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Kate Dempsey Jan 2011
A cold breeze, chilling only the skin,
deterring nothing deeper,
nothing sacred, or secret, or obscure.
Everything within her was still and calm,
undisturbed by the inhospitable outside,
the snow and empty town.
Because she knew that soon
spring would be coming,
bringing life to this town,
restoring her happy little place.
Soon, she would call it home again.
The empty trees.
In one of them, she saw two blossoms.
Both of them thriving,
two pinks lights in a world that was otherwise
white and grey.
Confirmation.
Her lips curled upward.
A serene and content smile
on her glowing face.
She walked on
thinking of the coming spring
and the child that would arrive afterward.
She knew that soon
happiness and vitality would be restored
to this barren little town.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010

Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

Since it is the beginning of a new year, I wanted to begin with something beautiful. It is also my last full day away from home. Normally, my style is kind of depressing, so I wanted to do something more refreshing. I hope this is a turn for the better.
Kate Dempsey Dec 2010
Beads of sweat escaped from my forehead,
leaking from my back,
lubricating my hands and
making my work difficult.
Through years of practicing ever day,
The piano had become
something familiar,
something dear,
something intimate.
In it’s simple black and white surface,
I saw reflected years of commitment,
years of grueling effort,
and still something more:
a key to a future that is otherwise, unattainable.
Something that my yellow skin
would only stand in the way of.
Today, like a thousand days before,
I put everything that I had into my trade,
the only thing that made me unique,
my hands going numb
and my tongue growing thirsty.
Next to me, my guest watched
silently and intently,
with a focused expressing in her brown eyes,
carefully watching my hands as
they performed the song perfectly,
her lips curving into a smile
as I completed my song.
I began to play again,
content that my spectator was pleased with my work.
Her brown eyes focused upon my yellow hands-
her mouth curving upward into a contented grin
each time I completed the song,
her white hands clapping as I smiled,
enjoying the tiny limelight,
rejoicing in my handiwork-
the song that I had learned to play perfectly.
“Just like magic” she says.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010


Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

Someone wanted "Discipline" from the pianist's point of view. I'm a little sad to say that he has since gone home to China. I could say many more things, but I will choose not to reveal too many details.
Kate Dempsey Dec 2010
He was a star.
His nova is over.
After he died, he kindly
removed his mask,
revealing himself to all.
He who devoted his life to becoming
genderless,
ageless,
nameless.
He who hid himself for the sake of his art.
He who made himself become
an invisible voice as a
stepping stone to
becoming something greater:
a messenger of his own words.
He devoted his life
To meticulously transcribing
his own messages
into his own words
in his own font and delivering it
to his people anonymously.
He was faithful until the very end.
He gave his talent,
his livelihood,
and asked for
nothing in return.
Not even recognition.
He gave all that he had until
his supernova,
his judgment day,
his detonation.
He will never create anything else.
I’m not sure which loss is greater:
his life
or his art.
Regardless, in the midst of the destruction,
We will love him more than ever before.
In the wreckage, he became
Art.
Let us rejoice him quietly.
Let us mourn him quietly.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010

Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

I must confess that I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that I wrote this; I hadn't originally wanted to put this one up. Oh well, I've written things that I'm far more ashamed of.
Kate Dempsey Dec 2010
Feng collapsed into the snow,
looking up into the sky and
thinking of lost comrades, all lost
in the war against Russia.
Not far away, Nikolai was doing the same.
Both of them, neither of them
could forget the other’s identity.
Russian.
Chinese.
Feng ran, approaching the Russian border.
The sound of an accordion.
The Chinese man runs faster,
running out of breath,
long, jet black hair hitting his face like little whips
as the Russian snow dried and cracked his lips.
Finally, Feng spots what he is looking for:
a grey coat and a flourish of a red scarf.
Feng calls out. Nikolai turns around.
The accordion falls to the ground
With a soggy thud.
They run together and embrace,
the coldness and the warmth both
Redden Nikolai’s face.
Feng falls, Nikolai catches.
Feng cries.
A wetness on his head.
A summons to look upward.
Nikolai’s… tears?
Will we meet again, Russia?
No, China.
Can we speak again, Russia?
No, China.
The two men release each other and stand tall once again
like soldiers.
Can we forget, China?
No, Russia.
Can we forgive, China?
No, Russia.
Feng stares.
Nikolai stares.
Nikolai’s hard, rough hands, cracked from the cold
reach toward his own neck.
His scarf.
He wrapped the scarf around his friend’s neck.
This is yours now. Remember me.
Feng’s teary eyes said Thank you.
Nikolai stares.
Feng stares.
Red eyes.
Red cheeks.
Both white faces longed for another word.
Finally, a movement.
Feng salutes and smiles to his forbidden friend.
A soldier’s farewell.
Nikolai smiles, but turns away,
Picks up his accordion and begins to play;
play the tune that his friend knows so well,
hoping that he would remember how it goes.
Feng’s cue.
He draws a flute from his sleeve
and begins to play
the tune that his friend knows so well.
They stand with their backs toward each other
and play that one last song together,
Memories of fellow soldiers and deceased friends
their war-torn countries,
how they were forced to hate each other,
their forbidden friendship.
The song ends.
The music stops.
A heavy pause.
Without another look, they walk away,
Enemy soldiers once again
But forever friends.
The snow falls between them,
Nikolai’s black hair thrashing
In the unforgiving Russian gust
That whispers betrayal! Mutiny!
Russia’s scarf cascading down China’s back,
waving goodbye to Russia
and turning China red.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010

Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

I'm not entirely satisfied with this one. I believe that it has a really good concept behind it and I think it has a lot of potential to become a great poem. However, I would really appreciate some feedback. I really want to improve this one, as I think it can be saved.
Kate Dempsey Dec 2010
This body has seen better days;
it has suffered  hard times.
Its skin is stained with scars,
the bones have endured both heat and cold,
the legs having walked thousands upon thousands of miles.
A young, yet world-weary body.
Every bruise,
every scar
a memento, a story, a memory,
a snapshot of when times were hard.
A sturdy, stocky body, more often than not
in tatters.
However, I immediately sew myself back together.
I am a scarred woman, not a broken one.
There are many stories inside this body;
I am a relic, full of stories and history.
But don’t let my look deceive you;
I’m fragile.
So when you look at me,
your supple hand preparing to touch my ****** skin
for the first time,
you must remember-
handle with care.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010

Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.
Kate Dempsey Dec 2010
Daring.
Bold.
Too scary?
No. Maybe? Yeah.
Hesitations? Anxiety?
Yes.
Just let it go, Katie.
Just. Let. Go.
Release.
Look, bro! No handlebars! No handlebars!
Accomplishment.
I finally gathered up the courage and let go.
I abandoned my security blanket.
My inhibitions, my fear, my hesitation
Gone.
Al gone.
I’m a conqueror! A mighty conquistador!
Fear me, for I am daring and intrepid!
I’ve finally conquered fear.
Time to conquer something else.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010

Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.
Kate Dempsey Dec 2010
I watched as my husband trudged through the snow,
rustic military boots crunching through
the ****** drifts
to join the other soldiers,
his younger brother trotting behind,
eagerly and blindly running to his demise.
Each of them being forced into a war
For a cause in which none of them believed.
Ба́ре деру́тся - у холо́пов чубы́ треща́т.
The young men without passion
Without reason
Set out on their funeral march.
Thousands of them sentenced
to a grisly and gory fate.
Standing in the doorway,
I weep not only for my husband,
But for every young man in Russia,
Praying
Hopelessly
For a safe return.
I watch as they disappear into
The endless white oblivion,
Listening as the church bell tolled.
Suddenly, I feel that all hope is lost.
All young men must go.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010

Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

Translations:
Ба́ре деру́тся - у холо́пов чубы́ треща́т. = When masters are fighting, their servants' forelocks are creaking. (Russian proverb)
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