What if I just sat here and typed a poem?

I never do that! I always hand write my stuff first

It’s a tactile thing-I need to feel the pen in my hand

Scratching on the paper

It somehow opens a channel in my mind/brain that dumps

All manner of images onto the page

I’ve always thought of myself as a scribe for

Some mysterious poet from above-I just take it down

I am a reporter from the stars, waiting anxiously to

See what strange and wonderful poems will be delivered

It’s not in my nature to formulate or contrive

I am a fly by the seat of my pants kinda gal

I can curlicue with the best of poets, but it has to come

From my hand

For me, typing is for editing, after the fact

That’s why, if pressed, I would not call this a poem, per se

It’s just commentary

I will write a poem later today

It will be on my yellow tablet because that is my ritual

The words will flow onto the page

And later I’ll shape and trim it on my keyboard, in the Word

Program, so

I am not gonna type a poem right here and now

Not today, probably not any time soon!

Rainy Knight © 29 October 2015

 

 SACAJAWEA’S SONG!

 I sing across the Shining Mountains

 I was once free as the grass

 blowing in the wind

 I was Shoshone, they named   me Bo-ee-ny-eev (Grass Girl)

 As a child I was captured by Hidatsa warriors and spirited many moons

toward the rising sun

 At my new village, they taught me to plant and reap and obey

 Later I was won in a gambling game by Charbonneau, a French Canadian trader

 When I was with child, two great White chiefs; Long Knife & Red Hair came               and told of an adventure they were on… I longed to go! 

 My child, Pomp, new to this world was the youngest in the Corps of Discovery, in search of the waters at the setting sun

 We would make white man’s history and I would live on as Sakakawea,

named by my Hidatsa captors

 In your 21st Century, you honored me with a golden coin and renamed me Sacagawea

Your historians swore that I died young;

Even though our oral tradition tells that I lived to be old with hair of snow

                       

 Does that make sense to you?

 Sacajawea, Snake girl, who endured your people’s greatest journey, gave up the ghost too soon? Think again! I craved adventure!

 I traveled among the tribes, fell in love, brought forth more papooses and lost my Comanche Brave in battle

Heartbroken, I returned to my own people, who by then, camped at Wind River.

Sharing my story for many years, my people, The Shoshone, renamed me Porivo. (chief)                   

   When it was my time, they wrapped my body

 in skins and planted it in the earth at Wind River

My spirit blows free!

The white people can call me what they will

They made a golden medal to honor me!

  My spirit blows free…

Channeled through Oceana Rose, 2003.  

                 from a novel I am working on.

raintreepoet, reporting.

Prague

I remember the tears trickling down her cheeks,
the receiver cradled her ear as she softly answered,
like a small child, what must have been
searing questions from the other end,
early in their relationship

I remember a visit when we drove in her Porsche
to meet him at a Mexican restaurant and
how she didn’t bother to
carry a purse

I remember her lady friends in their California
casual attire sipping wine and chatting about
obscure poets and gourmet delicacies and
how I knew I could hold my own in conversation
but didn’t really want to

I remember her glorious home, an acre of rooms
and only the two of them and how
she boasted about making him
visit his kids by himself

I remember all the kitty litters
lining a small room, changed as often
as diapers…
She had fourteen cats and
two dapper dogs; they all adored her

I remember sitting with a glass of wine
talking to her cats and enjoying the view
of the golf course beyond their back yard
in a posh, gated community

I remember the solace of just being
in that peaceful space, watering plants
and dusting sculptures and artifacts
from all over the world while they
were on a business trip/vacation
in Prague

I remember how she cried when
I said good-bye and said
she wished I could stay, but she understood
Then she enveloped me
in the fondest hug
and the warmth felt for my longtime friend
as I drove away

I don’t remember how long it’s been
since she stopped answering my letters
or the last time I wrote
I know that it’s been a decade or more
But even now, I wonder how she’s doing…

a memory from the Summer of 1991
RMK










I

Mrs. Whittlesey’s Dough Balls

Mrs. Whittlesey lived by herself at Sunset Beach
She was white-haired and wiry, with a bounce
to her step, full of life and always had a warm
smile for us kids
There were pieces of intricate driftwood and shells
on her window sills and roped, colored glass balls
hanging by her grey weathered door
She must have spent a lot of time
walking the long beach collecting
treasures which she offered to us
as gifts; sea shells, sand dollars
and once even a dried star fish!
But her greatest gift was created in
her little kitchen…
Oh how we young children loved
Mrs. Whittlesey‘s dough balls!
Whenever our family stayed at our
beach house, she would invite us
to come up the hill for tea…and to
come back later for dough balls-
For us a rare treat!
Bread dough rolled into balls,
covered to rise, then deep fried
and served with honey, jam & whipped butter
Now that I’m grown, I realize
Mrs. Whittlesey was not a woman of means
The dough balls were her heartfelt gift
to a farm family who embraced her generosity
with gratitude and enthusiasm
Mrs. Whittlesey, alone, probably welcomed the bursts of
youthful energy and my parents’ friendship
woven into her declining years of peaceful solitude
Among my fond memories of our
Beach pilgrimages will reside in prominence
Dough balls, crunchy on the outside, soft &
chewy on the inside, slathered with butter & jam
at Mrs. Whittlesey’s extended-leaf wood table,
conviviality filling the room…

