Katherine L. Gordon

Katherine L. Gordon lives to write in a secluded river valley where the wild cycles of nature inform her work. She is an author, editor, publisher and reviewer, with award winning poetry published in many languages including Chinese and Hindi. She has two full collections with her third Translating Shadows to be launched by Craigleigh Press in May. Myth Weavers, her book of Canadian Myths and Legends, was released by Serengeti Press in April 2007.  Katherine is a literary critic and a mentor to young writers.  She believes that poetry is the bond cementing cultures and an antidote to an increasingly impersonal world. 

The following works are copyright © 2008. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  

A Seasoned Love

There is no season to your skin,
it is spring and summer scented
and I am fallen into its burning leaf tongues
that wind into my hair and hungry limbs,
every part jealous for your kisses.
We meet in note-secret sought out places
where no duty, pang or care, can follow,
each tryst the only star we chart
as we explore a heaven.

March

           and the snows heap heavily
mocking any green that dares -
this year begins an ice-age,
even the caves are stalact-iced,
a jackal seals every door,
memories become myths.
Did I wander once across a summerfield
to fold into another's arms
like petals in a fairy basket
fragrance witching every sense
into the merge of other?
It is a frozen dream
hypothermia of all reality --
while the endless snow
buries my heart.  

  

June

First forever-summer days
to lull the unwary,
drug them with roses
suspend reason.
No death stirs these green mounds
no pain pricks primrose paths,
your little foot in his big hand
kisses over a barrow of seeding sacks.
The sighing moon has seen it all
her face damp with cloud billows
and the wane of summer-shine.

  

July

In this steam of aging shadeless summer
the new gods abide with the old,
the planet searches Pluto to appease.
The ponds are dry, valley sere,
trees touched by scorch
fold leaves
discreetly into heartwood.
We summon seers of science to predict
what forest fires will leave us,
which animals will live
and molting birds still sing.
We seek drinks in plastic Merlin beakers
while the earth-wells shrink,
remember with surprise
that life is water.

  

Untitled  

Someday
I will follow that calling bird
fly lighter than air
between quick clouds
find the little heaven
where Autumn birds vanish
and Elves wait,
make baskets of broom
fill them with flowers
mark paths to hide and find
play grass-reed songs
tell tales of adventures unlikely
laugh at the stretch of words
in fair company.
Time will leave for other harried worlds,
never a task to whistle me home
or new spring tempt
to perilous nests.