Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
The oaks have
dropped more acorns
this year than anyone
can remember. It’s
like walking on ball
bearings, except
sometimes they pop:
a cap comes off
& one blank face
gains a split. It
must be lonely
having the only
mouth. Do you take
a breath? Do you
invent eating?
Do you look for
another broken soul
& improvise some
kind of minimal
kiss? But wait
a while: soon
everyone will awake
& turn & stick
a yellow tongue
into the earth.
Dave Bonta (bio) often suffers from imposter syndrome, but not in a bad way — more like some kind of flower-breathing dragon, pot-bellied and igneous. Be that as it may, all of his writing here is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).
Oh. This is wonderful.
Glad you liked it!
Wow. I love this one, Dave. Those yellow tongues.
Thanks, Beth.
Yes, wonderful.
We have an unusual amount of acorns dropping this year too. That ball bearings line is a nice description of that feeling of walking on them.
Wow, even down in Texas? I wonder why?
One blank face gains a split. That’s wonderful. I love this. I like the ball bearings allusion too.
Thanks, glad that worked for you. I think I kind of stole the split-in-a-blank-face idea from the Daoist classic Zhangzi.
Like this long tactile tongue of a poem.
Thanks. I don’t usually go quite so heavy on the enjambment but it seemed to work here. Hadn’t thought of the poem itself as a tongue, but good point.
You surpass yourself my friend. And moreover, in the future I won’t be able to tread on a fallen acorn without summoning your imagery. The squirrels here have an ambition to transform our croquet lawn into an oak woodland, and love trees though I do, I’m forever trying to thwart them. Tiny oak saplings spring up overnight, even though the parent trees themselves are a field away. It’ll only be a matter of time before they succeed. When we are gone and someone less vigilant gardens here, perhaps the squirrels shall have their way. I like that notion. Not ‘The Man Who Planted Trees’, but ‘The Squirrel Who Never Gave Up’!
You’re telling me you prefer playing croquet to watching a forest grow?! Maybe you could improvise a new game involving acorns.
I’m very bad at croquet, I get thrashed by eight year olds! I think the squirrels know that and therefore imagine me to be a pushover regarding their plans to turn our garden into a wood!
Heh. Actually, I love the game, and always figured it was a good thing I never tried golf — probably would’ve become a total duffer.