I’m willing to eat a big yellow bus. In heavy traffic or light, maybe
like godzilla would, Japanese tourists and all. Vitamins you know.
Especially the digital cameras, they’re really good.
I’m willing to eat tulips in winter before they’re even sure of themselves,
just a good idea waiting to burst forth on the plate. A little maple honey
really sets off the colors under the tongue.
I’m willing to eat clear blue sky, bright sun white buffalo with roosters
on the side, clouds squeezing rain, sponge cake whirlwinds with
lightning bolts, perhaps even a little snow. Sugar of course.
I’m willing to eat self-doubt, frenetic historic tales whispered into
rambunctious sleep, the captain’s first mate, a curry dish, steaming
bowls of salted misconceptions. Buttered words for dessert.
I’m willing to eat a country mile, where the river elbows close.
Maybe it never happened the way I thought but a windy feast
is as good as a fox in the chicken coop. Licking lips.
I’m willing to eat the moon. Would you like a slice?
Can you guess the poem prompt? Write a poem that begins with the line,
“I’m willing to eat…”.
Too ripe a pairing, photo to poem, to resist reposting here. No children on that bus these days, just vegetables from a local grower to the Saturday Farmers Market in town. Go say hello if you’re in this part of the Edmonds Washington world. Say you saw them here.
Smoke settles low in wrinkled valleys
reluctant to depart the sweet sage cradle
where first blossom newly arose.
One prayer of oak and brush says,
take me into blue sky.
Today the creeks folded, and all dreaming
said simply, I have no name in this dawn.
Said, I have found this way and go.
From where the men stood mid-road,
their cars in hesitant rest on the narrow
shoulders of the country road, back
from there, across a small angled bridge,
there, I too became still – and listened.
It was a perfect silence.
It could easily be mistaken for someplace else,
yet beyond one ridge, maybe another,
something wonderous was thumping,
thumping, wanting to come close.
I always liked this poem from the day it was writ. Completely real. I was there on those smalltown back country roads, roads that only a local would know.
Common enough, wanting to see a fire, but no, this was our fire in our home countryside. We could rightly only get just so close because the fire teams wanted clear roads to do their work. ◉ Many many years later I met a wood-turner who had fashioned this actual bowl from the partially charred remains of a tree in that very fire. Now the path has become circular.