Portrait of Aging Gracefully

Silver hair, cropped short and colored

to match her leotard each week: pink,

peach, blue, green, lavender…

Snapping dark eyes, broad smile

exposing porcelain teeth like a China doll

Upright carriage, proud straight shoulders

Head held high, easy walk, like a cat

However, when excited, a bounce to the stride

Legend was, in her younger days, she had been

 a choreographer in Hollywood,

going by the name: Sunny Woods

When I was a young teen I took classes with her

She taught dance and yoga into her 70s

She ate once every 24 hours( at midnight)

 And was as slim as a Barbie doll

she was supple and forever young

like an Evergreen

The last I heard of Miss Woods

She was teaching yoga in

Palm Springs well into her 80s

She would be gone by now, however,

She left an indelible mark on me

Forever…

Reclaimed from my rubble: 3/28/2015

I have long dreamt of following Ms. Woods' example.

RMK 

A Texan, a Californian and an Oregonian...

          A Texan, a Californian, and an Oregonian are traveling together by car. In the early evening they stop by the side of the road in a remote area to refresh themselves.

          The Texan pulls a bottle of Tequila from the back of his car, polishes off most of the bottle, throws it up in the air, pulls out a six-shooter and neatly shoots the bottle. The Californian, wide-eyed, asks, “Why did you do that? There was still Tequila in the bottle.” The Texan replies, “I’m from Texas, and we have plenty of Tequila where I come from. I can always get some more.”

          The Californian then goes to the car, pulls out a bottle of Red Shiraz from Sonoma wine country, drinks most of the bottle, then throws the bottle up in the air, pulls out his Glock semi-automatic & shoots the bottle, neatly. The Texan asks, “Why did you do that? There was still wine in the bottle.” The Californian replies, “I’m from California, and we have plenty of Shiraz where I come from. I can always get some more.

          The Oregonian then goes to the car, pulls out a bottle of Henry Weinhard’s Blue Boar Ale, polishes off most of it, throws the bottle in the air, pulls out his 44 Magnum, shoots the Californian and neatly catches the bottle. The Texan, horrified, asks, “Why did you do that?” The Oregonian replies, “I’m from Oregon. We have plenty of Californians, where I come from, and besides, I can get a nickel deposit back on this bottle.”

Internet anonymous humor

This has been in my stash since long before I lived on the Oregon Washington border. 

I used to think it was hilarious. Now that I've met many gentle Portlanders...I still think it's funny. Forgive, please.

Raintreepoet

Dream RE:The Dalai Lama and Donald Trump

 

  

Don’t remember what I ate before bedtime

But it must have been powerful stuff

I awoke remembering the strangest dream!

The players were the Dalai Lama and Donald Trump!

And here’s how it went down:

The Dalai Lama and Donald Trump were each given

assault rifles and

 500 average American voters

 were told to choose who they wanted to be with

407 chose the Dalai Lama and were sequestered in

a large hotel room with him

The remaining 93 chose Donald Trump and

were safely sequestered in a room with him-

Or so they thought!

The Donald’s first act was to open fire and

mow them all down

While in the next room, the Dalai Lama laid

down his assault rifle and said: Let’s talk about

Peace …

Then I saw a big neon sign. It read:

Think before you Vote!

Beats the hell outta me what that was all about:

Just a dream…Jungian outpouring of powerful

People doing the right or the wrong thing

I believe it might have been about character….

RMK © October, 2015

Stuttgart, Germany & F. Scott Fitzgerald

 Boxy modern buildings dismay me; a local German woman explains that they had to rebuild quickly after the devastation of WW 2. The hostel  is a high rise, state-of-the-art structure and the accommodations  more sophisticated than the hostels of Amsterdam or Paris
 Third day in, I wake up terribly congested and remember to invert myself in a yoga down-dog to alleviate sinus pressure Thick yellow snot I blow at frequent intervals from my nose  I am grateful for the strong, high quality German tissues, as thick  as our paper towels 
 F. Scott Fitzgerald visits in a dream; he is a black dog with a stark white chest that makes his coat resemble a tuxedo    He says, “Of course I am F. Scott Fitzgerald! What did you think?

 I am very impressed by the Porsche Museum and Ferry Porsche’ compelling story-
 I have longed for a Porsche years ago and now that dream is renewed

 The next day I am determined to see the Mercedes Museum as well-

  Roommate says that it is even more spectacular than the Porsche exhibit

  After figuring out how to get on the right train, which is no easy feat

    for me, I arrive only to find it closed (then I remember the warning

 about some European museums being closed on Monday or Tuesday)

  On the way back, I am so thirsty I splurge on two liters of water

   When I open one to chugalug, I almost gag on the bubbles

  Later I find out that if you want “still” water, you must read the

  label

   F. Scott Fitzgerald barks at me: Wake up! It’s nearly time to catch

 the train…Is this for real?  A dream dog warning, as alarm
 My cold still holds on
 Stuttgart to Zurich next

 I wonder if F. Scott Fitzgerald will be there, too…

                               summer 2012