Wicked Winter Witch

                                        

 

                                            

    

   I buy Saint John’s Wort in anticipation of

   the grey, wet days to come

   I lay in a large supply of candles

   of various sizes and my favorite

   Incense-Nag Champa

                                   

    I make sure that there is dark, red wine

    several bottles, on my rack and

    a plethora of herbal teas, in my cupboard

    I have on hand enough dark chocolate and

    popcorn and books to read and

    movies on VHS & DVD

    I’ve put the down comforter on

    my bed and the flannel sheets

    I have wool socks from the Aryan

    Islands off the coast of Ireland, satin       

    Pajamas from J.C. Penney’s and a soft,

    Fuzzy, plaid robe from Bi-Mart

    (I would welcome the right warm body

    to spoon with...)

   In addition I have lots of erasable ink pens

   and yellow tablets…

   C’mon then, you Wicked Winter Witch, I am

   ready for you…

                                                Winter, 2012

                                                RMK

Ludicrous-ity

 

My friend Maggie Claire and I

get together about once a month

for lunch and deep discussions that

range from metaphysics to ludicrous-ity

We walk up to the Rock Creek Tavern

which borders her estate (she lives in

a castle) sit by the fireplace

and eat and chat

Yesterday, we encountered a vividly

coloured rooster near the entrance

and since he was the only chicken

in sight, quite noticeable

Maggie Claire and I have known each other

since in our teens-more than half a century

Now that we’re crones we like to

talk about what life has taught us

and how differently we see the world now

as opposed to then

there is much laughter and guffawing

 at the Ludicous-ity of how life unfolds-

all the little ironies and betrayals, the picayune

and the ginormous- nothing  much matters

 anymore except to explore the curiosities of

 our own natures and how we have grown

Maggie Claire is critiquing a novel I penned

over 30 years ago-to get it ready to relaunch

on Amazon

She’s known me so long we can laugh at my

early literary efforts and measure together

how far I’ve come

As the business part of our meeting winds

down, we look up and the rooster is on

 the window sill right next to us,

as the waitress brings our food

she tells us his name is “Raymond”

Shortly thereafter, Raymond   serenades

us with an aria of plaintive cocka-doodle-doos

We muse that we wish we knew what he was

saying so emphatically

As we dig in, we talk about family stuff-candidly

Now, it is safe-dead people cannot protest

With elder perspective there is no judgment or

regret- just chuckling at the ironies and

Ludicrous-ities of our forebears who we

truly have reverence & gratitude  for

 the lessons they taught us

Maggie Claire’s mother was an atheist

My own mother, a Catholic

resulting in their daughters’ rejection of

Organized religion and a lifelong study of

Metaphysics with a keen sense of

Ludicrous-ity

Raymond has taken a break from crowing

and now he is peering in the window at us

Then he crows again and it sounds

like he’s telling the world:

“Look at those two old ladies eating lunch!

They talk and laugh like they are young!"

RMK © November, 2015.

Do You Speak English?

                                     

     In Amsterdam, the man at the hostel counter nods and says,

     Yes, I do

     In Luxembourg, the man at that hostel counter, smiles and

     Says, yes

     In Paris, the woman looks slightly perplexed, but says

     A little

    In Stuttgart, the woman says, of course

    In Zurich, the man says: as you wish and then,

    when I offer Euros for post cards, he says:

    Only Swiss francs here-We are not part of the European Union, or the UN!

   In Florence, the woman at the hostel counter says; I will do my best…

   In Genoa, the woman at the hostel counter speaks first, in English

   So I do not ask

   In Barcelona, the boys at the hostel counter speak English with barely

   Traces of accent, even though they are from Norway and Hungary

   Every time I get lost (which is often, in train stations and in the bus systems)

   I ask: Do you speak English?

   Because that is a Rick Steves tip I believe valuable

    Luckily I find many who can, only a few who cannot

    Or as in Paris, will not for their own petty reasons

                                   

    Kudos to Natasha, a Russian woman who goes out of  her way to help me

   find my hostel, gestures & smiles

    No language to join our conversation

    It is in Florence and she has only the hostel address I show her

    She recruits an Italian boy who speaks English to direct me where to go

   then walks with me for miles

   When we find the road in, it is uphill and long

    She flags down a couple from Eastern Europe,

    Who offer to drive me the rest of the way

     When I offer Euros for her trouble, she shakes

     Her head ‘no’, then hugs me, kisses my cheek

     And walks away

     Natasha speaks no English, but she communicates

     Very well…

                                   Backpacking in Europe,  August 2012.

