Category: Poem

the mourning doves

On By ©️K.T.2026In earthlings, human non-beings, hunters, hunting, ki, kin, Poem, poetry, wildlifeLeave a comment

i still surprise them
even after nearly six years of quiet-yet-unstealthy,
devotion to them

they’ve never once held their roost or kept their forage
upon my careful intrusion, upon my neutral presence
to maybe know of me
to maybe trust of me

their survival instinct is so strong
but i still take umbrage,
playful, but umbrage, nonetheless

then i remember Nemerov’s words about their feathers
in our caps, our pillows, our coats
“The Distances They Keep,”
then i remember Kimmerer’s words about
the aweing ubiquity and incredible extinction of the Omimi,
Martha the Last, died 109 years ago come September,
then i read how happy fields of sunflowers are cultivated to serve as bait traps for dove hunters at my beloved Starved Rock – after all the lovely fall engagement and high school senior photo shoots wind down,
and of those who cruelly suggest their flesh is quite delicious

there is no honorable harvest among the descendants of thieves, of colonizers, of settlers, of “homesteaders” — i know this.

so, my god, yes,

stay shy, stay distant, dear doves,

there are many reasons, that i stay shy, stay distant, and in mourning too, but none as good as theirs

addendum poem:

“dove,”
what a lovely name for a gentle bird
what a lovely name for a newly-born girl
what a terrible name for a woman in this world

Continue reading “the mourning doves” →

beach OBE

On By ©️K.T.2026In Alchemy, crone chronicles, grandmother, liminal, metaphysical, out-of-body experience, Poem, poetry, waterLeave a comment

i Am revisiting the significance of this poem — first published on my former Tumblr site [kimtn.tumblr.com] in August 2012 and one of the first intentional poems i ever composed

this poem is derived from my near-drowning and out-of-body experience [OBE] when i was about three years old at a beach near Waukegan, Illinois while under the brief watch of my Finnish-American paternal grandmother, Dolores “Babe” Laine (shortened from Kumpulainen) who was often drunk

i am actually lucky that this near-drowning happened to me — and at such a tender age; my out-of-body experience imprinted on me and left me with the capacity to be open to, recognize and receive other metaphysical and liminal experiences throughout my life, and is absolutely part of the origin story for The Limineen and its previous incarnation as the “Accidental Seeker & Intentional Opiner”

beach obe

I open my eyes and ochre water’s all around

I’m underneath, but I’m not scared,

I still see golden sunlight too

I see your legs; you’ve let me go

and I think I’m down here all alone

I hear voices, but I can’t breathe

So I leave, I’m off to explore

But wait, there’s me! – that’s my face!

Do you see, that somehow now, there’s two of me?!

you finally see — the first me
you slowly raise her up

She coughs and breathes;

and the other me, She goes, She floats away

But, which one Am i?

now, i’m not sure

Am i real, or was it She?

Continue reading “beach OBE” →

fulcrums

On By ©️K.T.2026In Poem, poetry, summer, WyomingLeave a comment

pinpoint the moment,
the fulcrum,
where verdant green life
slips into hot summer crackle,
Sun-steeped leaves
aromatic, chamomile-like
parched beneath our feet
all those places where a hose will never reach,
a scent in your nose
reminiscent of a birthday hike
on switchbacks
to stand properly on, and in the shadow of,
“The Grand”,
a surprise, teal, glistening alpine lake.
was that the time he dove from the rock like a young god, an Adonis?
all those trips to Wyoming in August, in June,

begin to merge into one core memory,
like a hunk of young granite forged
and carried down in rock slide
then, carried all the way down to the valley, in my pocket
for him, to give to him, on his birth day.
i ran down that mountain like a gazelle, way ahead of them
it was the fastest and freest i have ever felt in all my life, truly
and, i astounded them, all, — and mostly myself.


then, a long, quiet drive back to
a newly dog-less city house
how did this all happen in one June, one August, or — was it two?
then,
the first time i felt a chill in months,
a different kind of crunch underfoot
the wind rained down
a carpet of leaves all about, in an instant

just as they appeared at birth,
all golden again,
but different, wiser,

a frost sets in.

