Avocados – Revised

Avocados

“I ate one of the avocados
you left on my table last night.”

Leave one for me!
one was for you,
and the other for me.

“Dear heart,”
he said,
“would I eat your avocado?”

I don’t know.

They were so ripe, so perfect, so carefully chosen,
the flesh inside so pale and soft, such a creamy green.
And after all,
you call yourself a poet,
and William Carlos Williams ate
every last one
of the plums.

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Avocados

Avocados

Over the phone, he said,
I ate one of the avocados
you left on my table last night.
Leave one for me, I answered,
one was for you,
and the other for me.
Dear heart,
he said,
would I eat your avocado?
I don’t know.

They were so ripe, so perfect, so carefully chosen,
the flesh inside so pale and soft, such a creamy green.
And after all,
you call yourself a poet,
and William Carlos Williams ate
every last one
of the plums.

Apprenticeships

At twelve I attempted

puff pastry,
instructed
by Julia Child.
(I could learn anything
from a book
but common sense.)

My flour and butter and rolling pins labored under
her diagrams and discourse:

how to fold
sweet butter
into art

At twenty-one learned how
that crust can enfold bitter
sweet chocolate,

and how well café au lait accompanies
a breakfast of books

Lessons
in the back room
of D.G. Wills
Bookstore
and Coffeehouse.

(It was 1980, a year of rain and fog and anti-
Reaganomics.
Corner of La Jolla
Boulevard and Pearl.

Rough mahogany floor salvaged
from packing crates, walls of politics, theology,
poetry, mildew.
A translucent roof, green plastic, joints inhabited
by tiny spiders.
Foggy mornings heated only
by history.)

Learned there
how cream
swirls into coffee

first curled my tongue
around espresso

melted old novels
into my mouth
like handmade chocolate truffles

That winter it rained long hours
of coffee and notebooks and chocolates and pens
while I huddled, tucked into my shelter–the armchair
across from anthropology,
arm’s reach from travel

or for breakfast
sunny mornings
sipped the patio
walled and enfolded
by honeysuckle
honeybees and yellow spines
of National
Geographic,
writing haiku
to the nectar
and the sparrows

Monday nights
packed swaying
shoulder to shoulder
under the beat
of poetry,
I proclaimed from my own ragged notebooks my sweetest ambitions, my thirsty love,
my pain too bitter for chocolate,
my hunger deeper

than pain
au chocolat.

—————————

Previously published online on Themestream

Copyright © 2012 Elizabeth Evans, All Right Reserved.

Americana, Saturday Morning

Americana, Saturday Morning

All the lawnmowers have stopped

for the Fourth of July parade. The children

wave flags, the soldiers march down the streets,

the veterans go by on canes,

the Marine band plays,

the flag

is carried by a squadron on horseback

past the Mayor’s reviewing stand.

Everyone salutes, cheers, cries. Our children

are alive

a little longer. The grass grows

under their feet, longer and taller,

waves around their knees, goes to seed.

The drums beat. We stand in the heat,

transfixed by the sun, the drums, the flags,

the Fourth of July is hot, so hot. The flies settle

on us. The parade goes on, flags, drums, flags, drums.

The children grow up, walk past us, fall in,

place khaki hats on their uncombed hair,

salute us, are gone.

In the silence behind them, the Mayor walks home.

He stares up at the empty windows, walks into the backyard.

He places one foot on the lawnmower, pulls the starter cord

into a roar. The grass falls before him.

————————-

Previously published in The Salal Review, Longview, WA

This was written between the Gulf wars…at one point the working title was Americana:Between Wars.

Copyright ©2012 Elizabeth Evans, All Rights Reserved

Fall Morning: View from South Kelso

Fall Morning:  View from South Kelso

10:33 a.m., 9/19/01

 

Fall morning. Damp memory of winter runs

up my spine, but the light

 

the light speaks boldly and and goldly of glory

light speaks back

what was spoken

light

let there be

light

mist holds it and folds it unfolds it mist rolls it

through fir trees and hollows

hills dripping

with honey-sweet shine–mist furls and curls it

each leaf each tree purls it and swirls it oh beauty and glory

behold it

this splendid sweet gold honey-dripping shadow

of the maker

brushed this hill

this morning

light spoken at the beginning now pours morning in

through this window

and this glory is only

creation,

bright witness clinging to leaf and limb and dark

fir needles

bright witness speaks boldly and goldly oh light

 

the true light has come and darkness

has not

comprehended

 

Copyright © 2001 Elizabeth Evans

 

************

Notes:

Yes, a coffee break poem. This poem was a somewhat subdued and oblique response to 9/11.  If you knew me, I think it would go without saying, but you don’t know me. “Darkness” is not a reference to Islam, but to evil.  They are not synonyms.

 

A Blues Calling

A Blues Calling

Darkly, deeply, entirely, finely full,

Godly, goodly, holy, honing, howling,

I jam jivin’ jumpin’ kool

lines.

Living. Loving.

Lyrically moving

my new

nuances

openly.

Poetry powerfully pruned

quickens

rare sweet tensions,

tightens turbulence,

unbridles various vigorous vining

wild words:

Xenophilic.

X-generational.

X-ing.

Xylophonic.

Yea.

Yeasty.

Yes.

Zeal.

Zest.

Zing.

Zinnias.

Copyright © 2012 Elizabeth Evans

___________

Note:  This poem first appeared as a challenge/contest entry on Themestream.com. The challenge was to write a short piece of prose or poetry where all the words were in alphabetical order.