89 year old Japanese Woman

Every so often my face gets hot, so hot that I can feel my face turning hyper color into a giant tomato. It’s a dead give away if I am embarrassed, or if I have a crush on anybody. My dad says it’s cute. I think it’s a fucking curse. But sometimes it gets the best of me, and turns out being pretty funny. Now, I talk to a lot of people day in, and day out. I got that from my mom. We literally talk to anybody we think could be remotely interesting. Variety is the spice of life! So I am having a conversation with an 89 year old Japanese woman, and boy did she get the best of me. Yet I am still single while there are homeless people who smell like hot garbage that have girlfriends and boyfriends. Even Charles Manson has women lined up at his cell door. My friend Anna says I am too picky. Okay fine. Anyhow, yet again, I digress. Here the story goes…

89 year old- Are you married?

Me- No ma’am.

89 year old- Ohhhhhhhhhh

Me- (laughing a little at her reaction)

89 year old- But you so pretty. I don’t get it. So sexxxxxy.

Me- You’re killing me! (laughing, I bury my head into my red hair trying to camouflage the red hot face) Thank you for the compliment. Your flattery is too much!

89 year old- (still perplexed) I have a son, but you are too pretty for him. Oh so pretty! So sexy! I don’t get it?

Me-  I don’t get it either.

Enters son… the 89 year old Japanese woman stops and changes the subject quickly.

 

-K.K. Powell

James Douglas Morrison

A musician, and a poet who was never taken as serious as he wanted to be. I would have loved to explore this man’s brain. Born in the wrong era. Pam and Jim were the perfect storm. Messy chaotic… but the sun still shined, and flowers still bloomed. Till death. 💛

Heart of stone

Walking along at around 10,000 feet on Mount Shasta I attempted to find the perfect heart shaped stone. You see, I have found many of them on my travels into various geographical locations. Usually while in nature, on a hike or while practicing yoga.

I was given a heart of red stone by a Native American whom I met on a hike in Sedona, Arizona. After a long talk about philosophy, we gave each other a hug. I did some yoga on a rock nearby while he played his flute. A lizard stood by, and watched me. Click on the hyperlink below to view.

Lizard video link Sedona, AZ
In my frequent drives into the Rocky Mountains of Colorado I would spend hours hiking into the forests. One day finding a rose quartz heart there while on a hike with Lulu.


While living by the Russian River in Cloverdale, California I would meditate by the river often after my yoga practice. One day an otter was upstream laying on his back on the other side of the river. He would look over periodically, and continue about his business while I carried on with my own. That same day I found a two heart shaped river stones… One large, one small.

While walking at the 10,000 feet at Mt. Shasta it felt right. The day before while at Lake Siskiyou, I looked down to find a lizard holding refuge under my shirt laying on a rock. When I picked my shirt back up, I did it carefully as I didn’t want to harm my visitor. I snapped a little picture, made sure the dog didn’t have him for a snack, and we were on our way.


The next day there was a chipmunk standing nearby stuffing his chubby cheeks watching as I wobbled back in forth in the intermittent gusts of winds in tree pose. I was feeling at one with nature, and had a good feeling I may find another heart stone.

When I looked down…
I did see a heart.
While it was surrounded by dirt, it looked perfect.
When I picked it up, it was just another abstract rock.

Then I remembered…

There is no perfect heart.
No perfect heart shaped stones.
The most perfect hearts are molded that way.
…and sometime the hearts covered in dirt, cracked, and imperfect are actually the best hearts.

As I walked along further I found many stones to form a heart.


Then I remembered, to form a good heart sometimes it takes not just one… But many to make it the best heart.

Thanks for the reminder Mt. Shasta.

-K.K. Powell

Poem: Wet blanket

K.K. Powell

A cloak sweeps over her…

Shoulder to shoulder.

The truth was…

you were never really all that good at stoking the fire.

That spark…

was cursed-

to never reach a flame.

To your disdain.

The spark lay in her ground-

with only a smoulder.

The cloak was your last magic act. 

just to hold her.

Suspended…

She lets go.

Little did she know…

The foundation was shoddy. 

The pressure.

too much.

The pipes fell apart.

It was just the start…

Waves of water spray.

a wet blanket. 

How could she stay?  

-K.K. Powell