Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 20

All the wooden hues

of black and brown

trees rotting to the ground

amid the roar

of tiny screaming bugs

the heat drips off

sweat in my eyes

and more tiny bugs

I swat away

and moss

covers everything

The white birds

in front of the old cinderblock 

United Methodist Church 

with the sunbaked graveyard 

beside it, 

all behind 

a field of cattle munching 

on overgrown weeds.

This is July 

near the break down pond 

not hot yet

and the old three sisters 

stand waiting for 

tobacco that 

will never come

An Evening at Fort Myers Beach

We watch the sunset

as red as the sky

Tiki huts and picnic tables

turning black in the shadows

The surf rolling gentle 

off the gulf

low tides and long beaches

We tread up to the cabin

as darkness calls

in the mosquitos

Twenty five years

and still shared between us.

We watch the sunset

as red as the sky

Tiki huts and picnic tables

turning black in the shadows

The surf rolling gentle 

off the gulf

low tides and long beaches

We tread up to the cabin

as darkness calls

in the mosquitos

Twenty five years

and still shared between us.

Peddled my Bike to Carolina

with an angel

on my back,

we carried the moon

in a crumpled

Piggly-Wiggly

grocery bag

and sang

Sweet Home Chicago

the whole way there.

Listening to old dead John Prine

singing about paradise 

got the windows down 

driving in the rain 

ain’t no Bel Air 

ain’t no eight track

and the kid 

with the three on the tree 

is an old man 

with a Kia automatic 

but the song is a journey

because paradise is still 

five miles from wherever I am 

thank you John 

dammit I miss you

Two poems from today

Battery Operated Sunday Morning

Howard Park

early Sunday mornings

while my toddler runs

amongst the tree caves

 and feeds ducks and curved-bill ibises

crackers and bread

Some man plays his bagpipes

while the fire hydrant stand at attention

and the Banyan trees stand completely still

And I wonder why

he is here

and we are here

in the cool of morning

on Sunday morning

before the Hispanic church

gathered at a pavilion

with a battery operated amplifier

and sang gospel music

with an electric guitar.

Appearance Matters

sometimes I remember

I should get a haircut

or buy new shoes.

times like driving through

High Springs, seeing a sign:

Haircuts $15

I have to remind myself

that fifteen dollars isn’t much

It used to be

working all day

at McDonald’s for fifteen dollars,

grateful to get small fries

small drink and hamburger

for free but that was

nearly 50 years.

Today I make it

in fifteen minutes

but I don’t want to think

about what a good pair

of leather shoes will cost.

It’s always been a lot of money

hard to remember

appearance matters.

The Poem Nibbles around the Edge

trying to tell me something

my brain is tired,

has no room for words

Maybe a little solitaire

or electronic spades

or talking to the dog,

The one who doesn’t care

whether I am poetic

but only if I can take her out

and fix her a fancy breakfast

But the poem

keeps coming back

a shadow of a nightmare

until the sacrifice

is made

lines on the page.

In my Warm Winter Coat

of dead leaves

and porcelain enameled sinks

I sleep through the afternoon

of water dripping

from the window unit

and summer calls for tea.

The phone rings twice

from strangers

who only wake me

and my dog

is happy I am awake.

Beautiful Mule

To be as beautiful 

as a brown and white 

spotted long eared mule 

grazing in the green green grass 

on the hottest day 

of summer.

Down the Sleepy Canals

under the blazing

blue skies of winter

the alligators are

on the banks

collecting the sun

they are thick as can be,

body-to-body,

fed on fish

and wading birds.

They pay no mind

to the highway traveler

unless he misses a turn

and becomes their supper.

A hundred million

years in the making,

this new human

and his metal lunch

box delivery

are accepted with

the grace of

a waiting Buddha.