Dear readers: Before this week’s poem, two new projects with events this coming week:
- Fear of the Beast: Artist Troy Passey and I have created a new book together called Fear of the Beast, about the human relationship with animals—whether we are eating animals, keeping animals as pets, or telling stories about animals that we are too afraid to tell of ourselves. We will speak about the book on Radio Boise’s The Poetry Show this Sunday Oct 20 at 5pm Boise time, and we will sign at Rediscovered Books next Thursday Oct 24 at 7pm Boise time.
- MING: I will perform new work at MING Studios’ 7o’clock series Sunday Oct 27, at—you guessed it!—7pm.
Please feel most welcome to listen in or attend any of these. Onto this week’s poem, inspired by a word I have never before written on:
My grocery bag full and stomach empty, I went back through the line to buy a banana. “Back again,” said David, smiling and ringing up the total. Bananas cost coins. This one cost 28 cents. David offered, “If you have a quarter, I can give you three cents.” “If you have a word, I can write you a poem,” I offered in return.
The Stranger: David
The Word: Coconut
The poem I wrote:
In Maine, on the wooden dock, with string
tied to their big toes, my husband and young
catch crabs. Big ones. I man the laundry,
the making of tea: the world indoors, while
this man I love brings the ocean everywhere.
Now my son, five, holds a crab the size
of a coconut. Not a pinch. My daughter,
the vegetarian, catches and catches.
She does not like the fact of threading
the hook through the dead minnow
but she does it like she sews, just another needle.
Boy in underwear because his clothes still turn
in the hot air. Girl long-legged and overturning
the red bucket. So many crabs tumble out
with legs like living branches. A weathered
harbormaster asks, why did you let all
those crabs go? I love seeing her face
in the 5 o’clock sun as she turns to explain,
We let them go so we can catch new ones.
The Challenge: Do you have a poem in you on this word? Write one here.
October 18, 2019 at 10:41 am
Wordplay
You must know,
unless youth has been lost,
that words are alive.
Not innocent bedsheets
but colored cotton scraps
wrestling in a quilt heap.
Not dry sleepy flour,
but soft, stretching bagel.
Listen to the singing words;
Luminescence at the opera
and Apollo theatre funk.
Come out tonight for vaudeville,
the words that dance in your mouth;
Flamboyant rockabilly coconut.
October 18, 2019 at 11:11 am
Based On A True Story
It was several years ago
Back in 20 ought 16
I had a weird experience
Or was it just a dream?
I was in my pickup truck
Close to my country home.
In the bar ditch was a coconut.
It’s rare for them to roam.
Around the bend on 812,
I’m soon at my abode.
I’m greeted by my Silly Girl
As I drive in off the road.
She licked my hand, which is not weird,
‘Cause Silly Girl’s a dog.
I took inside my groceries
As the evening began to fog.
I awoke to barking
As EsGee raised alarm
She’s always there in protect mode
To save me any harm.
Looking out my window
I saw it was foggy dark.
I decided I’d investigate,
Hoping for a lark.
I grabbed my varmint rifle,
Slipped a knife into my boot.
I’m not afraid to use them.
It’s a question that is moot.
Outside, with my faithful dog,
She sounded a low growl.
Beyond the trees a glowing,
I decided we should prowl.
In darkness, we eased forward
Shrouded by the fog
Silly Girl was silent now
I whispered her, “Good dog.”
I could still see the glowing
By the highway, through the trees.
It didn’t look like headlights.
I was less than pleased.
Sometimes there’s an accident
Round this curve on misty nights,
But not this time, I thought,
Something isn’t right.
There, in the eerie glow,
Beyond the barbed wire fence,
Silly raised her hackles
At something she could sense.
Might I be hallucinating?
Are my eyes deceived?
A small herd of alien coconuts
Like you would not believe.
The were rolling ‘round and growling,
Flashing bloodshot eyes,
And gnashing splintered teeth.
Some things to be despised.
All of them, then, looked at me.
I knew they would attack.
I switched my gun to semi-
As I started stepping back.
In a blaze of fierce gun fire,
I began to take them out
But they kept a’comin’,
No hope that they might rout.
My magazine was empty
All thirty shells were spent
My k-bar flashed in moonlight
As on hell we’re bent.
Silly Girl, by my side,
Took down more than a few.
We gave them gooder than we got
Their time was overdue.
Just before the dawn,
The battle, it was over
Pieces of wild coconuts
Mixed with wildflowers and clover.
Victory smelled quite sweet,
Somewhat, like a pina colada.
We’ll have our reward, EsGee
For doin’ as we outta.
Let’s go to the house, my Girl
We’ll come back real soon
We’re going to have a treat tonight,
Our fill of macaroons.
October 20, 2019 at 6:38 pm
A Bowl of Dirty Water
I would love to be the kind of person
who knows how to crack a coconut
on the beach
in the sun
with an axe.
Instead, I know how to scrub walls
sitting on the floor
in the dark
with a bowl of dirty water.
I know how to perfect my notes
on the bus
in a crowded seat
with a black pen.
I know how to cry myself to sleep
on my bed
in the middle of the night
with a longing to know
how to crack a coconut, on the beach, in the sun, with an axe.
October 23, 2019 at 11:14 am
The Left Shoe Line Up
And there they are,
on the floor of the closet,
neatly lined up.
A left brown Teva sandal,
lined up beside a left grey dress shoe,
lined up beside a left aqua water shoe – to wear in the rain.
No decision has to be made on which to wear.
All have been replaced by one big grey awkward boot.
And when her friends ask her,
“What happened?”
She replies,
“As I was fixing fruit salad for dinner last night,
I dropped the coconut.”
October 23, 2019 at 10:18 pm
Girls Night
We still get carded (in the right lighting)
but by now we sense the story beneath the story.
Compare life snapshots:
photos of sweet, sticky babies and drinks from coconuts on beaches at sunset.
I omit inability to find that country on a map,
she skims over Saturdays when she doesn’t get out of bed.
We look, and look again,
at each other’s lives (as if to cherry-pick aspects
to add to our own)
and- too old for sugar and spice-
we are yet young enough to
want what we want
and imagine it so, and-after all-
aren’t dreams what makes a life?
October 24, 2019 at 6:42 am
Looking for Burt’s Bees
Scattered yet organized
among the crag and concrete.
There has to be a story among the debris.
Dumped from despair?
Flung in frustration?
Scattered in silliness?
The collection not yet worn enough
to become a castoff for those in transition.
Sharpie
Bic
Crest
Fischer
Goody
Craftsman
SanDisk
Metal not rusted
Ink pens not dried
Toothpaste not emptied
Plastic not stretched
A closer inspection reveals
a scattering of true trash – cigarette butts and broken acorns –
parts of wholes not present.
Contemplation of collecting the display
dismissed because
there is no coconut and pear balm –
necessary as the days become colder and blustery.