dogs, mostly,
Shorthaired pointers, lemon and red
With royal names, Duchess and Princess
English setters, liver and white,
Each successor named Zip.
September was dove season--
Guns would be cleaned
Trips to the leases planned.
Daddy and PamPa, with uncles and brothers in tow,
Leave in the dark morning
With dogs, guns and coolers in the trunk.
Late afternoon with the deepening dusk,
The hunters arrived home
Smelling of fields and gunpowder and beer.
Small still birds spilled from canvas bags,
Tiny feathers and the scent of blood
Float in the air--
A pitying of dove.


Picture

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