Continue reading “fulcrums” →

weeds, july

On By ©️K.T.2026In Crone, Crone Consciousness, july, kin, Poem, poemo, poet, poetry, summer, The Trickster, TricksterLeave a comment

while washing dinner dishes
a hummingbird surprised me
feeding on a milk thistle
them overgrown “weeds” just outside my window

you see, it’s not just about my garden that i tend to
but about the things i leave alone,
that i let go,

that i let grow wild, too

//

i didn’t get the photo, my hands were too wet with soap
yet i really wanted you to know about this, really, to know this, about us, both

you see, we, errant human weeds, you need us too,
we’ll prick your finger
we’ll quench your thirst
we’ll tell you truths

up close & personal
Continue reading “weeds, july” →

night falls, late july

On By ©️K.T.2026In agraria, Arte Agraria, Arte Bucolia, Arte Ruralia, bucolia, Crone, earthlings, Garden of Eden, ki, kin, nightfall, outer rural, Poem, poet, poetry, ruralia, witchLeave a comment

nightfall
proceeds like this

small rodentia head under, in or up,
mourning doves perform a vigorous last forage,
hummingbirds, always reliable for last call, drink up/
rabbits boldly show out in numbers to spaghetti-slurp dandelion, plantain and clover stems/
barn and tree swallows own the lower troposphere

red-winged blackbirds
cardinals, and robins
in that exact order
loudly call everyone home for the night

the air surrenders to insects,
the sky — to bats, beautifully acrobatic /hey!/
cottonwood or black walnut trees will host owls on supremely, rare summer evenings

moths, beetles take the lamps
frogs take the sidewalks, steps, stoop,
walls, windows,
and eventually, the lamps too/
toads pace and post sentry on barn thresholds

deer passage through — or bed down
in the tall unmowed grasses, now properly – a prairie, a meadow,
natural salt licks — and halved, quartered and whole apples,
are my selfishly generous lures ’til autumn’s own bounty

coyotes herald the Moon
or the first dark train,
depending on the phase,

lightning bugs mimic eye-level stars,
golden-gold like our Sun and in asynchronous temporary constellations

raccoons strategize, then raid, but i know to expect them now
possums about their business — quiet, slow, sweet — these, my dear ones, stay a while, please

cricketsong
errant cicadas, what year is it, again?
and incessant croaking, banjoing, ribbitting

fog may appear,
then settle — or lift,

or maybe the night is sultry, still or clear

Continue reading “night falls, late july” →

venus 𝖗𝖃

On By ©️K.T.2026In Poem, poet, poetryLeave a comment

and she and i were out of sync
and he and i were out of sync
and the crows and i were out of sync
and he and i were out of sync

and she and i were out of sync

and he and i were out of sync

and we were all,
out of sync

but mostly, i Am out of sync

so i stepped back,
and out,
then forward, and back, yet again,
then circled,
and waited,

waded, treaded, floated

it

out

to keep from

sinking

Hydrangea nostalgia

On By ©️K.T.2026In flora, from the inner city to outer rural, july, Lajuana Lampkins, nostalgia, PoemLeave a comment
revised for the fourth of july, 2025
voluminous, meandering hydrangea shrub
july 2023

This Hydrangea nostalgia bush was grown from a 2017 autumn cutting from its parent which is, or was, located in the front yard of my brick 2-flat in the northwest side neighborhood of Portage Park in Chicago. One of a half-dozen or so white hydrangeas planted by me in the late 90s, I had nurtured and obsessed over them for nearly 23 years — this one is now the lone survivor in my care at my rural home in Michigan.

