Karen Mastracchio
Karen is currently webmistress for Poets Northwest, and a member of Poetry Society of Texas, part of National Federation of State Poetry Societies, Inc. She has taken numerous courses in poetry and non-fiction writing through Houston's Inprint.
A retired high school English and creative writing teacher, Karen sponsored Klein Oak's literary magazine, Orsorum. She also sponsored Poetry Club and worked with Poetry Out Loud. Working with student writing sparked her to continue to write and develop her skills.
Karen has been published in PST’s Book of the Year and Encore, the NFSPS anthology. She has also had poems published in Texas Poetry Calendar. Her chapbook Seasoned will be out November, 2022.
A retired high school English and creative writing teacher, Karen sponsored Klein Oak's literary magazine, Orsorum. She also sponsored Poetry Club and worked with Poetry Out Loud. Working with student writing sparked her to continue to write and develop her skills.
Karen has been published in PST’s Book of the Year and Encore, the NFSPS anthology. She has also had poems published in Texas Poetry Calendar. Her chapbook Seasoned will be out November, 2022.
Resurrection
Each day I practice dying.
Sitting cross-legged, I lower my torso,
slowly stretching right leg, then left,
smoothing my spine, turning my palms up.
Lying on frayed carpet in the corpse position,
aches ebb into worn fibers, tensions leak
into carpet padding thinned by life’s traffic.
I allow my eyes to open, truer to death than the pose.
As breath levels freeing the muscles, sinews, bones,
Savasana brings vitality.
In this brief death, I find this day’s life.
Each day I practice dying.
Blowing out the votives,
I finish my last morning prayer.
Goin into my room, I change my clothes,
smooth on makeup, turning my mind to the day ahead.
Leaving home, bidding Elizabeth and the cats goodbye,
I remain myself just awhile, driving in solitude to work.
Pulling into the parking lot, I vanish
as I clip on the I.D. badge that transforms me into Ms._,
forgetting home and focusing on work.
In this personal death, I find this day’s professional life.
Each day I practice dying.
At nine each night, I cleanse the day’s grime from my face,
brush the meals’ residue from my teeth.
I layer lotion, lavender scented, on my drying skin,
inviting sweet sleep with its dreams and healing.
I crunch my pillow and curl on my right side,
waiting with closed eyes to fall back into the womb.
I toss freeing myself from dream to dream,
giving this death no final hold on me.
In stillness of night’s waning dark, eyelids flutter open.
Through sleep’s death, another day of life finds birth.
© Karen Mastracchio
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Karen.
Each day I practice dying.
Sitting cross-legged, I lower my torso,
slowly stretching right leg, then left,
smoothing my spine, turning my palms up.
Lying on frayed carpet in the corpse position,
aches ebb into worn fibers, tensions leak
into carpet padding thinned by life’s traffic.
I allow my eyes to open, truer to death than the pose.
As breath levels freeing the muscles, sinews, bones,
Savasana brings vitality.
In this brief death, I find this day’s life.
Each day I practice dying.
Blowing out the votives,
I finish my last morning prayer.
Goin into my room, I change my clothes,
smooth on makeup, turning my mind to the day ahead.
Leaving home, bidding Elizabeth and the cats goodbye,
I remain myself just awhile, driving in solitude to work.
Pulling into the parking lot, I vanish
as I clip on the I.D. badge that transforms me into Ms._,
forgetting home and focusing on work.
In this personal death, I find this day’s professional life.
Each day I practice dying.
At nine each night, I cleanse the day’s grime from my face,
brush the meals’ residue from my teeth.
I layer lotion, lavender scented, on my drying skin,
inviting sweet sleep with its dreams and healing.
I crunch my pillow and curl on my right side,
waiting with closed eyes to fall back into the womb.
I toss freeing myself from dream to dream,
giving this death no final hold on me.
In stillness of night’s waning dark, eyelids flutter open.
Through sleep’s death, another day of life finds birth.
© Karen Mastracchio
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Karen.
Salome Moon
September moon's dance of the veils tempts
my eyes from the road.
Covered from midriff to toes in kohl clouds,
she hides herself.
Spotting those naked parts of her luminous body,
I am enamored.
Fickle full moon flirts with me,
dropping one umbrous veil after another.
Instead of focusing on traffic,
I twist to catch a glimpse of her creamy fullness
before she teasingly slips
behind another cover.
When I reach the Lexington overpass,
as close to her as I will get this dawn,
she reveals herself entirely:
stark, soft, full.
Never satisfied,
my greedy eyes attempt to hold her in place.
Denying me,
she slips into a robe of dusky gray, then
showing only the faintest toe tip of silver-gold light,
she drops beyond the horizon.
© Karen Mastracchio
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Karen.
Cleansing
Sleek golden-shimmered grackle,
with a bright eye and a twist of your head,
surveying conditions, you plunge
into the copper-colored basin,
submerging your light frame in shallow tepid water.
Full sun illuminates your toiletry.
Dip, dunk, shake, and fluff.
Feathers plump like porcupine quills
as rhythmic gyrations merge droplets and bird.
In imitation, I shake and shimmy,
a voyeur more cleansed by your bath than you.
© Karen Mastracchio
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Karen.
Sleek golden-shimmered grackle,
with a bright eye and a twist of your head,
surveying conditions, you plunge
into the copper-colored basin,
submerging your light frame in shallow tepid water.
Full sun illuminates your toiletry.
Dip, dunk, shake, and fluff.
Feathers plump like porcupine quills
as rhythmic gyrations merge droplets and bird.
In imitation, I shake and shimmy,
a voyeur more cleansed by your bath than you.
© Karen Mastracchio
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Karen.
