Katy Did, by Christopher Oak Reinier

Katy Did
by Christopher Oak Reinier

Katy did,
and Katy does,
and, yes, I like her way.
What she did she does with love.
That’s all I need to say.

But I’d say more,
if words could carry dynamite,
if ways of speaking were like laughing music,
if grace come walking quickly from a distance
could be described: light, swift, certain, wild –

a shadow in the corner of my eye,
bursting into starlight,
and smiling all the way.

Oh heart!
How many strikings can you stay?

Christopher Oak Reinier lives and writes by the Russian River
in Sonoma County, California. One of his poems, “October Morning
on the River”, was published in the Red Wolf Journal, Summer 2014.

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Grace, by Christopher Oak Reinier

Grace
by Christopher Oak Reinier

There is in the grace
of your woman-ness –
your voice –
a light caress, yes,
but in your body’s word,
a lilt, not consciously
addressing…

but quietly…
and sometimes nothing –
or a simple gesture,

a small gift – like a
swallow flying
lightly on a breeze –
needing only the arc
of its flight.

 

Christopher Oak Reinier lives and writes by the Russian River
in Sonoma County, California. One of his poems, “October Morning
on the River”, was published in the Red Wolf Journal, Summer 2014.

From Your Shoulder, by Christopher Oak Reiner

From Your Shoulder
by Christopher Oak Reiner

Yes,
I do
love to
touch and
lightly trace
the subtle slope
from your shoulder
down to your breast,
the way your skin lies,
like silk laid softly down
from the shoulder of a great
and graceful mountain – the very
mountain whose grace can best be
understood by knowing this about
you: this sweet slope from your
shoulder to your breast. For
only by knowing this can one
know how grand yet lovely
soft and fragile can be
the shoulder of a
mountain.

Christopher Oak Reinier lives and writes by the Russian River
in Sonoma County, California. One of his poems, “October Morning
on the River”, was published in the Red Wolf Journal, Summer 2014.

Christopher Oak Reinier

OCTOBER MORNING ON THE RIVER
 
They've taken down
the summer dams.
Over-night the river
has returned to its
drained and naked self.

In a dreamscape of loss,
the river’s bed has been
abandoned by water hurrying
away to the ocean,
leaving the dregs of a
false lover's lust.

It is a bed of muddy stones.

Far out on the bereft channel
a silhouetted man bends,
picking up things,
examining them.

I step out across the slippery rocks,
and ask, “What are you finding?”

“Pretty stones,” he says, “Indian beads…
This river’s been running for thousands of years.”

“You’re finding Indian beads?”

“Ah, sure, “ he says,
digging in his frayed pant’s pocket,
extracting a bent nail, a penny,
a paper clip, a common stone…
"Guess they’re in my knapsack”, he shrugs,
gesturing at the pack on his back.

“Okay," I say, sensing it time to wander away.

As I step back across the rocky sludge,
he calls, "I found a diamond once…"

"All right!" I respond,
and look at the muck
of the river bed,

morning sun glistening off
the dying river weeds…

Christopher Oak Reinier lives near the Russian River in Northern California, a river that inspires many of his poems and songs.