Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 18

Dirty wife beater

He stopped on the side

of the road

in his dirty wife-beater shirt,

shooting his pistol,

at first at a snake,

and then at old beer cans

he found.

I’m not sure he was crazy

or just crazy drunk

the door of the dusty white van

hung open had a crazy angle

and the pistol made flashes

In the shade of the pine trees

I didn’t stop to ask any questions

because he was stopped

on the side of the road

In his dirty wife beater shirt

Shooting at snakes

and old beer cans He found there.

and I had somewhere

to be further

down the road.

There Is a Park in Central London

Thoughts about the following poem (and most poems I write)
I have no idea, no agenda, not sure why i even write these down.
I wonder if there are many other poets of the same mindset when they write?

There Is a Park in Central London

that reminds me
of sliced potatoes
not the main park,
a small one

and not diced or chopped,
only sliced long ways
and stacked
biggest on bottom

like I do
when I chop and boil
and fry them with slices
of andouille sausage

I have only
been there once
and passed by
once more
in a black cab
on a day my wife
wasn’t feeling well.

Not sure if
it’s the playground
some rocks or hills
or the pasty patrons
only when I slice potatoes
I think of
a park in central London.

Middle-aged Back

At 63 I am well past 

the middle of my age, 

but out of politeness

we call old people in their 60s 

middle aged instead of old 

I think of this 

In the gray cold drizzle fills the air, 

but doesn’t quite fill my boat. 

I had a notion to go out on the water. 

It was cold, but it wasn’t raining 

And the way the gray slate sky 

ran into the gray slate water 

with almost no horizon

appealed to me earlier 

but now the gray above 

and the gray below 

has become the gray within 

and I know I must hurry home 

to some coffee and maybe 

warm winter soup.

the cold, wet air makes 

all of my bones ache 

but I put my middle-age back

into the oars and pull 

and pull and it hurts 

a lot 

for there is no Tylenol

on a rowboat 

just an old man pretending 

to be middle-aged 

trying to get home

October Skies

thirteen miles

as clear as it gets

62°,

6 miles an hour

in the pre-down darkness.

Street lights and quiet.

not even a rumbling

logging truck this morning

just me and the dog.

Saturday: soon there will be

oversize 4 x 4‘s

pulling giant boats

down to the river

and to the coast,

but now just a quiet

little front yard.

From the March

before the invasion

from the barracks

down main street

to the sea

helmets shining in the sun

everyone in step

with the leadoff

Looking so brave

and powerful

looking like

victory is ours

as they board

the sailing vessels

saluting the anthem

showing the colors

only to be slaughtered

in a field of flowers.

Making a Hit Record

It’s a chord with two beats

and then the drum,

the young girl sings 

a smooth melody, 

the old guy lays down

a scratchy line

in the background 

While he plays the piano

with his right hand 

one-note-at-a-time runs

and trills from another song

that sounds a bit like what

she is singing but isn’t it at all

My hand grabs another green tea

and my brain wonders 

when I quit getting stoned,

my brain wonders 

if I ever quit being stoned

but nobody smokes nothing anymore

We do yoga and eat keto

and wonder if we will live long enough 

to see the end of the world

now the left hand drops 

dirge-like slow rolling riffs

I don’t know what they call it 

but I like the way 

it all comes together

It’s a chord with two beats

and then the drum,

the young girl sings 

a smooth melody, 

the old guy lays down

a scratchy line

in the background 

While he plays the piano

with his right hand 

one-note-at-a-time runs

and trills from another song

that sounds a bit like what

she is singing but isn’t it at all

My hand grabs another green tea

and my brain wonders 

when I quit getting stoned,

my brain wonders 

if I ever quit being stoned

but nobody smokes nothing anymore

We do yoga and eat keto

and wonder if we will live long enough 

to see the end of the world

now the left hand drops 

dirge-like slow rolling riffs

I don’t know what they call it 

but I like the way 

it all comes together

Mine Eyes Have Seen

the coming of the glory

of the kitchen in the morning

as I was washing the breakfast dishes

a vision came to me

shining there in the soapy bubbles

for you and for me.

Where my father scrambled eggs

and fried us up the sausage

where my grandmother stood

in green slippers and made

the percolated coffee

and my other grandmother

first on the other side of Jackson

and then in the apartment

on Mount Vernon Street

in Montgomery, Alabama,

always with the sun shining

in on her bright yellow tablecloth

where she poached us eggs

and gave us free advice.

The glory of the kitchen

in the bright and glorious morning

forever marches on.

Anno Dominoes or Spinner

I am not Cuban,

or even from a nearby island

but when I hear the sound

of bones rattling

on concrete tables

I remember sunny

Sunday afternoons

and the old man

spinning his domino

waiting to play

always muttering

about two enemies

and a fool for a partner,

the fool was me

but I laughed

because we usually won,

in spite of my bone head.

The enemies were

his son and son-in-law,

they partnered me

with the master

to make it a game.

We played double twelves

on black wooden pieces

best used for making a line

and pushing one over.

All my partners, gringoes,

and Puerto Ricans, are dead,

the years fallen like dominoes

only I remain, Anno Dominios.

The Time Will Come

it occurs to me

as I step into my shorts

to take my sweet pit

out for her 3 am ‘business’

and then carefulyl hold

onto the corner of the glass

front china cabinet

to slip my shoes on

someday it will not

be safe to stand

and step into

my pants, sometimes even now

I almost fall

Which is why I steady

against the cabinet

so I will have to sit

and maybe have some shoes

that are easier to slip on

and by then, maybe our lovely dog

will be long dead, which makes me think,

when she dies,

will I bury her in the yard,

as I have done with every other dog,

I have had since 1964?

Will I be able to dig the hole?

I can hear my wife saying

I am too morbid for words,

but these are my words, my thoughts,

and it occurs to me,

even if I sit so I don’t fall

through the glass,

and even if I don’t get another dog,

or get one who doesn’t need

a midnight walk,

someday I will no longer

need to worry about dogs

and shoes and glass

and digging holes.

When Mom Makes Me a Salad

she fixes a salad like a kite

sailing across the table

on big lettuce wings

diving into green and black olives

with a twisting tail of croutons

scattered along the rim

of the bright sky blue bowl

no vinaigrette

she loves the taste of radishes

without sauce

and I, I take the old

restaurant treble silver serving dish

with its thousand island,

and French, and my favorite:

blue cheese, and smother

everything with all three

and throw in some Captain’s wafers,

 she doesn’t approve,

but says nothing,

glad I am eating salad.