Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 27

Earth I shovel you

the weather is warm

but not too hot

and the earth is soft

though it hasn’t rained today

my sharp bladed shovel

slices through uneven

green growth of neglected lawn

into dark sandy brown earth

the bottom

of my shoe

pushes the blade

to the shank

I step back

for leverage

turning the handle

over and up

bringing up the sweet

smell of dirt

of roots of grub worms

of pebbles and rocks

the earth of dog shit

decayed bird feathers

my own skin cells

and maybe the bones

of some Egyptian

pharaoh or a dinosaur

The air is warm

but not too much

the earth is soft and moist

but not wet

it has not rained today.

I am here with my shovel.

…. A poem inspired by Anne Spencer’s, Earth I Thank You

I Have Climbed Mountains

lept from rocks

swam in lakes

full of I don’t know what

even snow skied in Alabama

fished for crappie

at midnight

ate a tarpon

I caught in the keys

I dropped out

drove a truck

teach poetry

at university

I sit quietly

in my cottage

in Mayo

knowing so much

is past.

Shuffling Cards in the Rain

listening to The Band

in the dark

wanting breakfast

playing solitaire instead

Electric candlelight

Flickering 

on the coffee table

Reminds me

TV dinners

Frozen enchiladas

In crimped foil boxes

Fifty years ago

Predating electric candles

And cable and streaming 

And iPhones and laptops

Predating towers and floppy discs 

Served on thin metal folding tables 

Watching bonanza and mork and mindy

All dead now

Except me, I’m not dead

I wonder if the enchiladas 

To See the Toe of the Giant

We left the squat cinder block building

that was the Jasper parsonage

on a cold wet overcast morning,

With golden sycamore leaves

covering the yard

and the little metal pedal cars

 were stored in the shed

Uncle Walter drove

the red Rambler east to Birmingham

the heater fogging the windows

as he steered through rush hour

to the top of Red Mountain.

I was four and wanted to climb the tower,

by now it was cold

and up on the mountain,

the goldfish pools had iced over.

I remember being amazed to see them

swimming beneath the ice.

We started up

the winding staircase

inside the tower,

before we were half way up

I tired and wanted to stop,

but my big brother wanted

to see the toe of the giant.

He took one arm,

my uncle the other

and they swung me up

 step by step

until we stepped out

into the icy wind

to see Birmingham

in the cold morning sun.

Canvas chair

They’re all dead now.

my dad, my uncle

my uncle that wasn’t an uncle.

They weren’t that old 

but they seemed old 

to me at five or six 

and they would  go down 

to the river to fish,

my dad to fly fish 

my uncle to catch some bass 

and my uncle 

that wasn’t my uncle 

just liked to catch fish 

blue gill, shellcrackers,

bass, crappy, anything that bite.

Turns out I’m more like him 

than dad or my uncle 

but I never went fishing 

with any of them 

I was too young 

I’d see them 

loading up the jeep 

or the pick up 

or sometimes even 

the Mercury sedan.

My uncle always carried a pistol 

In case of snakes, he said.

The thing I remember 

the most though

is the slightly musty smell 

of the canvas chairs

that folded up 

and went in their own little bag.

I have one now 

a lot like that 

but mine doesn’t ever go 

fishing or hunting.

Occasionally, when

I take my kid camping 

I’ll throw it in the back 

and open it up 

and sit by the fire. 

I wonder what they

will remember someday?

Maybe a chair?

Placemats

First of all, I try to never write a poem over 100 words, and this one comes in at 283! and its more of a short story, a rememberance of a summer afternoon nearly 60 years ago. more of a short story than a poem, but my wife says its a poem, so here it is, in its too long self:

Mrs. Dan brought us lemonade

and sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

We ate at the long table, inside.

The long table outside

was covered with stoneware churns,

converted into wine vats,

with balloons for venting without contamination.

Her name wasn’t Mrs. Dan.

She was Alexandra Welchel,

the second wife of my godfather’s.

I didn’t know his first wife,

he had her locked in a sanitarium

for being insane, divorced,

and then remarried,

all before I was born.

Only later did I know

of the first Mrs. Welchel,

through his sad retelling

of her story,

or his version of it.

Mr. Dan was a great man,

a mentor to my father,

a great story teller

with a barrel of a laugh.

An all American football player

from nineteen severteen,

a former klansman,

but none of this

did I know

sitting at the table

with placemats.

We never used placemats

on our Formica

dinette from Sears

My mother did not approve of wine

or winemaking,

but we were

never taught to condemn

anything either

of the Dan’s did.

We lived our summers

for free

in their beautiful guest cottage

while daddy worked on pecans

in the Mississippi river delta.

Mrs. Dan’s family rented

the same house in Amsterdam

for three hundred years,

she showed us pictures

of the house that afternoon.

My mother adored her,

and called her Alexandra,

which confused me,

because we, my brother and I,

called her Mrs. Dan.

She was that mix

of sweet and stern,

so common in older ladies

in the south,

giving us a jigsaw puzzle

to play with,

yet reminding us to keep

our voices down,

and keep our glasses

of lemonade on the placemats.

The Case for Coffee

in the shadow

of a headache,

in the fog

one cannot think

thru, lies

not lies,

but truth.

As if

it still mattered,

or ever did,

but there it is,

shining like lyrics

of a Paul Simon song.

and the headache

and locusts

permanently

ringing in

my ears

joins the drums

and hammers

in the skull,

like a series

of cymbals, triangles

and other metallic

percussion instruments.

Doggamit

2 am headache,

tylenol,

work,

play,

food,

coffee,

need 5 more hours sleep,

damn headache.

I hate people who just whine…

dammit.

let me show you something

in a happy little accident.

wish i was painting,

or working,

or sleeping,

or at least writing

a gaddom poem

or something.

Lost in the Telling

poet

observer

recorder

headaches

and yet

I miss so much,

and miss

even more

in the telling.