Kathy Ellis is an English
as a Second Language and Cross-cultural
Communication Trainer. Kathy always felt that writing was missing from her
life and answered to the pen of poetry four years ago. In the last few years,
Kathy has published poetry in Peninsula
Poets, Reach of a Song, and Oracle Magazine. Awards include: third
placement in Georgia Poetry Society Educator’s Award, Honorable Mention in
Georgia Poetry Society Founder’s Award and Poet Laureate for the Atlanta
Spiritual Living Center Atlanta in 2015. She also self-published her first book
of poems in 2017. Kathy holds a Master’s in Education with additional graduate
studies in Spanish, linguistics, culture, and conflict. Kathy has lived in six
countries, traveled to 40 and now resides in Atlanta, Georgia. She runs an international
bed and breakfast and houses two multilingual cats.
Kathy’s book can be purchased at: Create Space or Amazon
under the title of Primero
Octaves from Above
Wistful and carefree,
Flutes voice shyness in orchestras.
Chime their boldness in Mexican songs.
Flutes of gold, silver, jade, and bone
Touch octaves like hummingbirds weaving
Among blossoms of honey.
Flute notes channel vibrations
For the Queen Mother, Confucius,
Mayan farmers and cats in alleyways.
Flautist James Galway revels in Cleo Laine’s jazz.
The heavens open. My musician mother
Sits with me during such performances.
She was the music.
All the Dancers I
Have Loved Before
Yank out the rusty metal,
running down my spinal cord
spreading its darkness from neck to hips.
Frida Kahlo begs for release from her “Broken Column”.
Ice releases water to flow
into her skeleton and mine.
She commands me,
“Baila, gringita, con
tu alma.”
Pues…
…Paul Taylor and I
share our liquid and light in Esplanade.
Our dancer wings fly away,
transcend into the cheeky sky of golden cherubs.
We are that good.
I limber with such finesse,
Isadora Duncan is distracted from her drama.
My spirals across the stage flow
into soft currents and summer breezes.
She thinks I am that good.
Gene Kelly trampolines with me
beyond the burden of gravity.
Nothing like that feeling
of an oak tree full of branches.
Strong. Forever lasting. Wise in execution of movements.
He makes me look that good.
Cradled in Alvin Ailey’s winged arms and tapered legs,
we dance praises
of the trinity of mind, body, and spirit.
We dance heavenly good.
The suave. tap. shoes. of Gregory Hines,
the daring. taps. of Michelle Dorrance
move like sonnets on fire.
My dream taps until flowers
wilt in my hands.
Not so good.
Suddenly in the cluttered avocado-green kitchen,
an uplifting force of white light
infuses my joints.
Ricky Martin hot salsas my dancing soul
like there is no ma├▒ana.
So caliente.
The Names Carry On
Untold memories exude from the simple stone
that rests on top of the gravestone.
The Indian Mission Cemetery
haunts and echoes of years gone.
Crescent moons, sunrays,
raindrops under white-blue clouds,
painted on weather-worn crosses.
The buried lie witness to
silver lakes full of bass,
deer herds,
laces of lichen,
velvet moss.
Ojibwa hearts carry on—
Chief Blue Cloud
Baby Nedwash
Hole in Sky
John Michigan
Squada
Unknown
Drafts in the remote cemetery
move deliberate and free—
The dream catcher captures stories
as it hangs from the nearby tree.
Small flags upright in the damp humus
wave to war heroes
from these proclaimed forests
of long-ago chants and broken arrows.
A stone is not just a stone—
When the blood of a stone
flows truth of a forgotten past.
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