In open field, the poppies tall,
Wake from sleep so deep, to fly;
Their paper petals, flushed, enthrall,
Flat out, they flout their blooms, unshy.
The winds will blow, red men will fall,
Blood-tears shed—- bled into sky;
Tossed to heaven, once-silenced spirits all,
With no word ever heard, they cry.
Kat Mortensen©2010
Crimson poppies get
blown apart by gales of wind—
crepe parachutes drop.
skat@2017
papaver petals
detached to drift in the wind—
paratroopers, red
floated, hap-hazard
above earth; touching down, they
bled into landscape
Kat Mortensen©2015
Poppy-eater sees
No need to be cropping–the
Garden of Weedin’.
skat@2015
My Life In Runes ... 