Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 30

West without God

Lemon wedge of a moon

Set in a black sky 

broken only by 

far off lightning 

on horizon where 

I am bound 

my rosary 

my protection 

broke this morning 

and now I ride 

West without God

Coffee Before Daylight

My wife

Sleeping upright

On the couch

Coffee growing cold

Me sitting

In my big chair

Wrapped in

My fuzzy blanket

The dog sleeps

My coffee is gone

Time to refill

And be grateful

For William

the black Mule 

with the mane 

trimmed in white 

is standing 

shoulder deep in 

the hay grass 

I’m not the farmer 

but I don’t think 

the mule belongs.

Experimental Poetry?

I really love this style and have tried and mostly failed at writing this sort of poetry. So, I enjoyed it, too.

Though there are moments when I wonder if what is being said is fresh or just something others in the club might already know but I somehow have not yet learned.

Again, I liked it but I may not be the best judge of what I do not understand.

Fiats and Honey

There was a girl
who sold honey
on the side of the road
under a pop-up tent
waving to all the passersby

There was heel-and-toe
and downshifting my Fiat
through tight curves
the thrill of coming out,

accelerating,
in the middle of the curve
knowing the chance of sliding
off into the ditch was passed

I whipped that little Fiat
with all forty-eight horsepower
as hard as it would go.

The tent stays folded,
my Fiat is a memory,
the girl is gone,
and before you know it,
I will be too.

I wonder who will
remember the honey
and who will remember
the thrill of the gears

Ragweed

The way the ragweed

leans into the dirt road

where the ground is wet

almost all the time

let me know the marsh

is just through the trees

and even though

I can’t see it

I can smell it

moldy green water

boiling in the summer sun

Country House

He was a country house of a man,

full of foursquare rooms,

with a tin roof hat

sloping way out past

his screen door eyes.

His mouth a long low front porch,

slow and welcoming,

two cedars in the front yard, his arms,

two tall oaks in back, his legs,

dusty red brick piling for boots

Dependable and unremarkable,

holding up his corner

of his smalltown

Irish Pastoral

I ride through

the lush green

and bathe in our cold

water springs

The quiet forests

full of chatter

of birds and squirrels

I have never been there

but I am here

and it seems

to be much the same

Funny, they call

your springs warm

though they are

as cold as ours

On four July
I contemplate

revolutions

yours and ours

and wonder who’s

is most imperfect

And yet, the trees and hills

and streams lie so perfect

as to lie about

all other perfection

Not Long Ago



I sat at the table

with three old men

with friendly curses,

first in Spanish,

then repeated in English

when they remembered

I didn’t understand.



I never learned Spanish,

but I took to the bones,

the white dominoes

with the silver spinner.



Beer and rum

for outdoor Florida heat

one by one

they left.



Now me, the kid,

an old man

with three empty chairs.



I was in my twenties,

now approaching

sixty-two,

I miss the clack of bone

on concrete patio tables

I miss those old men.

The Painter

Our cluttered up house

with its books and paintings 

and a dog on the couch 

and a hot kitchen and bacon.

Our yard, clumped up

with azaleas, gardenias,

camellias and pecan trees.

I want to ride in a power boat 

up and down a wide river, 

to see horse races

and paint murals 

a hundred feet high,

eat Mexican food 

and learn to sing Italian.

Instead I sit in my easy chair

and think of painting

on the front porch

in the rain.

You make pork chops

we eat for breakfast.

Life is good, 

we are happy.