Saturday Night You

Posted on September 18, 2023 by kathylynnharris

For Mom

Back then, we knew

Saturday nights

were for you—

for VFW and KC halls,

old and scratched hardwood floors

topped with too-little sawdust

and the steady beat of a too-loud bass.

We’d watch Hee Haw,

sink into our beanbag chairs,

feel the anticipation of your evening

in the crisp musky scents

of perfume and hairspray

drifting down the hall from the bedroom.

Was it White Diamonds and Breck?

These are the details that have begun

to slip away

as I am now the age you were

back then.

But what doesn’t slip away is that—

back then,

I thought you were far prettier than the prettiest

of the country music stars,

Loretta and Tammy and Dolly,

and yet your life, too: a ballad set to

the whine of steel guitars.

Daddy would shine his boots

as he waited for you in the kitchen

and even though he never said:

“You look amazing,”

(and we told him to)

we could see his eyes soften

when you walked into the room—

slim-fitting pants (to show off your curves)

flowing blouse (comfortable for jitter-bugging)

and your worn-smooth, suede moccasins

that slid across dance floors

like soft butter on warm bread.

Back then,

we knew, once you were there

you’d request songs from the band,

make them stop and bend down to you,

to listen from the stage.

They knew you well—

your smile, your sway,

your favorites:

Conway, Charlie, Moe, Patsy

and Hank.

Back then,

I wanted your drive,

your sparkle,

your easy charm.

But now,

I’m quite jealous of that

Saturday Night You,

that woman who could

let go of bills, baths, suppers, kids

and embrace the joy of a two-step,

a drink setup, a Freddy Fender love song.

Someday,

I’ll ask you for your secrets—

How to make a musician

forget the refrain

just by walking to your table.

How to spin with balanced grace

even after midnight and seven beers.

How to pretend, at least until

the band’s next break,

that life isn’t a crap shoot.

And mostly,

how to make your 40s

(at least one night a week)

as good as a Singapore Sling going down

And a slow fiddle

in a long Texas waltz.

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New Poetry (Because My Blog Thinks I’m Long Gone)

Posted on November 1, 2022 by kathylynnharris

Since I haven’t posted in a long while, I thought I’d add one of my latest poems. It’s rough, but here it goes:

Today I Didn’t Miss You

But every cell in my body,

those well-worn patched

cells practiced in grief and loss,

the easy stuff of wanting

to hear your laugh or see you dance —

are now wedged open wide,

hollowed out, in need of not

nourishment, but lifeblood.

A sharp ledge, an edge

I never knew existed

had been waiting for me

to step off and fall

from the place

(the safe place)

that memories

and solid ground

end.

Now I grasp for just one

buried nest of branch

one sliver of jutting root —

my fingernails digging deep

into soil, all of it turning to dust

and giving way, my face

descending against rock

tongue tasting earth

teeth biting gravel

removing thin layer

after thin layer of me,

until finally, on the way

down,

I understand:

This is the difference

between

missing you

and needing you.

(C) Copyright 2022. Kathy Lynn Harris.

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Grief, an exploration in words

Posted on August 31, 2020 by kathylynnharris

grief is trying to breathe

grief is too soon

grief is no and no and no

grief is feeling a heartbeat stop, gone from beneath your fingers

and breaking the earth in two.

grief is cumulative

grief is one times one is ten

grief is layers of raw-edge concrete,

tightly packed and stacked

sedimentary by day

metamorphic by night.

grief is why why and why

grief is fuck you

grief is midnight pillow cries,

kidnapped stars and moon

grief is unknown sidewalk stains

everyone walks around.

grief is unfixable dents in steel

no one understands

until they absolutely do.

grief is a boulder so heavy

you’d saw off your own heart

just to escape it.

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Give credit to the river banks

Posted on August 31, 2020 by kathylynnharris

rivers

are praised

for their sun-caught

brilliance and

mad-swell of froth

but keep in mind

it’s the banks,

root-held and rock,

that must hold it

all in.

Photo by Nitish Kadam on Unsplash

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A tiny, uplifting poem (I hope)

Posted on August 31, 2020 by kathylynnharris

Remember this

the one good thing

about emptiness

it can still be

filled.

