Review of Elephant Company

By Vicki Constantine Croke

The story of “Elephant Bill”

 James Howard Williams, who arrived in

Colonial Burma in 1920, a young veteran from

WWI who went to work for a British teak company

And rose from “forest man” to manage the elephants,

 who logged the teak and the great Bandoola who

would become Billy’s most passionate idol.

The story culminates in a life threatening trek

and the great Bandoola leading the elephants

over a mountain to safety from the WW ll war zone,

the Japanese nipping at their heels.

Elephant Bill was awarded top military honors

and the praise of renowned field marshal, Sir

William Slim.

The book was, as promised, a page turner that

I could not put down. Gripping as any true life 

story I have ever read.

Raintreepoet reporting January 2017

She was a Warm, Red Sweater

She was a warm red sweater cozy and kind

Cup after cup of stout coffee, sweetened with

lots of sugar, whitened by copious cream

Archway cookies, plentiful, drawn from a

kitchen drawer

She was a warm read sweater with

a listening ear and soothing words of comfort

But she’s not here anymore

She was a warm red sweater who walked

the railroad tracks for miles and miles with me

Talking history, literature and philosophy and

What it was like to go from servants to poor, from shackled to free

She was a warm red sweater with pockets

full of apples from her orchard and

a smile wide if not true

She was the sweetest, woeful girl

I ever knew

She was a warm red sweater who birthed three

of her own, filling the gaps of her youth

when she had been so very alone

They became her works of Art because

long ago she laid her pencils and brushes down

No one ever encouraged her, so

she left that art behind

She was a warm red sweater, who packed lunches

for others, fully grown

and drank cups of coffee, quietly contemplating on her own

She listened and she watched

She nurtured as she talked but she

never told anyone that

her heart was not home

She was a warm unread sweater who

gave and gave with little return

-it never seemed to bother her

 to quietly yearn

Until one day she didn’t say good-bye

But simply walked out the door

It’s been years, but finally:

There is no warm red sweater

anymore

“Red Rover”

"Red Rover”

Alone on a First Friday, this poet peruses

the galleries casually and at a

leisurely pace

And then a tall, white haired artist peers

into my eyes and advises:

There’s a raffle at the Slocum House!

Hearing, but not paying any particular

attention, I believe

Somehow, I end up at the Slocum House

Just before eight

As I stroll in, somebody announces:

Drawing in five minutes

I amble over to a counter and

ask: How much?

I am told: Raffle tickets are free

as a woman presses one in my palm

Shortly, a number is read off out loud

I look at my ticket and

my number matches!

I show the speaker and am told:

You have won!

What sweet words to my ears!

I have not won anything in decades

Then, they show me what I have won:

“Red Rover,” a water color of a red,

wooden boat, moored by a pier,

bridge and sunrise in the backdrop

My heart bursts with enthusiasm!

I feel my luck pivot on its axis

The darkness of the evening is showered with

diamond starlight- my glass is again half full

The previous rue has faded- it is gone

Deep gratitude wells up my being

I have received so much more than

the painting I have won!

Yes! “Red Rover” I will come on over

I whisper as I do my little happy dance

RMK, November 2016. 

November 9, 2016,the day after

All kinds of choices swim around in my brain
I could decide to be depressed over this election

-or-

I could galvanize my creativity and imagination and brainstorm
what to do--Let's see, I could:

• organize a group of likeminded souls and have a seance to bring in Che Guevara-he probably knows what to do
• start a movement to write an amendment to eradicate the electoral college, so this never happens again!
• gather an army of poets and other artists to create a love happening.
• write a damn good letter to Mr. Trump threatening his (rumored) wee package, if he doesn't get it right
• actually put pen to paper and make some sound suggestions about how to bring the American people together
• make an Internet appeal for making the best of a bad situation
• suggest you jettison your dread. Give the guy a chance to unite us
• if he fails, we can always chop him into teeny weenie pieces and feed him to Mr. Putin
• a little poetic justice if I do say so myself!
• Your turn...

RMK on the current state of the Union.

Touched by a Ghost

What's the scaredest you've ever been?
Hearing a ghost climb our stairs,
walk down the hallway and stop at
our doors, then walk back down the hallway
like a sentry on duty and descend those
same stairs (used to scare the bejeezus
out of my sister and me) but that was
not my worst scare

No, not even going into the abandoned
"haunted house" up the Waddell Creek Road
and back into the deep woods, where we
knew we did not belong and having the door
slam shut after entering, on a dare
was not my worst scare

I've been grabbed by cold hands and pinched
in the dark by giggling friends in "haunted houses"
at Halloween and the county fair
Stephen King writes a horrific story,
It  comes to mind, but if you watch it enough
times the fright factor simmers way down
so, that's not my worst scare

No, the scaredest I've ever been was in
my own bed when I was only ten
I felt a firm grip through the blanket,
on my thigh
First, I pulled the covers over my head,
Then I peeked out and in the moonlight
Still in someone's grip, I saw that
nobody was there!

Footsteps were one thing, but
to actually be touched by an entity
with no visibility made me
instantly pray: Jesus! Make it go away!
The footsteps on the stair and in the hall
continued night after night, but the most
crucial part of  my prayer was answered,
I was never touched again. Whew!
And that friends, was the scaredest
I've ever been!

raintreepoet wishing you a mildly scary Halloween.

Denton Barber

Has a name ever popped

into your head

with no apparent

provocation and you wonder

What the hell?

Where did that come from?

And then another name is

immediately linked, like say

B.B. King?

Well. I was driving down the road

the other day when

Denton Barber & B.B. King

visited my mind

Now, it’s no surprise to me that B.B. King

tags along with Denton Barber because

Denton once took me to a B.B. King concert

Actually, it was Denton who turned me on

to B.B. King—music hmmm
 Denton was dapperand distinguished--Denton had style--

Then, I remember that Denton Barber & I met

in Radio classes at Centralia College

in the early 80s and Voila!

I notice I’ve been playing an 80s music station

on my car radio

Now, It’s all coming together

Suddenly I have another realization:

I’ve recently met a sax player who

reminds me of Denton Barber!

Tim, the sax player blew a sultry tune

behind a poet’s recitation and even

exchanged some sassy dialogue with him

And a few days later, I sit musing about

memory and firing synapses making connections

And Bingo, that answers my original question

about Denton Barber

It may have taken longer than Google

to bring me the answer, but

my organic computer did indeed deliver

Now, I think I’ll Google Denton Barber

and see what it tells me. Ah sweet progress

God bless Denton Barber for he is proof

positive I haven’t lost my mind, yet!

raintreepoet, pondering inevibilities.

"A picture is worth a thousand words."

It wasn't too difficult to put together this "Crazy Quilt." My only question is: How "Presidential" does this man really look?


raintreepoet, contemplating.