Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 28

Cold Rain

promise

of winter

Beyond that Age

I may be beyond that age 

but I used to dream 

of owning a white mule 

sturdy enough to carry me I would ride 

him in my khaki clothes 

with a slightly floppy hat 

I don’t know where 

I would’ve gone 

and as I’m terrified 

of horses 

probably would’ve never 

been a good idea 

I don’t own any land 

or a barn 

or even a shed fit 

for a horse to stay in 

I live in town 

and I’m old 

and if I took a fall 

I might not get back up

but I saw a white mule 

today and I remembered.

November 4 short poems

in the tradition of haiku, which these are not, the first line serves as the title

The dog,

the dumpster,

the whine and crunch

of the garbage truck.

Open doors,

cool air

Autumn early morning

freshens the house.

Spaghetti squash

baking warms the kitchen

And promises supper.

Dog boxes

The dog boxes

are empty

side-by-sides’

getting last-minute touchups

fuck -your-cousin

big four by fours

are more obvious than usual

The deer are still

in the woods

but it’s getting cool

and overcast

it won’t be long

The bald headed

lawyer still wants

to defend me

against crimes

real and imagined

The Suwanee River

glides by in

it’s twisting spring fed way

the purity of the water

not reflected on the shore

There is mud

in the truck bed

and rain

in the streets

Three short poems from 10 25 2021

Jasper 

A rusty town 

of failing strip malls 

and closed up

red brick businesses

a grand Boulevard 

called Central Avenue

lined with mansions

of merchants and planters

Shoe

On a paper

I keep in my shoe

I have written

everything I know

but the ink

is old and faded

(credit to Jim Croce for the 2nd verse)

Sweet Aphids

I took my Bible

to read under

the pecan tree

the aphids

dropped honeydew

now my scripture

is covered

In sweet sticky shit.

Who

I have encountered bats

flying face near my face

in a semi darkened cave

snakes in the water

and on the ledge

where I swim

a bear crossing the road

and too many dead deer

to even remember

and ghosts drifting

gently across my bedroom

but what I fear most is

not being here

to remember these things

who will remember

the joy of cold spring water,

of a grandchild in my arms,

the aching sadness

of loss, foreclosure

divorce, death

and simply moving away?

as I have done

dozens of times

who will remember?

Early morning blue gray skies

Seventy-three degrees 

Windows down

light rain

 wondering how the Pines and Oaks stand it 

 

Going west

 pass the Sopchoppy girl 

pass Carrabelle Beach 

To a library on the shore of 

Apalachicola Bay 

To talk about poetry

To talk about life

So much to talk about 

nothing to say 

Old man and a Dongle

Driving down two-lane roads,

listening to brown sugar,

fire and rain

Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Beatles

It’s mid 21st century

but he still in the sixties,

maybe the seventies

Old man playing music

on his iPhone attached

to the dashboard with a dongle

The music is old,

he is older

no matter the technology

It’s rock ‘n’ roll

guitar and the beat of the drum

playing so loud

He can almost hear

his dead father telling him

to turn it down.

Good Enough

Too sick to be awake

too tired to sleep

It must be Saturday morning

even if it is dark outside

The dog sits on the couch

and grooms herself

Coffee and breakfast

and two Advil

and hoping to feel

good enough

to sleep.

Building a Poem

Start with a bucolic scene

Turn it a phrase

of social justice

Add a metaphor

about some trees

Hammer down

on a long slow

sloping metal roof

Sprinkled lightly

with rust and shade

Insert a picture of old friends

And a swim in the creek

from your childhood

Layer on a bittersweet look

at how poverty runs

through it all

Cap it off with a couplet

Bringing the metaphor of trees

Back to the way

Poverty cuts against

social and racial justice,

close it with a spike

and know you are done