Saturday, June 24, 2006
Sunday Morning at Donut Palace
Here's a new poem. I haven't posted one in awhile. But four of my poems were accepted recently for publication in real magazines: Communique and Geez. So I took to writing poetry with a little more intention.
This one is for one of my uncles, an atheist. I love him to d e a t h, and he likes to have coffee and donuts early in the morning.
Amy described it this morning as pretty stark. Enough blabbing. Here's the poem:
UPDATE: I gave this to Uncle Bill when we visited he and his wife in Galveston this past July. He was nearly blind with cataracts, but he can see with limited tunnel vision. I printed it in font 24 or something, then read it aloud while he followed along.
He like it.
A few weeks later, his optimastrist finished some procedure that miraculously restored Uncle Bill's sight. He can now see (and read!) again. It was the best news I can remember hearing in a long long time.
HillCountryWriter Category: Poetry
Technorati Tags: poetry writing verse
This one is for one of my uncles, an atheist. I love him to d e a t h, and he likes to have coffee and donuts early in the morning.
Amy described it this morning as pretty stark. Enough blabbing. Here's the poem:
Sunday Morning at Donut Palace
The old men believe in nothing
but humanity and an empire
of experience. They love the teens
selling donuts in summer, and coffee,
frying pastries earlier than English
ever was, finding cheap freedom
in time at the register
turning to cash. Honest to God,
they learn the truth of green linen
from patriarchs long d e a d, framed and stained
by sweaty hands from hundreds who
handed them out, passed them over,
sounded the old bell, Ka-Ching! Enjoy
your coffee, sir. Have a nice day.
What’s not to love? Kids work hard
and make bread too sweet to be holy
sacraments or exodus memories.
God floods the world, and he doesn’t
like sprinkles or chocolate or maple,
even plain glaze is too glazed to be plain.
On the floor you can eat bland manna,
back where the manager forgot to sweep,
miracle crumbs and dust by our feet.
The old men laugh and don’t believe it,
not for one second. Life is good,
but life ends, and nothing waits
in the dirt but more earth.
UPDATE: I gave this to Uncle Bill when we visited he and his wife in Galveston this past July. He was nearly blind with cataracts, but he can see with limited tunnel vision. I printed it in font 24 or something, then read it aloud while he followed along.
He like it.
A few weeks later, his optimastrist finished some procedure that miraculously restored Uncle Bill's sight. He can now see (and read!) again. It was the best news I can remember hearing in a long long time.
HillCountryWriter Category: Poetry
Technorati Tags: poetry writing verse
