We have become Rumpelstiltzkin™️

The Celtic Knots are

captured, their weavers taken,

sounds of play stifled

~

There is surveillance

in the windowless places,

issue under watch

~

It’s like spinning straw

into gold, only it’s not,

it’s not that at all.

~

The Celtic Knots are

captured, the miller and king

pick and unravel,

~

tear apart to see

how it works but they cannot;

blind — so they throw down,

~

make machines, send troops,

demand and force: Now! they rage,

Give it to me now!

~

And in the meantime,

the weavers wait, spin stories.

The time is coming,

~

gestation is sure

and panting for the moment

when we name the name.

~

RK

~

011919

~

™️ Jakob & Wilhelm Grimm

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Prose: Treat Yourself Gently

Just as I pick up the scrap of paper that says, “TREAT YOURSELF GENTLY” –– Treat yourself gently it says it in all caps printing, tho in a lower kind of uppercase, apologetic even, tight and uneven and in the top left corner so as to not take up too much space, or maybe just being obediently frugal on the small, lined page …

TREAT YOURSELF GENTLY it starts, and then the reminders:

You are forgiven.

I hear you.

You can take whatever time you need.

I’ve been moving the paper, the TYG mini-treatise, all over the house. Each time I see it I wonder, when did you write this? For who? For you? For someone else?

Newer notes are scrawled on the page because it was handy, and the annotations are urgent––the name and the date, the age a daughter would have been this year had she lived––her mother so strong, so real that every time I speak with her that old, familiar urge appears: I want to crawl into their embrace, their heart, their home and never leave. They are kindness, they are the hard-won women who paper their scars with, “I hear you, you are forgiven, you can take whatever time you need.”

The paper is clipped to a print-out from Maya Angelou in conversation with Oprah. This is hard-earned wisdom on the page, including a ballgame reference. “Don’t go thru life,” she says, “with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw some things back.”

And so I find the scrap of paper again this morning. I am getting ready to see a therapist. I have fallen apart again. I prepare to meet her for the first time and feel like a young girl packing for a sleepover. All the writings of late, all the chronicling, all the trying to answer the question, which DOG, which god, which DOG, which god do I feed? All the mourning pages, the writing down the bones I’ve logged to see how I might come to some kind of ceasefire with myself, to see somehow, someway I might find some inner cooperation with myself, all the words clamour to come with me.

I pick up the TYG page again. Maybe I should take this with me, take it as proof that I surrender, and as I pick it up and wonder which pile of papers to move it to this time, the silk runner that I have hanging on the back of a desk chair, you know the one, the one with the three, Celtic circles in the middle, the one with honey gold colours and the long, soft tassels at each end, the one I refold and re-drape nearly every time I sit and rise from this old, oak desk, the desk my mother helped her late husband buy when he ventured he would set sail with her all those years ago, the husband she still thinks is waiting for her at home, is still worried about her, maybe a little lost without her, just like her daughter, this long line of hard lessons to learn to know how to maybe treat ourselves gently … you know the silk runner that hangs folded on the back of the chair …

I’m wandering with the scrap of paper and then, just as if the breeze of me approaching is enough to set revolutions into the street, the silk releases its bent draping, it flutters, unravels, unfolds and, in seeming slow motion, it slips to the floor in that beautiful heap of gentleness into which I want to crawl.

Even in the fall it whispers, especially in the falling it whispers, “Treat yourself gently. You are forgiven. I hear you. You can take all the time you need.”

~

RK

~

011819

~

Posted in Prose, runawaykeyboard | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dear Mr Fantasy: Here are my humble hamburgers

[Soniferous stanzas of suspicious haiku: aka “Whale Meat Again” with deep, deep dive thanks to Jim Capaldi, cursory apologies to E.C. Segar, creator of Popeye and an abiding merci à Wikipedia]

~

Here are my ham burg

ers, they’re not really ham but

there are three hundred.

~

And we have candles,

because you need to believe

there’s no power here

~

Except mine, which is

Boundless and very very

Unlimited, too

~

I don’t worry, I

don’t care about shutdowns or

Paychecks or farmers

~

Except thanks for the

potatoes and for the beef

patties, three hundred

~

I like ‘em all, they’re

the best. I will gladly pay

tomorrow for my

~

Wonderful largesse today.

I really am the best, aren’t

I, Clemson Tigers?

~

RK

~

011519

~

Posted in Haiku, I dreamt I was a Contemporary Poet, Leslie Holt, runawaykeyboard | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Wear black. Don’t be late.

Three haiku about a brief gig as a clerk at a big box bookstore. Perfectly found while doing some deep cleaning among home bookshelves. From 2004.

There are more somewhere, lurking in the stacks. They’re wearing jaunty berets, seriously busy as they stuff metered notes of resistance into books in the self-help sections.

Here’s an intro for this little reprise:

…funeral.”

Orientation

advice: Wear black and don’t be

late. “Ya, just like a…

~

RK

~

011619

~

Chapters Blues

Heather doesn’t know

from hemorrhoids. We write and

sell books under strain.

~

RK

~

091404

~

Solomon Was Right

To the making of

books there is no end; to be

devoted … weary.

~

RK

~

091404

~

Alpha Authors

Haiku doesn’t help

conversion rates. Truth be told,

the shelves are a mess.

~

RK

~

091404

~

Posted in Haiku, I dreamt I was a Contemporary Poet, Leslie Holt, Poetry, runawaykeyboard | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Take It With Me: A Thank You for Tom Waits

Beyond the rush of the clock,

where time is of the essence:

did you hear me? Hurry up! (This is a crisis)

Beyond the eyes that droop,

when flesh is so bone-tired:

you will stay up all night. (You owe me)

Beyond the applause and the so-called saviour

Beyond the ferris wheel and the merry-go-round

Beyond the dotting of I-s and the crossing of truculent Ts

… is the place where you and I and the children laugh and rest after the work of tucking in the lonely, the hand-holding of the fearful, the singing of you are my sunshine to those closed in by clouds

… where there is the listening and the promise of knowing: ain’t no good thing ever dies

And yes, you take it with you when you go, Dear one,

Because wherever you go, I will go and wherever you lodge I will lodge

You take me with you

I take you with me

We take with us when we go, cause ain’t no good thing ever dies

~

RK

~

09/17/18

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Fresh Snow

The hilled drive is covered

with tracks up and down

owning the night’s fall.

~

RK

~

03/14/18

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Good for my soul

Doodles are freedom.

No redos, just long stretches.

A pen’s prancing. Yes.

~

RK

~

03/17/04

Posted in Haiku | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment