The Map of My Heart

The map of my heart has long, 

slow kisses at its center

where my journey began

The first was on my forehead

by my father

When I was a wee one

The last, I cannot remember when

I am not sad-I carry vivid memories

Of some-special-body, always

The map of my heart has soft hands

With velvet fingertips traveling

Slowly all over my body

with shivers of passion expecting

the pressure to increase in increments

And it does as the kisses plunge

deeper into my soul

Though I am no longer dewy

I am not yet through with mapping

My heart with memories of

passion and tenderness 

I no longer look for

an outside mapmaker

I am my own passion and tenderness

I map my own heart-I choose…

raintreepoet, dreaming.

"The Story of Bonnie and Clyde"

 
Okay, So I watched a documentary on Bonnie & Clyde and discovered that Bonnie wrote poetry. Whether her intent was to immortalize the Barrow gang or not; how they lived and how they died is a unique piece of Americana. I could not resist sharing. Interesting fact: Bonnie was only 23 and Clyde was only 25 when they died.

raintreepoet, reporting.

The Story of Bonnie and Clyde
You've read the story of Jesse James
Of how he lived and died;
If you're still in need
Of something to read,
Here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang,
I'm sure you all have read
How they rob and steal
And those who squeal
Are usually found dying or dead.

There's lots of untruths to these write-ups;
They're not so ruthless as that;
Their nature is raw;
They hate all the law
The stool pigeons, spotters, and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers;
They say they are heartless and mean;
But I say this with pride,
That I once knew Clyde
When he was honest and upright and clean.

But the laws fooled around,
Kept taking him down
And locking him up in a cell,
Till he said to me,
"I'll never be free,
So I'll meet a few of them in hell."

The road was so dimly lighted;
There were no highway signs to guide;
But they made up their minds
If all roads were blind,
They wouldn't give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer;
Sometimes you can hardly see;
But it's fight, man to man,
And do all you can,
For they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered;
From weariness some people have died;
But take it all in all,
Our troubles are small
Till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas,
And they have no clue or guide;
If they can't find a fiend,
They just wipe their slate clean
And hand it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There's two crimes committed in America
Not accredited to the Barrow mob;
They had no hand
In the kidnap demand,
Nor the Kansas City depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;
"I wish old Clyde would get jumped;
In these awful hard times
We'd make a few dimes
If five or six cops would get bumped."

The police haven't got the report yet,
But Clyde called me up today;
He said, "Don't start any fights
We aren't working nights
We're joining the NRA."

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
Is known as the Great Divide,
Where the women are kin,
And the men are men,
And they won't "stool" on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens
And rent them a nice little flat,
About the third night
They're invited to fight
By a sub-gun's rat-tat-tat.

They don't think they're too tough or desperate,
They know that the law always wins;
They've been shot at before,
But they do not ignore
That death is the wages of sin.

Some day they'll go down together;
And they'll bury them side by side;
To few it'll be grief
To the law a relief
But it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.

— Bonnie Parker 1934

Review of The Sisters Brothers

Book Review:

The Sisters Brothers by Patrick DeWitt

Is 325 pages of twisty turny characters
and action. 

The brothers are hired to snuff out the
life of Hermann Kermit Warm. 
They work at the pleasure of a wealthy
business man referred to only as “the Commodore.”

The Commodore is in the habit of erasing
his opposition for a price. 
The setting of the story begins in
Oregon City, Oregon in the year 1851.

The Sisters brothers, Eli and Charlie 
know no other way to make a living than 
snuffing out lives.
They have been the Commodore’s hired guns
 too long. The money is too good to start over.
However, as the story progresses Eli begins to 
doubt the veracity of what they do. Charlie does not.

When they cross paths with their quarry,
the delightful Mr. Warm, they are not quite 
prepared for his “warmth” or what he really has
to offer which is so much more valuable than his life.

Like Mulligan Stew on steroids, 
the story  leaves a satisfying, satiated afterglow.

This novel is a page turner. 
You will not be able to stay away from it.
Patrick DeWitt is a storyteller par excellence!
Pick it up. You will not have one moment of regret.

Raintreepoet, reporting.

Back to School!