Photo by Mario Mendez on Unsplash

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Damage

Posted on June 16, 2019 by kathylynnharris

Hail pummeling, dark

windshield unshielding

now quarter-sized,

maybe golf ball—

weakened wipers fighting,

soul-strike after soul-strike

like gunshots

to the spine.

A different person,

another kind of woman

might’ve slowed,

quickly sought cover—

an overpass maybe

or fought for space

at the Buc-cees

diesel pumps.

But she drove unphased

by the ensuing cracks,

accelerated even—

toward the falling

pieces of storm,

knowing the damage

will be striking

in the light.

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Notes for the Skilled Nursing Facility

Posted on April 12, 2019 by kathylynnharris

My mom is gone now. But I wrote this poem anyway. It got a little dark.

—————-

Notes for the Skilled Nursing Facility

Her name is Diana Sue Harris, but please.

Don’t call her that.

She goes by Sue.

If there’s an issue, call her middle daughter

who will drop everything

and hold the hurt inside for years.

She loves Dr. Pepper, all day long. It never seems to elevate her sugar levels,

so give it a go.

If you tell her to drink water instead,

she might call you a bitch.

Dark chocolate makes her happy, with a nice cold glass of milk.

Whole. Not skim.

She doesn’t watch her figure anymore.

She can’t drink beer in here, I know.

So substitute with donuts, which can lift her spirits as

much as a couple of Michelob Lights

on a good day.

Can she have cheese? Block not sliced?

Burgers?

Barbecue?

Can her senses still be filled with the mesquite smoke of tender Texas brisket, or grease from the Angus chuck dripping down her hands, or the tang of sharp cheddar on her tongue?

Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.

If she’s sad, you can put on some George Strait or Elvis

and she’ll move her hips and hands and remember her lovers,

the dancehalls, the days of being light and desired

and full of magic.

Can she go outside here? Can someone lightly touch her elbow

and help her to a spot in the sun?

Is there a way for her to still feel a breeze lifting her silver hair,

Bake-clay warmth on her face?

Will someone make sure she can see the determination of lacy dandelions,

the hope in blades of Christmas green grass?

Her “baby” is Dolly, by the way. She’s a shaggy dog. She’ll ask for her.

Here’s what to do: Tell her she’s safe. And loved. And that taking that dog away from her was one of the hardest things her middle daughter’s ever done.

The TV. Yes, sitcoms help. Try Golden Girls.

Laugh tracks distract from not knowing who you are.

Try it for yourself.

Her husband of 52 years was Herman. He loved her. She loved him most of the time. She’ll ask for him, and wonder where he is. I need my husband, she’ll say. Don’t tell her he died three years ago. Tell her he’ll be there soon.

I guess she can’t go clothes shopping anymore. Just in case, Bealls has a good clearance rack this time of year.

Dislikes? Well, hot peppers. The sting of shower water on bare skin. Bras (who cares anyway?) Loud voices. Being touched without her permission.

If you can, ask her about her chili. Chicken-fried steak.

Her music store. Her life.

Not now, but before.

She takes her meds with pudding or yogurt.

Everything seems to go down better with sugar

these days.

Do not make her lie down flat in the twin bed in the corner

with the thin, rubber-covered mattress.

Lowering her head makes her afraid.

Like falling backwards, over, in a rocking chair.

Like something you least expected

And can’t control.

She can’t use a fork or spoon anymore.

Let her eat with her fingers. Let her snack. Let her cry. Let her dance.

Let her do whatever the hell she wants.

Take your $200 a day and leave as few bruises as possible.

Cover scratches with gauze and tape and try not to tear her tissue-thin skin.

If she doesn’t want to move, don’t make her. If she says no, listen to her.

Try to remember there’s a human in there. Who loved her family. Her animals. Food. Music.

Who was smarter than you may be right now.

Try to remember the need for dignity remains.

Even if she can’t speak that word anymore.

Tell her she’s beautiful.

Before you break her spirit,

and she decides living isn’t worth the cost.

