Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 11

The Shade is a Blessing

The Shade is a Blessing

Especially for an old man 

on foot, limping 

with a walking stick 

where in the clearing 

the summer sun beats 

down even through 

the dirty straw hat.

A series of oaks, 

massive limbs covered 

with mossy fern fronds 

arching to make a near 

perfect  canopy 

over the dusty road.

The sandy red clay loam 

beckons for a sit 

in its coolness 

but he walks on 

in his shade, 

fearing a sit down 

would only mean 

a painful and feeble 

arising after awhile.

A Blessing

Grace be unto us

Those of us

who eat dark chocolate

and drink black coffee

and love the burn

of a hot pepper,

for we have learned

to love our suffering,

which comes in so

handy as one ages.

The Last Time I Had Cherries

Inspired by a wonderful discussion of a Louise Glück poem, led by the equally wonderful Mandana Chaffa:

The Last Time I Had Cherries

This morning, I broke the seal
on the plastic bowl the cantaloupes came in,
pre-sliced from the produce market
and carefully measured out
one cup of chunks into a hand-painted white bowl,
glazed by an amateur artist from Kentucky.

I don’t remember her name,
but she carefully painted red cherries
and then green leaves and brown stems.

I have used and washed this bowl
many times, the glazing is chipped and cracked.

With a case knife,
I cut the chunks
into bite size pieces,
sitting in the light
of my kitchen
as the darkened night
waits outside for morning.

There is no irony,
there is no hidden message
in this bottle of a poem,
unless you choose to find one
here.

I Smell the Ocean

in the quiet of my Tallahassee living room.

for as I like to say:

I like the ocean except for the sun,

sand, and salt water. In my old age,

I love a spring, or even a city pool,

filled with old people soaking and kids

squealing and splashing and having to be

told to not run on the wet concrete deck.

This ocean I smell is from over fifty years ago,

where two young boys played in the blue green water

and snow white sand, standing alternatively

in the knee deep water

and standing against a chest high breaker.

Doing this for hours at a time,

sun burning, and freckled all over,

so thirsty, but not wanting to get out

and cross 98 to the kitchenette where

Mama had us cold bottles of Coca Cola.

Thursday Afternoon Nap

waking up hit hard

like a Christian getting

old-timey religion

like Sister Jackson.

All four foot eight of her

running flat out, blue and white hanky

waving in the air, eyes closed,

with that high pitched sound half way

between a prayer and calling the hogs

And Jesus standing there with both fists

pounding down on your back knocking

them sins right out of you,

and almost knocking the breathe as well

But I hit the snooze button twice

then get up and find some ice water

thankyoujesus ice water

and make a ‘loney sandwich

and now I feel like I might make it

to heaven, or at least suppertime.

Poetry is a shoebox

Where I keep all the bits and pieces,

the left overs, the saved parts

the map of how to change the world.

Of course the world changed without my poetry,

often for the worse, often for the worst,

but if you will dig around between

the rusty railroad spike, a sharks tooth,

petrified and dug up in Montgomery,

you might find a half a ticket to some 1970s movie,

a fragment of scripture, a picture of us

when we were gods, or fools who thought we were.

I am pretty sure there is still a button

to my corduroy leisure suit jacket.

I am sure you can push that button

and it will open up a portal to a pizza hut

 with sticky red plastic tablecloths

and where we drank tea and coke

in tall red plastic glasses and played rummy for nothing.

 Dont push the button.

I need to believe the portal is there.

I cant afford to have it disappear

along with all my dead friends

I’ll never see again.

What? Am I Not Enough

Of a poet, do I not have grand enough ideas?

Oh, I know, I am a poet of small moments,

of little thoughts, of the soda bottle,

the empty hand and the rusted automobile

parked behind the tumble down

old side-of-the-road country stores,

 and not even the whole car

but the lugs under one missing shiny silver moon hubcap,

and how my daddy had a Ford like that

and we would eat ice cream in the back seat on a hot day,

and I don’t have some deeper message,

for that I apologize, only that this is life,

this is the best life, except maybe for fishing

or eating twenty-one golden fried shrimp

at beach walk-ups.

If you need more than that,

 maybe you need a real poet,

who can write the whole universe

in one perfect line about a supermarket in southern California.

I am not that poet.

I am the poet of the small moment.

I hope that is enough.

One am, Eating Yesterday’s Popcorn

from a rubber-maid tub

a little stale but edible

sharing a few pieces with

my beloved pit bull Babymoo,

at sixty-four, I’m learning

to find the mostly good.

I still eat fresh, with a little garlic

and even less hot pepper,

black coffee two to three cups per day,

ice cream, but there was a time I focused

 on the flaws and complained, today,

I am happy the car starts every day,

the front door opens and closes on its hinge

I am grateful to go back to bed

next to the woman I love

and sleep ‘til four and make good coffee,

aware this life is fleeting and I am

lucky to be in it, now, and here

Most of the Time I Miss Nothing

I left Alabama on purpose

I love my Florida life

of the past forty years

But sometimes I’ll see a painting

or an old photograph

or I am walking through

Some stranger’s backyard

(that is part of my job)

collecting dew and hitchhikers

On my shoes

and pants cuffs

and it will take me back

To a Pike Road

rummage sale

or some such place

Crawling with Alabama strangers

and bits and pieces

of a summer morning

and, for at least

a split moment

I miss THAT Alabama.

The Wires Coming Out of the Radio

And the broken switch

on the electric windows

and the desert air blowing in

I have crossed this desert

cactus arms waving

in the shimmer of heat

I stop and buy low octane gas

and a diet Dr. Pepper

and dream of winter

only to remember

how I hate winter

and smile because I wanted

to live in the desert

the joy of knowing

you don’t really want

all the things you

want in life

and the almost broken down

old Oldsmobile plows

along through the dry

hot air of my mind.

Inspired by reading a great poem by Diane Seuss