lilac cuttings,
rooting hormone solution,
and growing medium,
September 23, 2017
(not even one of these most precious lilac cuttings rooted and survived)
a box of hope.
autumn hydrangea & lilac cuttings,
not ideal for propagation,
but ready for transport and transplant
to Michigan

But the genesis of my city girl hydrangea devotion was not Martha Stewart’s ubiquitous “Living” magazine, also of 1990s — though she certainly named, informed, inspired and validated many a hydrangea obsession within those pages — but rather, it was the nostalgic ubiquity of enormous white snowball blooms and arresting blue-purple poms on heritage shrubs that I admired, coveted, played and hid among during my childhood summers spent with my maternal grandparents in Murphysboro — a sleepy, rural town in Southern Illinois — where my maternal great, great grandmother, my great grandmother and grandmother were all born / my grandparents didn’t have or cultivate hydrangeas but it seemed all their neighbors and the entire town did.

I was so enchanted by those plants each summer — yet never knowing/hearing their name or even describing them to my mother when I returned back home to the Chicago Housing Authority’s Lathrop Homes aka “the projects” – which usually, was just in the nick of time for back-to-school in late August. Interestingly, I don’t recall ever drawing a picture of hydrangeas or taking a photo of them with my hard-earned Kodak Instamatic pocket camera as a child – though I frequently used both methods to capture/record my favorite things. //

“Nostalgia Kills”

Nostalgia is a psychological pining for a sweeter but mostly false time in our lives — a naive, shallow or ignorant time that we prefer to — that we choose to, remember as “innocence” — or romanticize, idealize or distort as the “best times of my life” or the “good ol’ days”.

Instead of thoroughly revisiting the entirety of the time, place, people or experience, nostalgia often robs — or kills — the opportunity for true introspection and material dialectics. ///

early July 2023

Nostalgia sounds like the name of the a psychological condition catalyzed by avoiding “dis-ease”

Continue reading “Hydrangea nostalgia” →

“[S]he floats like a butterfly …”

On By ©️K.T.2026In art, art criticism, artists, Black Artists, Black Women, Crone, Lajuana Lampkins, Mother, Muhammad Ali, Narrative, outsider art, Poem, poet, Reverence, street art, true things, women, WomenfolkLeave a comment
Muhammad Ali diptych
marker, paint, glue and chunky gold glitter
on 12”x12” square
gold metallic cardstock

These two gorgeous, requested works by the most gorgeous and extraordinary artist and person Mz. Lajuana Lampkins of Chicago.

You might find her making her art in the late night scene of her favorite spots in the Wicker Park/Bucktown neighborhoods of Chicago — or reach out to her on Instagram at Lajuana.Lampkins1 and peruse her art, her process and her community.

Lajuana Lampkins has had her art exhibited to great praise; she is a prolific and widely collected street artist; and she has edited and published a book of her late son’s essays, poetry and letters: The Collected Works of Prince Akbar AKA Jus Rhymz.

She is also a sister, aunt, friend, poet, community member and activist, writer, rapper, historian, archivist, fashionista, paralegal, social commentarian and modern philosopher — but most proudly, a mother, grandmother and great grandmother

— and to me, she epitomizes the Crone.


Champions aren’t made in the gyms. Champions are made from something they have deep inside them: a desire, a dream, a vision. They have to have last-minute stamina, they have to be a little faster, they have to have the skill and the will. But the will must be stronger than the skill.

Muhammad Ali

Mz. Lampkins works may be exhibited again in autumn 2023 in a community art show that she is hoping to create and develop —-and she aspires to publish her next non-fiction book in the nearer future.

She is also the subject of the forthcoming documentary “My Mother is An Artist” which follows Mz. Lampkins’s journey from 2019, eight years post-release from a 30 year incarceration as a wrongfully prosecuted and convicted young woman and mother —to 2023, as a working, locally-renown and yet-still-struggling artist living in these American systems of modern oppression and exploitation.

Continue reading ““[S]he floats like a butterfly …”” →