Friday, March 27, 2015

Two Haiku

Turning Lemons

I think I'll open
a lemonade stand in your
honor. Want a glass?


If I didn't write
how would your day be? Naked?
Or would you exhale?

Start of a Poem

The world sits
on my personal axis,
turning in my direction.
And the sun rises.

Monday, March 23, 2015

When Your Mind is Filled with Meh

You know what I am talking about. Meh. It’s like being blah, but meh has a special nuance. Meh has ambivalence and nothingness all wrapped up in three little letters with a quiet yet strangely guttural sound if uttered correctly. Meh is blah on steroids.

I once went a whole week with nothing but meh. How was your day? Meh. How was dinner? Meh. Did you have a good time at the movies? Meh. You get the picture.

As you might have guessed, too much meh can really get in the way of life. For one thing, when you are meh all the time, you drive people nuts. For another, you lose ambition. It’s possible to have so much meh that you start talking yourself out of doing anything fun, constructive or productive because nothing feels enjoyable or worthwhile. Meh can literally take over your mind, and if you give it too much authority, your world. 

In the old days, people with too much meh would have been called melancholy. Now, they’d probably be called depressed. If you’ve got a mind full of meh and it won’t go away, you might get put on medication. That’s okay. Sometimes people need anti-meh meds. It’s better than the alternative, which is to ostracize people around you, lose your job or worse.

I’m betting there are some of you out there who have minds full of meh. I’m also betting you wish you didn’t because, while having a little meh is normal, having lots of it just plain sucks. Here’s the advertisement part of this blog: if you are feeling meh most of the time, don’t just blow it off. Talk to someone, someone who isn’t meh. Bonus points if that someone is a doctor. You deserve better than meh.

Sunday, March 22, 2015


You unbuttoned my
last bit of self respect, stripped
it off me, tossed it
like dirty laundry.


Saturday, March 21, 2015

Jumble (a draft)

You agreed
to be my muse,

not knowing
what that meant,

how my sleepy Bengal
will lick his paws

and read the poetry
you inspire.

He'll hear my keys
being tapped

by my cracked nails,
and the thumping

of my leg
against my desk

(because I can't seem
to sit still, ever)

as I think about
the planet, the way

the world juggles
its people and their

twitching cities,
the way this

God thing gets
under my skin,

the moment I met you,
the second I forgot you,

the eloquent eulogies
I plan for my funeral,

the stupid things
I contemplate:

the tall drinking glass
that doesn't shine anymore,

the lemon oil
I add to my water,

the spiral bound book,
the calculator,

the business cards,
the brooch,

the ounce
of protection

I might have
given myself

had I not asked
you to be mine.

March 21, 2015


Forty years later,
your face like a quince,
mouth puckered where
stem connects to twig,
your smile an indent.
I wanted to write a poem for you,
(men make such good muses)
because I remember our kiss.
I still think of it,
like I think of trees
waving their lovely hands
in a young breeze.
Passion is part of the myth.
But now, you're a knotted branch,
last light of beauty in your eyes.
I touch the thin skin of your cheek,
and I sigh.

Sunday, March 01, 2015


Loss is a lake
frozen black,
like a smile
for half a mile,
skaters falling
through its
cracked teeth,
down the throat
of winter water
into the stomach
of sand, sediment
and rusty soda cans,
way beneath
the reach of rope
or a stick
from the shoreline's
weeping willow.
Who is that
I hear wailing?

Katherine Gotthardt
copyright March 1, 2015