Author: Katherine J Krein

The number twelve on the dial of my watch keeps calling me.

It signals noon- midday and it’s at the top.

This brought to mind the bookmark I found the other day.

There it was at my feet.  Gandalf from The Hobbit – An Unexpected

Journey- December 14, 2012. His journey took him to Middle-Earth

Where humans live. Then I remembered the beautiful picture I saw

The other day. There was a brown wooden fence running down the middle.

A clear distinction between right and left. I preferred the left where the daffodils grew.

Oh, the places my daydreams go! The idea of Middle-Earth made me open

My bedroom blind. I was stunned to see my red camellia exploding with blooms.

At that moment a young blue jay flies down within view. I think he was hiding

In the ivy tower. I really need to get outside!

Pig Latin is a way to talk in code.

A way to disguise your words.

Hidden from the clueless.

Groups like to invent their own language,

So they can secretly talk out in the open.

It’s like a glue that holds the group together.

It keeps the outsider excluded.

Sometimes it is filled with double meaning,

Often misunderstood.

The pig conjures up within me all sorts of feelings.

I’ve never forgotten my brother telling me:

“Don’t worry little piggy, you’ll grow up to be a hog one day.”

I was twelve and he was sixteen. I wasn’t fat or lazy.

In my mind, there was no comparison between a pig and I.

He meant no malice; he was a teenage boy.

My feelings about pigs have softened over time.

Long ago, I picked out a pig at Restoration Hardware.

It now holds a place of honor in my garden and in my heart.

Happiness is elusive for some. The pursuit can tire one out.

One day you might catch it. The next day it is gone.

It slipped away while you weren’t looking.

Some build a temple for it and bolt the doors.

The constant need for validation can wear it down.

Thin and fragile, it can dissipate.

Some say it is a choice. A decision to make it be.

No pursuit needed.

There is no universal definition of its specifics.

It’s just a general feeling.

Happiness has many enemies. Among them: Jealousy and Rage.

These are the most aggressive.

Faced with adversity, Happiness can shrink away.

It must stay tethered to a well-braided rope.

The beauty of snow adorned trees reaffirms Mother Nature’s exquisite taste.

Frozen water forms intricate patterns that elicit awe.

From a distance it covers all in non-discrimination, gender-less and fair.

This cold and frosty lace is a crowning glory. The old magnificent trees

Patiently wear Winter’s royal dress. They know the soft and flowery

Warmth of lovely Spring will renew their vigor soon.

Scanning the Twitter-verse,

Reading random tweets.

Not necessarily following my feed, but rather

Following a chain of people, a chain of thoughts.

One person leads to another, and this goes on until

The redundancy becomes absurd.

The degree of condescension seems high to extreme.

We humans have a need to put each other down.

Perhaps, it is a desire to place oneself above.

Many reach up by educating themselves, then assume

A patronizing stance. I’m up here, and you’re down there.

Sometimes in good fun, of course.

Not everyone falls into this trap, though it is all so easy to do.

A good laugh at someone else, mostly hidden behind their back,

Covered up in the guise of some other silly conversation.

All so smart, so superior, so cultured,  definitely not native.

The need to condescend might come from a more deep-seated concern,

Possibly a weakness at one’s core, an uncertainty of one’s own worth.

The posturing of one’s ego holds one up above the rest.

No one wants an ‘average’ designation, and I include myself in this.

All these poses, guises, and masks give off an unauthentic air,

Or a pompous cloud that breeds contempt.

It is no wonder that the belligerent buffoon rises.

Today is a better day. I see three Mourning Doves

Perched quietly in a tree.

Their drab brown feathers are cloaking them as they huddle.

The bare branches bend and twist around them

In color harmony. Everything is stark.

The rounded shapes catch my eye. The branches are

Long and thin in contrast.

I thought I saw something ruffle and move ever so slightly.

I focus in to see what I have spotted.

It appears the rounded shapes are birds.

They sit in peace within the barren courtyard.

All the leaves have left.

Another day, another feeling, another poem.

Red Hot

A smoldering burn that won’t go away.