Yeah, I thought I could retire last June. Ha! Ha!
The cost of living in this county has gotten so bad
I am paying down debt  until I can afford
to move to a more affordable environment.
 Somewhere in the southwest, perhaps?

The traffic here in Clark County gives me the blues.
So many rude, unconscious drivers!
Too many people milling about!
I fear I shall become a misanthrope
if I stay here much longer.

I was burnt out when I finished last June.
It took a heavy handed pep talk to make myself
come back in the Fall.
Students aren't getting any kinder and their work
ethic sucks big time!

To be honest, there seems to be a parenting vacuum.
I've seen families out in public all on their cell phones
not even looking at one another and I get heartsick.

If I could say one thing to parents, it would be this:
Why have babies if you don't want to be a parent?
Parenting is hard work, 24/7 until you get them trained
Well-trained kids/citizens are a dream after that, but
you have to put in the work.

It is a privilege to be a parent
It is foolish to  consider it a right
For the good of society, please
use birth control until you know for sure

Parents are a child's first teachers
If they do not teach their children to
respect education, it makes the teacher's
job so much harder!

So, Parents and would-be parents,
these are things this teacher wishes
that you would think on...

Happy Holidays

Poet Laureate

Poet Laureate

Don’t you just love those kind of people

Who say:

 I became a poet laureate,

Quite by accident: Is it my fault Homer

Decided to channel his continuation of the

“Iliad” through me?

Then Random House paid me a bazillion

Bucks to publish it?

Do you think this is some clambake?

You’d be mostly right-not much effort

On my part-I’m just a scribe for souls

Much greater than little ol’ me...

However, one of these days, I fully intend

To put some effort and study into poetry

For my own gratification, you see

Don’t hate me for being talented-

Sometimes it can be such a ----ing burden

Especially the applause and all those

Dreadful standing ovations.

Of course this is tongue-in-cheek. I like to think that William Carlos Williams, W. B. Yeats and Billy Collins, all poets who show humility in their work, would agree. Not every poet is humble. I love the ones who truly are.

raintreepoet, reporting

DECEMBER

The above image is a misnomer. My brother used a 75 pound chain saw that felled the tree, called a "widowmaker" that ended his life. This poem which was published previously in this blog a few years ago, is my homage to a brave brother, who died doing something he loved.
Today is the 19th anniversary of my favorite brother's death. His name was Doug and I miss him hard, especially on this day. He was a great friend.

             

Drinking rum and coke and

Remembering that Christmas Eve

Over twenty years ago

When we drank rum and cokes

While I baked the chocolate

Pecan pies for the next day

We were laughing so hard

When I smelled burning-

Forgetting I had pies

In the oven

I said something dumb

Like ‘Do you smell smoke?’ (Thinking

My cottage might be on fire)

You looked momentarily perplexed

‘Weren’t you baking something?’

Oh my God! The Pies!  The Pies!

I jerked open the oven and

Smoke roiled out nearly knocking me down

Shit! Shit! Shit!

You looked at me serenely

And said, ‘Potty mouth’

In your droll way

Then we laughed our asses off

I poured you another drink

And proceeded to recreate

The pies all over again

You stayed and visited

Because that’s the kinda

Guy you were- a friend

I miss you, brother

And that’s why I’m having this

Rum and coke and

Remembering the good old days when

We were neighbors and

You dropped by and

Watched me incinerate Christmas pies!

-on occasion of the 19^th anniversary of my brother, Doug’s death, December 2000.

'Tis the Season...

I am thinking Santa Claus is a good symbol for Christmas because
he is a friendly likable chap who loves children of all ages  and seems
to be an agent of generosity, who doesn't mention religious beliefs

The "major religions" seem to have lost their ability to help. For example;
in bygone days, there was little evidence of homelessness. The
churches made sure people who were down and out were taken care of.

It was back then people didn't mind paying taxes that helped churches have
deductions so they could help humanity.

What I've noticed is even though churches are probably still getting
their non-profit status, they don't seem to be out on the streets helping
any longer. Am I missing it? Are they incognito?

Wouldn't it be nice if churches would step up again and truly help out?
Should anybody be left out in the cold, when there are buildings to
protect them from the storm?

Just saying...What do you think?

raintreepoet, cogitating.