Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 22

If the Birches Bend

if the ice weighs

down the limbs

shimmering until they break

ugly cracking shattering

raw black and brown

in all the white and ice

as the benches wait

quietly empty below.

Do they wonder

if they will be crushed?

Does the cold numb their thoughts?

Do benches ever think,

even on warm summer days?

I am sure you think not

but I wonder if all matter

is energy, is it not

also life? Does matter

not matter?

Does life ever matter?

In the shattered

and splintered shade

of a winter afternoon,

under the broken birches

amid the silent bench

philosophers.

There is a Dish Towel

snow white and easy to bleach

next to the drying rack

next to our kitchen sink

my coffee pot stands next

to the rack and towel

the towel is for overflow

dishes to dry when the rack is full

my wife bought a pack

of twelve or so

and I fold one in half

and lay it on the counter.

Every morning I make my coffee

and until this morning

I am careful to work

 on the counter

and try to avoid getting coffee

on the white towel.

But this morning, I realized,

the stains come out with bleach

and though I cannot tell you why

settling my mug

into the soft towel,

instead of the bare counter

and not worrying

if a spill a few drops

feels like so much luxury

I cannot contain

the pleasure of pouring my coffee

in my softly padded cup.

I Know What This Looks Like

an empty stretch of asphalt

like a million miles

of federal highway

nice shoulder, wide lanes

curving through pines

tall enough to reach

the sky, with occasional willows

and great tangled stands

of oaks leaning out over the road

some farmer’s field

head high with ten

thousand rows of corn

I have driven past

this sort of place

and its kind

for over fifty years

but to me, this place

is not an empty road

this is home

as you fly past

somewhere north

of a mile-a-minute,

I turn onto the gravel drive

between the pines.

All the Class of Mint Juleps

 

rolling through town 

on 90 past 

the Downtown Motel 

and Juniors ice and beer .

the classiest building 

on the highway excepting 

the old stone courthouse 

is Fetterman‘s Funeral Home 

with it wide wraparound porch 

and all the tall columns 

where dying has all the class 

juleps and hoop skirts

Not to mention the rest 

of the plantation.

West past

the Horseshoe Lodge

where the hot May sun 

shines down 90° or more 

to the black tar parking lot

The last cold beer

for many miles

under the big blue sky.

The old Atheist

(that’s me)

hums an empty hymn

from his childhood

like sucking on a straw

to ease a thirst

Sometimes changing

to a whistle

but never singing the words

both long forgotten

and completely meaningless

to him now

The gospel

according to no one

includes bits

of the beatitudes

and a psalms or two

lying down near still waters

while god chimes in

sounding of empty brass

and we march around Jericho

in hopes the walls

will come tumbling down.

(that’s me)

hums an empty hymn

from his childhood

like sucking on a straw

to ease a thirst

Sometimes changing

to a whistle

but never singing the words

both long forgotten

and completely meaningless

to him now

The gospel

according to no one

includes bits

of the beatitudes

and a psalms or two

lying down near still waters

while god chimes in

sounding of empty brass

and we march around Jericho

in hopes the walls

will come tumbling down.

Having Read Every Word

of every comment

or every criticism

of the masters

of painting and poetry

of the important things,

and yet, like the writer

of New Testament scripture

I still understand nothing

my words are but

empty sounding brass

signifying nothing.

and yet, to some

my very words

will mean something

much more than

they mean to me.

Iodine

When the coffee tastes like iodine

and the water smells of sulfur

when all the bread is stale

and there are bugs in the flour

but you make biscuits, anyway

And yes I know the taste of iodine

a poor man paints a rotten tooth

to fight the pain,

a dentist he cannot afford

and I was once that poor

Today I remember all these things

because the coffee smelled funny,

but tasted fine

and I don’t make biscuits

even though the flour is good

My sugar wants to kill me

but Obama and my doctor

make other plans.

When the coffee tastes like iodine

and the water smells of sulfur

when all the bread is stale

and there are bugs in the flour

but you make biscuits, anyway

And yes I know the taste of iodine

a poor man paints a rotten tooth

to fight the pain,

a dentist he cannot afford

and I was once that poor

Today I remember all these things

because the coffee smelled funny,

but tasted fine

and I don’t make biscuits

even though the flour is good

My sugar wants to kill me

but Obama and my doctor

make other plans.

Some Funerals

By my count

and odd bits of memory

I have been

to thirteen funerals

in sixty odd years,

only missing two

I was expected at

neither one was mine

and neither do I regret.

Some folks I went to see

to make sure they were dead

and the ones I didn’t

were too close to let them go

I remember being seven

on a hot Mississippi Sunday

buying a coke for a dime

from a vending machine

and mama saying it was

alright to buy on Sunday

‘cause it was grandpa’s funeral

And I said well nobody had to work

today to fill the machine.

But somehow that didn’t matter

if it wasn’t a funeral

we couldn’t drop

the dime in the slot

it was hot and I was

wearing a stiff black suit

so I was glad to be able to sin

on account of my dead grandpa

and I cried when mama

sang “Rock of Ages”

and fifty years later when

my eleven year old

played “Ode to Joy”

at my mother’s funeral.

The last funeral

I traded the stiff suit

for a polo and khakis

and the coke

for a tumbler

of rum and diet

and it was no better

and after the last one

I did not attend

my brother and I

carried the ashes

of mom and dad

to the old Union Line

to be buried in a shallow grave

in front of his parents.

I was sad to see

that even though

 it is in the heart

of Newt Knight’s

Free State of Jones,

it is both all white

and has a section

dedicated to Confederate Soldiers,

rebel flags and all

So, to steal from Tanya Tucker

when I die, I may not go to heaven

but don’t bury me

in the Union Line.

To tell Saint Peter

If I ever ate watermelon 

on the side of the road 

or had Coco Frio 

along the path 

under the towering trees 

of the rainforest 

if I ever held a grandbaby 

until they laughed 

or had a puppy dog 

snuggled up in my lap 

if I ever swim in the spring 

so clear you could see 

the scales on the little fish 

glistening in the sunlight 

And I have done all these things 

most more than once 

so if I was to die tomorrow 

don’t feel sorry for me 

because I have lived a better life 

than anyone deserves 

and I would tell to Saint Peter 

send me where you will 

for I have been to heaven 

in fact I have lived there 

my entire life.

The Leftovers

So often, when inspired,

to the extent I am,

and in truth,

whatever the quality that follows,

I almost only write on an inspiration,

a thought unbidden,

that permeates my mind

until I dispose of it

through pen and ink

or tapping on a keyboard.

But the case of the left overs,

the bits that come in at some point,

but never quite make it to the page,

then nag at me, asking why

they were never given life.

What to do with these?

Reinsert them into the finished work?

Start a new poem?

Collect them into a compilation of sorts?

Ignore them left unborn?

The thing is, my poems,

at least to me,

tend to run on

and often extend past

the one hundred words

I like as a cap.

Yet to reventure back

to the phrases not quite

part of a previous poem

makes me wonder

if I am only being lazy.