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Getting past grief …

Posted on November 13, 2017 by kathylynnharris

Grief Poem #129

I saw an older man today

in the January-crisp morning light

walking a fence line—

faded ball cap down, blue flannel shirt,

shoulders hunched against the wind,

breath like smoke

from one of your old Marlboros.

And there it is again, that abrupt

catch of throat-breath,

quick-snag of heart.

As if I’m 14 and arm-crawling

under a sagging barbed wire fence—

dead weeds in my face,

following you into the

next section

of winter-brown pasture.

Moving as fast as I can;

trying to prove I’m good

at this sort of thing,

thinking I’m in the clear.

Then a razor-sharp

rusty prick

hits

and the back of my shirt rips

and maybe my right shoulder bleeds

and I realize I had misjudged

time and space …

And that I wasn’t past

the worst of it

at all.

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New poem for #WorldPoetryDay

Posted on March 21, 2017 by kathylynnharris

World Poetry Day

Breaking

I can count my broken bones

like milestones

like clean breaks

like short stories

maybe Lorrie Moore’s—

funny

but also kind of sad.

First-grade nightmares and hardwood floors

driveway basketball with two bare feet

recklessness and dank river air

missteps on a solo mountain hike

impatience in a Target parking lot.

But my heart?

You can’t really count

the fragile

hairline

fractures

on a fault line—

eventually spreading

like what happens

from the weight of beating

monsoon rains

on long-weathered wood,

rotting, wearing down

strength.

moments after days

after weeks after years

chipping love and naivety

into what must resemble

rubicund ceramic shards

scattered on an unswept,

linoleum kitchen floor

too many unkind boys

and unkind girls,

playground pranks,

and no way to measure

root-scraping betrayal

in familiar trees

or insecure men and unsuccessful lies

or the gradual creep

of a mind-tangled disease

or conversations I’ll never unhear.

My bones healed, I suppose

some smoother

and stouter than others,

some reminding me

on the last mile of a long day

that healing takes a long time.

But my heart?

It just figures …

that’s the way things are now.

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New Poetry: A Different Seed

Posted on March 25, 2015 by kathylynnharris

Photo by Texas Parks & Wildlife

So … I’m knee-deep in poetry right now, still. And I feel almost guilty. I have so many people waiting on my next novel, but I’ve set it aside (again). I’m drawn to poetry and I’m gonna ride this pony til she stops.

Here’s one of my latest that I worked on in a recent Lighthouse Writers workshop. I can’t seem to get the line spacing right on this blog, but it’s close.

Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!

A Different Seed

I was born in fields of bluebonnets,

ink-well-sapphire dense petals spiked in sun-blind white

short-lived in the Texas spring —

each dew-soaked stem

flattened just yesterday

by the sharp nose of the coyote

the hoof-step of the Hereford

hiding the hiss and slither of the rattler —

always bouncing back

seemingly singular,

good for early-morning picking

before the heat sets in.

Yet by high noon

it’s never easy

to detach a wilted loner

from the rest held together by a nest of roots

entrenched in the holy dirt

of Saint Sam Houston

el malvado Santa Anna

battle-blood of the Alamo

sweet bread of the German siedler

rusted barbed-wire of fences

oily cotton boll of the farmer

weather-worn skull of a fire-ant-stricken calf

my grandfather would’ve tried to save.

And even though Lady Bird’s highways are lined with them —

musky-sweet flowers,

family ties,

good intentions —

not every seed will grow

where planted.

Is it easily spread on the wind?

Can it tolerate full sun?

And what happens

when

the parched and crisp soil

becomes suddenly drenched,

clay-like —

unable to breathe?

If you want to read more of my writing, I send out the occasional newsletter. Sign up here:

Kathy Lynn Harris

Author of Fiction, Poetry and Essays

Category Archives: poetry

Saturday Night You

New Poetry (Because My Blog Thinks I’m Long Gone)

Grief, an exploration in words

Give credit to the river banks

A tiny, uplifting poem (I hope)

Remember this

Damage

Notes for the Skilled Nursing Facility

My mom is gone now. But I wrote this poem anyway. It got a little dark.

Notes for the Skilled Nursing Facility

Getting past grief …

New poem for #WorldPoetryDay

New Poetry: A Different Seed