Kathy Gay

Industrial Strength

Housewives paced wooden floors
while listening to Bing Crosby
croon their babes to sleep, yet
chose to leave and plant themselves
on cold concrete in designated spots
along production lines, like I-beams
supporting the Redstone Arsenal.


Camouflaged in coveralls while
whine and bellow of wartime machines
pierced their ears another way,
they stamped out bombs instead of biscuits;


pulled triggers on rivet guns,
hot-flashed spot welders
as their wide-eyed boys
overseas spilled blood.


These “Soldiers of Production"
re-defined their enemies
from pesky dust
to murdering Axis Powers,
diluted their lives with a war to win,
yet condensed and became women
of industrial strength.

Mahalia and Sundays

(a tribute to Mahalia Jackson and my beloved late father)

Sundays spelled adventure
and the smell of that old car,
the jingle of dad's keys,
and the purr of the straight six
taking me places I'd never seen.


Eyes wide to coral and green
art deco buildings on South Beach
and shady lanes of Coconut Grove,
chromed Ottawa chief led the trail.


Slowly winding through Little River
and by its tiny church, we heard
the most beautiful gospel music
through lifted windows and spirits,
door propped open to baptize
wayward man or breeze,
we parked by the curb to listen.


If windows, like eyes, mirror the soul,
we'd come upon a saint.
No fixed-pane, stained glass
for this congregation, or doors closed
to stifle humanity.


Now when I hear Mahalia sing,
I close my eyes and smile,
and know why I love Sundays.

Sign Of The Times

I am the earth on a hill
prone to slide
into the lake below,
never to be found
in sand and silt
by those who fear depth;

I am slanted at a forty-five,
petrified.
A tree in a deadwood forest
of past ice storms, at risk
of being struck by random bolt,
to incinerate all that I am,
am not, never will be.

I am a cave, dark and wide,
exposed, to those who enter
to scribe their hieroglyphics
on my barren, damp walls,
encode, defy the next
to decipher.

This land is posted.

Danger: Landslides
Start No Fires
Spelunking is Strictly Prohibited!

Kathy (Kat) Gay has resided in Down East Maine since her "earth-muffin-goes-back-to-the land" hippie days of the 70s. She enjoys photographing the lake and wildlife where she lives and kayaks, plays in her perennial flower gardens and writes poetry. Several of her photos have been featured in Lotus Blooms Journal as well as one of her poems.