GAS Featured Poet: Karen Warinsky

Karen Warinsky began publishing poetry in 2011 and was named as a finalist for her poem “Legacy” in the Montreal International Poetry Contest in 2013. Her work has appeared in several anthologies, books and lit mags/blogs, and she has participated in many online open mics including Rattle’s Poets Respond and Ó Bhéal.  She has two books, Gold in Autumn (2020), and Sunrise Ruby, (2022), both from Human Error Publishing.  Her work centers on mid-life, relationships, politics, and the search for spiritual connection through nature, and she coordinates poetry readings under the name Poets at Large.

Find her at karenwarinskypoetry.wordpress.com

Things Get Lost

Things get lost,

memories fade,

too much history to remember—

too many ancient kings, dust entombed cities,

battles won and lost and won again,

countries and capitals renamed.

Parchment crumbles,

stone cuts soften,

ancestors fall from view.

We forget their names.

Beautiful names

chosen by careful mothers

bestowing benedictions on babies

for a plentiful, happy future.

And so today,

before things get lost

say their names:  

Breonna, Philando, Trayvon, 

Ahmaud, Atatianna.

Harmonic syllables 

rolling out in a cadence of hope

unmet in this world.

Say their names.

Pond Tanka

the pond, still and calm

we paddled slow and silent

through summer’s last day

sudden gunfire nearby

Sunday in America

Swimming in the Time of Kali Yuga

Her fears sometimes glide inside me

doing butterfly kicks and easy breast strokes 

while I cannot swim.

My fear of water runs deep,

placed there by my mother’s stories and doubts,

a liquid fright running over every part of her life

doused by 20^th century challenges,

the opening act of the apocalypse, the Kali Yuga, the singularity.

It was windy and cool

the morning of our diving lessons

and the young teacher 

kept her clothes on over her swim suit,

 so, I thought, 

“She won’t come in after me.”

“She won’t get her clothes wet,”

because I had been dipped in doubt,

prepared for betrayal,

taught to expect the worst.

I stopped taking lessons.

Years later my three children became lifeguards;

strong and fearless they dove,

 swam past the buoys,

saved others,

an overcompensation for my driftwood life,

which had taken me far from my past,

from many worries,

though I am always watching for

a flash flood,

a time of unexpected inundation,

a time when nature decides to take back what is hers.