 (previously published in the Ghost Town Poetry anthology, Volume Two 2004-2014.)

Home Town in November

             

  Driving in, three hours ahead of appointment

  So, I could have a look around

  Lunch is a deluxe cheese burger at Eagen’s

  the burger stand of my youth

  that’s made the same food for

  over 50 years

  Burger tastes the same and

  I am gratified by the familiarity

  Drive downtown to favorite funky

  gift shop, established by

  two sisters after their parents

  were killed in an auto

  accident-years ago

                         

  Still has unusual selection

  but gifts seem a little less

  well made and higher priced-

  I find a nun game to replace

  The Virgin Mary toy I’d hoped for

  It’s a Catholic thing for

  my Catholic friend

  I buy three monkey finger puppets

  for my grandson and

  a book on magic money tricks

  for a young friend

  Then I wander out and down

  the street, find a pie shop

  I purchase a cut of raspberry-

  peach pie, ala-mode

  I eat it with only a glass of

  water, so I can go to

  another shop for coffee

  The house coffee is still

  outstanding at Batdorf’s and

   I enjoy it immensely in

   a cushy leather chair in

   front of a scintillating fire

    And then he walks in-

    a ghost from my past, a beau

    from over 30 years ago

    our eyes meet in instant

    recognition

   He nods and walks the other way

   but not before waving his left hand

   in the air to show that

   he is not available

   I nod and smile, then

   shake my head back and forth

   and look at the ceiling

    He is older, but recognizable

   and still has a little spring

   to his step

   I go back to reading the newspaper

   glad he’s unavailable-
    In the pause to catch my breath,

    I remember our painful breakup

    how he’d replaced me and

   then said, ‘good-bye’

    Finally, I was okay not

    looking back and as he

    walked out, I noticed

    a once great ass- had fallen


From my chapbook "Love Roulette"
available upon request.
Raintreepoet

                       

    

           

Review of: A WOUNDED THING MUST HIDE: IN SEARCH OF LIBBIE CUSTER

By Jeremy Poolman

 Sometimes it is intriguing how a book comes to one…almost like it has a mind and will of its own and has decided that, “You will read me and hear what I have to say.” I read ATLAS SHRUGGED as a young woman. It is a thick book and I remember reading it in the summer heat on vacation with my parents in eastern Washington. We were visiting my cousins and I could barely be sociable, I was so compelled by the story and its philosophy.

I remember discussing the book with my Uncle Glenn, who was in his forties and at that time Western editor of the Farm Journal. As I recall, Ayn Rand’s philosophy made brilliant sense to me, but Uncle Glenn was arguing against its merits.

 Flash forward more than a few years; I pick up a biography on Ayn Rand (a small, thin book) and am riveted for two days. Things I didn’t know when I first read AS suddenly come into focus as tremendously important: like, she was born in Russia and aspired to be a writer in America from age nine. She became an American citizen, changed her name, and was a copious writer of non-fiction, novels and screenplays. She was even happily married to an actor she met in Hollywood. I was so swept away by the facts of her life that I went in search of the little biography to add to my library, as well as another copy of ATLAS SHRUGGED to reread.

Being a bookaholic I keep costs down by rummaging the bargain tables at bookstores. It was at a Barnes & Noble that failing to find the Ayn Rand books, I picked up  A WOUNDED THING MUST HIDE: IN SEARCH OF LIBBIE CUSTER by Jeremy Poolman. Choices more often than not are about connections and an abiding belief that opportunity rarely knocks twice. I had been to the Little Bighorn memorial of Custer’s Last Stand in southwestern Montana a couple years prior. The most memorable part of that memorial being the discovery of George and Libbie’s great love story. 

