Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 26

I Will Not Bother You

with the micro-

aggressions of age

but you will know them

I will not remind you

the moment

on a Saturday

under a blue Bimini

watching water glitter

The delicious mustiness

of a French

Quarter bookstore

Of eating peppers

and ice cream

and doughnuts

and tacos,

with abandon,

of holding the wind

in the leaves of trees

as a toddler runs

to meet her friends

these moments

are your life

but I cannot tell you

because I was too busy

then as you are now

I will not bother you.

On a Street in Montgomery

(for Keith, my cousin)

there lives a memory

in the shadow

of long dead canopies

of elms,

for which most

of my life,

I blamed the Dutch

for their disappearance.

Though these days,

I have learned to

question that attribution.

You and I,

ten years old

ride our bicycles

through the summer air

and talk of girls

and the next school year

with no thought

of becoming old men

or even teenagers.

We had already lived through JFK

MLK, the moon landing

and the end of the Beatles.

What more could be left?

A Lime-colored Blue Sedan

Turns on the old

Foley cut off Road

under the battleship

blue-gray skies

as Perry, Florida

wakes up and goes

about its business.

Me and my dirty white Kia

roll along through town

past the Skylark motel

with it outsized masonry gate

into the long empty expanse

of US 29 flat in places

hilly as Virginia in others

towards Tallahassee.

I wonder about

the little houses

and old store fronts

the lives of the people in both

but my curiosity

does not drive me

to stop and knock

on anyone’s door.

An Old Shower

four years ago

I stood in a tub

and thought about

The Ritual of the Bath.

Now, four houses later

I face the long wait

for the cold to end

impatiently sticking my head in

under a near frozen spray

grabbing the shampoo

on the back side

of the enclosure

rubbing the soap

into my cold hair

by now the water

warms enough

I step in.

And soon,

it is so hot

I mix in a little cold

And soap the rugged

ragged skin of my face

soap the ever growing

hump on my shoulders

my belly, my back

my butt and privates

scrubbing my ass like

the obsessive I am

 as if I expected

an inspection

 by a drill sergeant

or the mother superior

though thankfully,

these is neither.

Scrubbing my feet

holding onto the handrail

placed there for

an old person before me

while I pretend

I, too, am not

that, an older person.

Drying in the gas heated room

the ritual is the same,

the ritual has changed

I dress and go out.

Note: this poem relates to a previous poem, found here:

https://anthonyuplandpoetwatkins.wordpress.com/2017/12/12/the-ritual-of-the-bath/

Tales of Saucers in Shorter

Tales of Saucers in Shorter

In an old country house with five chimneys lived an old lady, my mom, though younger than me now, she seemed old to me then, and in the china cabinet she collected antique plates and platters and flatware and soup tureens and lots of dainty cups and saucers, not to mention salt cellars, which are not, places downstairs as you might imagine, but only little glass boxes with tiny serving spoons, set one my each guest to spoon out the salt as the needed.

But enough of salt cellars, and not to mention salt sellers, and with all apologies to Caroline Bergvall there were, on the shelf in the round front china cabinet the saucers of Shorter, and even though, on occasion it was discussed, the how and why and when would it be proper, there was never, ever, any blowing and saucering, and if there had been the rake to do it, no one would have thought it meant to finish a project, it was simply the somewhat questionable purpose of serving coffee in a cup on a saucer, that and the way it kept coffee stains to a minimum on the fancy dining table cloth.

Be there fires or pyres of long or short versions of ancient poems, there will always be the saucers of Shorter, at least in my mind.

In Praise of Gnats

short moments

uttered

and uttered

and muttered

repeatedly

in honorarium

for those who passed

in past times

and the oil

we burn

in candles

and lanterns

to signify

to celebrate

to mourn

and yet

it is

the gnat

the flaw

that spoils the moment

and brings us

to the now

for the dead

will always

be dead

candles or no

but the gnat is

only in the now.

If You Go to Heaven, Bring Cigars

First thing I saw

walking into heaven

was Jesus and God

sitting on their pedestals

smoking fat cigars.

When I gave then a funny look

God just laughed ad said’

“What? We are immortal,

 it cant hurt us.”

And I thought of

every teenager I ever knew.

He said, “Don’t blame me.

Jesus brought them back

from evangelizing

the new world.

Anyway, I don’t inhale!”

with that

he laughed so hard

and slapped his knee.

I wandered off

to find St Peter

who drinks in remembrance

but cant remember who for.

And it occurred to me

if those goddamn fools

are in charge

no wonder this

poor ole world

is in such a mess.

This is the Kind of Day

To hole up in

an old house

in Hattiesburg,

in front of

a roaring fire of gas logs

listening to

the lastest Beatles

or Simon and Garfunkel

and playing board

games for hours

cold weather

some sort of rich

pasta soup

on the stove

mom and my aunt

cooking

dad, my uncle

and a stray

bunch of us kids

at scrabble

and then monopoly

‘til we tire

and my uncle

tells us Beowulf

once again

it’s that kind of day

Our Father’s Oyster House

on Sunday morning

it’s a house of worship

six days they shuck

and bag and try

not to cut

their fingers off. .

With twin towers

so familiar to

an AME church

I never enter,

for and bag or a bucket,

even on a weekday

without saying a silent

blessing for the Reverend,

his wife and family,

and all the folks

who shucked or bagged

six days and have

church on the seventh.

It’s hard to imagine

Jesus didn’t smell

a lot like oysters

Pudding restrictions

(And other stories on NPR)

Ideally,
said the Russian diplomat,
the Apple bellies
will protect us
from outside forces.

It was at this point
I began to question
the competency,
the veracity,
or at least
the effort
of our translator.

And with
the pudding restrictions
on dumplings,
I lost all hope.