Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 31

After the Revolution

had failed
(they always fail)
and the bedraggled irregulars
were only a scattered threat

I sit in my house
typing and drinking coffee
and dreaming of poetry
and fishing trips

knowing my neighbors
are traitors
but we greet
on the streets
with smiles
and kind words

I admire the green of the trees
the deer who graze peacefully
as it is summer
and no guns are in the woods

I fish but the fish are safe
I am a poor angler
the river flows past
filled with spring water

but at moments
I wonder if i am
like the peaceful deer

unaware of the guns of winter? 

I Keep a Gun for Alexander

I have no need

of one myself

I keep it

in this drawer

and the bullets

in the one below.

I keep it

just in case

though I have

no idea

what he might

need it for.

I have learned

I forget what

I am doing

even while doing it.

And I worry

the red dye

in these pills

may give me the pain

I take them for.

Hello, I am

Alexander.

New Fords

I like to sell new Fords

with a shiny sticker

in the window

and new car smell 

everywhere

Yeah, it costs a lot

but I would say 

they’re a pretty good deal.

I put on my jacket

polish my shoes

and pretend I could

own a Crown Vic.

I am so young

with holes in my shoes. 

He pretends

he doesn’t notice the

shabbiness of my cuff,

we talk like equals. 

I’ll never have enough

I drive a new Ford,

but I can get

you a pretty good deal. 

Big Crown Vics

are a nice ride

to a man in 

a beat up Civic.

(A 100 years ago, or so, I used to sell cars. Sadly, Ford discontinued the Crown Victoria in 2012)

Between

Between the fields 

of yellow and pink wildflowers 

and the bars 

that don’t close till 3 AM 

and this long straight country road

passing by so many 

close planted tall pine trees 

overhanging live oak trees

Full of Spanish moss 

it’s hard to not think 

of Emmy Lou Harris 

but it’s easy to think 

of a life gone by,

Mine

Cobbling

The self that I have become

 is the many selves that I have been,

cobbled together to deal 

with the emergency 

that is today…

and of course,

this self will be added 

to the other shelves 

to deal with the emergency 

that is tomorrow

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The Color of Dirt

The way the dusty roads

south of Memphis and West Memphis

on the Arkansas and Mississippi 

sides of the delta

seem to run for hundreds of miles 

between cotton fields and rice fields, 

never more than a dozen miles 

from the river 

makes ordinary roads songs 

bleach out like pastel paintings 

left in the sun. 

Old Ford trucks with vent windows 

and no ac cry out 

for Graceland and Emmylou and Iris Dement 

and Fats Domino singing his lost soul out 

Walking to New Orleans

The shabby old farm houses 

and tumbledown trailers

all painted the shade of dust

behind tractors running and broken down

Those big ole two cylinder 

John Deeres idling

sounding like firecrackers

popping off in ice cream churns

while the men sit on the porch 

smoking cigarettes

for the last five minutes of lunch

Like the houses, 

the people are the color 

of the delta dirt, 

neither white nor black, 

though they will certainly claim 

to be one or the other.

TOBACCO BARN ROOF

the wind in your hair

rustles through my mind

and whistles down 

the tobacco barn roof 

You smell of rain 

in summer.

What Does One Do

Seeing another man

shot in the street,

a mother killed in her bed,

folks left to die

by those who protect and serve?

When one sees hate

directed at those

who ask for justice?

How does one write a poem, drive a bus, do biochemistry,

or even wash one’s tightly curled hair?

How does one continue:

to love– to give—

to this country–to these people–

I am old and white

protected

but even my stomach churns

What does one do

when one’s skin

is a death sentence?

Yet, one does.

One thrives,

in the middle

of a broken heart, and gives,

and loves, and mourns

I, untouched,

try to mourn with you

but know I am failing

Oklahoma Coconut Pecan Pie

While this could be

a recipe you might try,

it isn’t at all

Only a reflection,

a respite

from Bama pies

I ate as a kid.

I wondered why

the sad substitute for my mama’s

Thanksgiving treat

was made in Oklahoma

yet labeled “Bama”?

Were they ashamed?

Or simply thought

pies would be

welcome in my home state

because of the name?

To me, those dry little cakes

would have been better

if none had thought

to pretend they were

pecan pies from Alabama.

So, I woke up in the night-

an old man with a thought

of a pie shell filled

with a cup of coconut flakes,

a jar of Karo syrup,

two eggs, of course,

a teaspoon of cinnamon,

another of nutmeg,

topped with perfect halves

from the tree in my back yard

baked to perfection,

because no one wants

a Florida pecan pie

let’s blame Oklahoma

after all these years.

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