There was a good -sized section of the museum with the Custer’s memorabilia, which showed quite another side of George Custer; he was as much a lover as an Indian fighter!  I filed this intrigue in my memory bank to be opened at a later date. That date arrived when I picked up Jeremy Poolman’s book and read it night and day (3 days) every spare moment to its conclusion.

The story ends with Poolman consolidating his notes and preparing to write the book you will enjoy, with the comment that he has time to write since Sarah was away.

It is fascinating how the story deftly jumps from past to present with little more than italics and paragraph breaks to separate centuries. All in all, I believe you will find it as compelling as I did.

Libbie Custer lived an extraordinary life with George Custer, which she wrote about in three autobiographies that funded her travels around the globe for fifty-seven years after his death at the Little Bighorn. She wore black every day of her life until she died in a New York City apartment in 1933, The remainder of her life was dedicated to cleaning up her late husband’s reputation. She met many heads of state; Japan, Africa, European  countries among them. She never stopped adoring her golden boy “Autie.”

  

This book is a writer’s journey to overcome the death of his own wife, Karen. It starts with a seed planted while visiting one of his mother’s elderly friends, who happened to live in the very same apartment in New York City where Elizabeth Bacon Custer lived out her last days and took her last breath.

Poolman begins his physical journey (in search of Libbie Custer) in Monroe, Michigan where she was born and raised. Spanning the centuries and continents,  Pool’s odyssey takes him as far as Japan and the Hermitage in Russia, where Libbie had visited in 1891, meeting with Tsar Alexander the second and while she was there, presented him with a ping pong ball size bear head cut from a solid gold nugget. Through Poolman’s persistence and inquiries, an archivist at the state museum discovered it among the treasures, covered with over 100 years of dust!

The story pleasantly meanders in Libbie Custer’s footsteps until the writer ends up at a Custer reenactment on a college campus, visiting as per agreement the love interest of his college professor friend, who has bailed out of an impending marriage after losing his bid for tenure and departed for parts unknown.

In the course of comforting Sarah (his friend’s fiancée) and her loss of Charlie (his friend) they grow close and fall in love.

I still haven’t replaced ATLAS SHRUGGED…..

Update: I later replaced Atlas Shrugged and was disappointed after all these years...                                                                     Raintreepoet, reporting.                                              

Smart Guns in the Hands of Dumb Asses Won't Change Anything!

A November 1, 2015 segment on 60 Minutes regarding "smart guns" inspired this:

It’s happened again! Another school shooting

Nine dead-ten if you count the shooter

This time it’s at a community college in Oregon

We have an opportunity once again

To explore the violence in our culture

The NRA jumps right in

Defending our Second Amendment Rights

A news commentator says: We simply

Have to do something about

All these guns…

The government is taking it under advisement

The police, of course, are investigating

I sit on my couch, astounded

once again, by the blatant stupidity

of the people-in-charge

Little mention is made of the shooter’s

mental status

I stand up and holler: Sane people

do not shoot to kill!

Why? Why? Why!

Are the people-in-charge

skirting the core issues: mental illness &

an uncaring culture?

How many more mass killings have to

happen before we wake up?

Raintreepoet, reporting.

The Birds & the Bees, The Bull & the Cows

 
 
  
I was ten-
It was the same year the boys were whisked
from the 5th Grade room and
only the girls were
allowed to stay
Mrs. Williams threaded the projector,
turned off the lights and
shared what becoming a woman
was all about
According to the film narrator: we
were very different from boys
I was a tomboy, a farm kid,
It didn’t hold much allure for me
Didn’t think it was time to
think about having a baby!
Then, in the spring, Pop let
me tag along to watch
the bull perform his duty:
There was a breeding shoot,
where they backed the cow in,
tethered her down, then
the hired hand pulled the latch
on the spring-loaded door and
in went the Bull
He snorted a bunch, reared up and
straddled the cow, penetrated her
quickly, bellowed and fell back away
The hired hand pulled the trap door
and Pop smiled at me and said,
There’ll be a calf next spring…
I nodded, not sure what I saw,
but trusting Pop’s assurance
After all, I was just ten…

Raintreepoet, reporting

P.S. I am working on a chapbook called "Farmer's Daughter" about my experiences growing up on a
dairy farm. This will be in the chapbook.