Morning Experience 

I stretch, gosh, it’s so cold

I wish they’d close the window 

Peering out, that now familiar orange glow 

Greets me…warmly.

The tiles in the entryway radiate chill

Click. Soon she’ll be marching up that hill.

The fountain of life gurgles happily

In the kitchen 

I slurp that sweet nectar of the–ow! It’s hot!

But I hold it close, it’s warmth spreads, hitting the spot

And for this moment I sit still.

Katerina Marks
31 January 2017


Morning Exercise

orange halo hugs horizon
street lights begin to dim.
chill air seeps through glass,
thankful for warmth inside.

tree branches reach, intertwine
giant, climbing spiderwebs.
halo breaks, sun bursts through
and heater kicks on to cut the silence.

Katerina Marks
5 January 2017

4 January 2017

it was my decision, an error on my part
to swallow your words whole, without pausing to masticate
the truth of their weight

it was a mistake, one I chose to seize
to drag through false rays of sunshine, in a world of pure imagination
denying the shadows their time

it was my decision, a mistake I chose to seize
to press close to my heart, without pausing to breathe
the stench of decaying faith

I press my face against you and scream

Katerina Marks
4 January 2017

3 AM – Tantrum

a howling whirlwind of rage
she lost her why moments before
causing bodily harm as she throws herself
across my face
a tiny foot greets my ribs
she reaches for the bottle
a deadly grenade at a time like this
lullabies fall on deaf ears
snuggles are met with resistance
but i secure my hold
leaving her only the screams

eventually she huffs

and rests her head on my shoulder

her little hand patting the center of my chest

sighing simultaneously

i can’t believe i lost her pacifier

Katerina Marks
21 June 2016
*Dedicated to my wonderfully sweet and rambunctious niece.




never really rooted
warm, gentle hands rescued me
youth spent chasing birds
eating grass
wind in my whiskers

always a new doorway
forever familiar sunlight
same warmth all these years
drinking fish’s water
fingers scratch my ears

never really rooted
warm, gentle hands hold me
old age spent peeking out windows
dreaming of grass
and wind in my whiskers

Katerina Marks
11 March 2016



They hunt buffalo different today
from South Dakota through Wyoming
they chase them with helicopters
ATVs and 4x4s follow at speeds never
reached more than a hundred years ago
when they were so often shot from trains
now they are being culled under license
with the governments approval

The hunters say there is nothing
like watching buffalo fall when shots
go home one after another much as arrows
did when they were for food not sport
what do hunters do with all that meat?
What do they do with that shaggy hide?
Why did this way of life have to change?
Will any of our heritage ever return?

Will these dead buffalo grow wings
from those large, once shaggy bodies
when the old Oglala medicine man
fresh from White Creek Reservation
begins chanting them on their journey
to the arms of the Great Spirit
while the Six Grandfathers weep

View original post 8 more words

It bears repeating

I created this blog a little over a year ago with the intention of writing poetry and posting daily. I’ve definitely accomplished some of that goal, although I have slowed down a bit as posting a new poem everyday became a little daunting.

A lot of life has happened in the last year too: my beautiful niece was born, I became a certified ESL teacher, did some traveling, organized a very successful fundraiser for the Charcot-Marie-Tooth Association, turned 30 and really experienced some eye-opening events. I also learned that while life can absolutely be a source of inspiration, it can also definitely stump a person. I hit a couple of months there where it was easy to avoid working on or posting anything, but then I read this article by Wil Wheaton which then led me to this book which then prompted me to ask myself some questions.

Our job in this lifetime is not to shape ourselves into some ideal we imagine we ought to be, but to find out who we already are and become it.” The War of Art by Steven Pressfield

I started asking myself why I felt the need to keep my writing separate from my artwork (I had incorporated writing into my paintings successfully before); would I really be OK knowing I might not ever make a living off my creative endeavors; and where did I feel I was spiritually and emotionally.

While reading The War of Art, I realized that the work I do doesn’t come from me. I am only a vessel. During this time I rediscovered my tattered copy of Black Elk Speaks and ended up giving myself a goal: dissecting, sketching and creating a body of work (writings and paintings) around the themes of spiritual connection, “circles” as the “power of the world”, and the idea that our creative work comes from a bigger source.

It was the power from the outer world, and the visions and ceremonies had only made me like a hole through which the power could come to the two-leggeds. If I thought that I was doing it myself, the hole would close up and no power could come through. Then everything I could do would be foolish.” Black Elk, Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux 1863-1950

Now, I’ve elected to do the Blogging 101 course again this year. It really helped me focus last January and I think it’ll end up being a great starting point again this year.

Katerina Marks