Monday, February 14, 2011

Small Sparks, White Woods

For anyone still wondering the origin of macaroni waffles, more information (in a way) is in the following poem. I wrote it in college in two forms; this is a third re-write, but relies heavily on the first version. If some of the sexual imagery offends you, I trust you'll take it in the spirit it was meant. It was college. The title came rather fortuitously. I was shelving books at the library, and happened to have in my hand four books: one each by Bertrice Small, Nicholas Sparks, Stephen White and Stuart Woods. I thought it an excellent title, and found imagery to match it.
As before, may it be known that this poem is my intellectual property and should not be reproduced or redistributed in whole or in part without my express wishes. You may however link to this site, should you want to share it.

Like most of my work at the time, this was written for Kate Horrigan. If you should stumble upon this, Katie, I hope it brings you happiness.

Small Sparks, White Woods
for my muse

She stepped in right behind me,
Into the woods, my little red
-haired soulmate, and there we stood
In the Forest of Touching Souls.

These were my woods, where words were a whispered
Secret shared in paperbark.
"Welcome to my birch society," I told her, and she smiled and nodded.

I led her to where the trees open
To nature's hidden pleasure...
We saw it — the Giving Tree, now but a Stump
And Silverstein doesn't come around anymore
(that hypocrite).

Slowly we danced in a walk sort of way
To rest on the beautifully beheaded tree.
As we sat on that Stump
The wind blew in hard around it
In nature's cunnilingus
And we heard the Stump moan, so we shifted our weight
And she sighed again for us in joyful silence.

I sat with red-haired Aikika there.
Aikika I called her, for it suited the young Hor-
rigan, and I tapped her shoulder
Like a maple for her syrup.

The wind blew in hard around her.
She took in the wonder I already knew
While we stroked our noses methodically
And frivolously upon the Tree.
Time blew on,
And we spoke of diverse and fantastic things;
Of Billy Joe's hair, of cookies and sex,
Of Chaplin, and macaroni waffles,
Always with a friendly smile that knew more
Than it told or understood.

Entwined, we sat in my woods
And wasted precious time
As closeness demands.
We had to hold on to these simpler times
Before the wind blew one of us

1 comment:

  1. Much better than my work in a similiar place different time or is it the same time different place.