Vincent Atkins

eknivsnikta@hotmail.com

cemetery contemplations

I.

green, red, and yellow leaves
on an autumn tree,
standing before a
blue sky
with the sun
warm on my arms
and every sound
swirling round,
as i sit
and watch the insects crawl.

II.

brown pine needles
on the ground
amidst
dying grass
twigs
weeds
leaves
everything
a fallen blanket
for the earth.

III.

beautiful daughter
buried there,
old friend,
lost lover,
acquaintance,
stranger,
no one at all;
underneath the fallen leaves
we leave you
when you leave us...
but
we never go far.

IV.

writing poetry
in an autumn cemetery
by the diminishing light
of a perfect afternoon,
with an equally perfect
evening
coming soon.

FOR BUNNY

i drove back to the spot
where i'd run the rabbit over
with my car;
i drove back with a
daffodil
to place on its carcass,
which i had moved to the grass
on the side of the road--
only i
couldn't find it
right away.

i walked around
and eventually
slipped on its guts,
which were just a few feet away
from the rest,
its head torn off
and its spinal cord in view.

i carefully placed the flower
on top of the
bloody mess
that was once a
beautiful rabbit
just
trying to survive,
got back in my car
and drove away.


1,890 DAFFODILS

beat now,
but beatific blooms awaiting
in budding green sheaths
upon radiant stalks--
cut them
ten inches long,
ten to a bundle,
holler when you
reach one hundred
bundles...

and the east indian bosses
who speak like
jolly mexicans
wander off
into the field of daffodils...

row upon
glorious row
of muted yellow trumpets
waiting to be shipped off to
florists,
grocery stores,
old ladies,
lovers--
or waiting to burst
the stalks' bright heads
into song:

just the wind
sweeping bird notes
through the ears of the workers
plodding forth
through the rows.


TRUE LOSS

that summer my grandmother's house experienced some terrible flooding,
and much was lost to water damage.

after the water was drained from the basement
i was asked to come over and help move some books
to the greenhouse to dry.

on my way back to the house
i noticed something was missing outside:
the fig tree
that had stood behind the carport for so many years
was gone--

nothing left but a stump.

i couldn't comprehend it at first;
i could barely manage to form the words to convey my incredulity.

my grandmother explained that some roots from the tree had gotten into the
drain pipe,
which was partially to blame for the severity of the flooding--
so they decided to cut it down.

flooding?
who cares!?
you
murderer!
how
could you?

but in all honesty my mind was completely incapable of forming such thoughts
at the time.

i was stunned,
my heart
sunk.

it seemed
finally
that there was truly
nothing left.


DOING ZAZEN WHILE THEY CUT DOWN ANOTHER TREE OUTSIDE

counting my breath
as the chainsaw
kills me

dead on the ground
outside
counting the leaves


DÉJÀ VU

ice blue scene of morning
through the steam of washing dishes
and the distant chant
of an alarm clock
reflecting on a dream

remember
remember
i am experiencing this again
as the tea cools
still warm enough to drink.