The smoke and heat and residue remain.

Stubbornly saturating the stagnant air.

Tears can’t remove the images and stain.

A feeling of anger is beginning to build.

I’ve been trying hard to knock it down,

Or at least hold it at bay. Senseless and tragic.

An unnamed fury I want to leave behind.

Perhaps, this anger could do me some good.

Not to strike back, but to push me forward.

This image is being added years after poem was written. The image generator created this image to go with the poem.

I am moving forward in my life. The story of mind games and madness is getting old. The new year is bringing me greater peace and a clearer purpose. Since this is my unedited creative outlet, I’ve decided to write  two poems today. I’m a secret amateur poet. 🙂

The Chase

Living life on the run, never feeling like time is your friend,

Always minutes late, sometimes more,

Keeping punctual people waiting.

The rising edge of panic always on your heels.

One thing leads to another. Satisfaction is laughing,

Down the line, steps ahead of you.

The hours pass without restful recognition. The blur, the haze

Is ever-present, washing out the details of the idle.

No time for memory snapshots will leave you empty in the end.

Hawk Time

Upstairs and inside I sit. Out the window it’s a foggy morning.

Billowing steam rising from the rooftop blends in with the fog.

The bare branches hold water drops that cling in hope,

Visible signs of tension.

The slick walking stones silently breathe caution.

These seconds of silence are secluded away.

Eventually, sounds do intrude. The snip snip noise of

Scissors bounce off my ears.

This reminder brings me back to those around me.

I look and see heads in books, and hands in penciled motion.

All is well.

The jingle-n-jangle of holiday bells used to set my nerves a jangling. Starting in November, my days and hours used to be filled with making lists of things that needed to be done. Shopping, cleaning, decorating, baking, throughout the whole month of December. The nervous race to holiday perfection had me moving non-stop.

I grew up learning how to prepare for parties and holiday entertaining. My father loved Christmas, and he put a lot of effort into holiday decorating, and indoor and outdoor lighting. He never went overboard, and everything was tastefully old-fashioned. My mother had taken a flower arranging course when she was young and newly married, so the holidays gave her many opportunities to create masterful centerpieces. She would use holly and evergreen branches from our gardens, and some store bought flowers and ribbons. My dad was the Christmas candy-maker. I was the baker of cookies, cakes, and bars. My mother was the pie specialist. My brother was the marinade expert, and grill master. My sister would help my mother with menu planning, and all the meats and other foods. We all cleaned together. The house sparkled from top to bottom. Everything was perfectly choreographed and timed, so that when guests arrived, we could talk and entertain. My dad or family friend would tend the bar.

After I got married everything changed. My husband was not trained to entertain. I don’t think his parents ever threw a party. My husband never cooked, nor decorated, or shopped for Christmas. Most everything fell into my lap. My husband was very good at cleaning, as long as I uncluttered everything first. He would help me in the kitchen with peeling, cutting, carving, slicing, etc. He always looked to me for direction. I’m sure that come December I turned into a royal nag for him. Nag, nag, nag. Eventually, the house got clean and decorated. By Christmas day we were both worn-out.

Slowly over time perfection fell by the wayside. As our parents aged our priorities had to shift. By the time my parents died, I had stopped caring. My mother died in November, and when Christmas arrived, we had a tree with lights, and no other decorations. Nothing had been baked.

Today is two years later. I’m beginning for the first time in a long time to feel guilty about my slipped standards. I’m beginning to take full stock of the situation at hand. I’m beginning to care again, though I no longer feel any desire to nag my husband. He was never taught to worry about what others thought, and I now see this as a blessing.

I know that when I begin to organize again, he will help me as he can, and I understand that I will have to be the initiator and director.

I’m slowly moving toward a mind shift. The tide has not yet turned. So, I’m sitting in my big easy chair with my feet up, and the softly shaded light of a floor lamp is behind me. My plans for the evening are to start reading Chapter Three of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I’ve now read the first four books in this series. I will most likely have a small bowl of candy-cane ice cream to bring in a holiday reminder of the date.