Poetry by K. Stuart-Anderson

Issue 1.3

The Yellow Banana

So much depends

upon

a yellow banana

lying

on its side

smashed

broken and split

open

baked black from the warm afternoon

sun.

Mamma Dada

Gertrude was a thick Woman

and the small chair,

grum

bled

under

neath

her.

My Left Leg

Last Spring,

I accidently buried my leg.

It was the left one lost

Above the ankle and a little below the knee.

It’s deep in the garden

Between the lobelias and the pink peonies.

My wife asserts that I should have been more careful

With the rusty spade,

But I really don’t mind,

For it was an often stubborn leg.

In the mornings it refused to get out of bed,

feigning lameness,

And in various idle sitting positions

It disappeared altogether

Without even a “by your leave.”

My wife asks if I miss the leg, and I quietly reply “no.”

But sometimes I do.

Yes, it was a bit of a bother,

A bit shorter than the right,

And had a tendency to dance to its own tune,

But often in the long evenings outside

I sit and muse about digging it up,

And moving it somewhere nicer,

Over by the wild sweet peas

Where it can feel

the cool evening breeze.

ISSUE 1.2

Alphabet Soup

A hippo
Waded through the little girl’s soup,
Followed by two giraffes
And a gazelle.

Between The Lines

We sat trying not to touch hands.
But a moment did occur
when I felt her soft fingers dance across
in a rush of conversation
about old books and poems.

I gave her a book of poetry
that was pressed in 1858.
She read to me
a poem about a woman
trying to dig up her life
while burying her husband.

Between sips of ginger tea
she read more words--
beautiful touching words.
And every so often,

between the lines,
her fingers gently graced mine.

Cat, Woman, and Man

They sat closely to each other
underneath the shade
of long yellows
and a few lingering greens.

The man arched his back,
stretched and yawned,
finally resting against the old willow.
The woman placed her head upon his chest,
listening.

The evening breeze carried his whispers to her
and she in return lovingly scratched his belly.
And in the restless distance
sat her fat cat,
glaring,
and waiting.

Fade to Black

He tried to remember
the lines in her face.
Her closed eyes
spoke to him of silent moments
when they sat close,
slowly sinking
into the contours and crevices of upholstered hills.

Her thin hands wearily stretched
ready to pull him in,
saving him from the cold.

But the smile wasn’t hers.
Her lips did not move with gentleness,
the colour too bright.
His hands searched his pockets,
the small bit of linen
clung to his shaking fingers as he began to wipe.

She was in his bones.

Goodbye Kisses

On her highest heels she stood
kissing him deeply with a lie,
but the night slipped underneath her
when she tried to say goodbye.

Their bed swallowed the sleepless air
and under the cover of ragged clouds,
coldness wrapped around her.
Her mouth empty and dry,
she kissed him again,
biting his lower lip.
She moved closer to him,
her leg hugging his warm thigh,
her feet tangled and trapped
in wet sheets.

In the morning,
her head went swimming.

ISSUE 1.1

The Red Oaks of Clarion Hill

She was buried next to her husband
above the white church on Clarion hill.
A line of old red oaks
quietly points the
way.

Like her husband
her grey face looks upward
and her lip’s last breath
speaks kindly of her departed
soul.

Several had braved
the morning cold and broken rain
to pay respect,
to pray and place
lilies on her grave.

Not wanting to disturb
the mourners above,
my feet hurriedly walked past
stepping on every even
crack.

And in between my gait
my eyes looked down
upon the fallen leaves
resting along
the narrow path.

Giant red leaves
glistening in the sun,
their weathered hands spread wide,
their faces pressed hard by dew,
staining the cut grey stones
and the bottom of my
shoes.

Late Summer

August heat is sticky. 
Your back dribbles down
into your shorts,
men suffer in thin ties and women
bask in the shade of pretty wide
brim hats.

There are still places where they sit
on long porches. 
Old men rock way back
and their wives drink juniper,
complaining about the insufferable evening heat.
Children play tag on crabgrass
and the dog trips between
their feet.

One night I caught two lightning bugs.
Stayed up late watching them bang
against the glass jar.
Momma said a man was killed
by a bolt of lightning during the storm.
I wonder if someone counted
the seconds
before the thunder
cracked.

Being Ernest

Fall in Paris,
the trees along Rue du Lemoine
desperately hold on
to their ruby leaves,
resisting winter’s embrace.

Long morning walks
along the river Seine,
young men blowing smoke
in corner cafés,
old men fishing
bent on cobbled banks.

Afternoons spent
stretched with wine,
bread and pungent cheese,
a little lost in Luco,
children playing Le cat and Le mouse
while women sleep
under the cloudless umbrella shade.

Twilight standing still
along the painted halls of the Louvre,
in the middle of hushed lilies,
surrounded by yellow and blue dementia
high in starry swirls,
quiet under native palms
and behind brown nudes,
gently resting in lowly ochre fields.

Very late,
in a clean
and well lighted place,
a pretty coquette with short
crow black hair
patiently sits alone.

Earnestly I watch
her delicate hands
press
the wrinkles from her dress,
but my eyes quickly
dart
down
to her shapely leg
and the small stocking split,
slowly revealing
her fair and lovely
naked
bony knee.

Iberia Under the Sun

I.  The Death of the   Bullfighter

Tell me father
before I die
tell me and I will believe.
I will drink the blood
kiss the Holy Cross and ask Mary,
Holy Mother of God,
to pray for me.
Tell me father
so I can sleep,
then the women can weep and carry
my broken bones
down to the sea
and wash my flesh
against the smooth white stones.

II. The Sweet Maid

The night breeze
sweet
fresh
cuts deep.
The eyes are wide-awake
from their long dream.
The nose is lost—
blessed in the red dirt,
but my bruised cheek
rests on the maid’s shoulder.
Her long black hair hides
my pain
and in the pocket
of her white apron,
she hides the blood
and my ear.

III. The Sea

In the sea
we loved our feet.

The waves tugged 
at our eyes,

but our heels dug deep
into the wet sand.

Broken white shells and black
muscles lined the shore,

the seagull and the crab
picked out their flesh

and we said a prayer
for the dead mariners,

who had left the dry land,
left their wives and children
to mourn in their sleep

while the priests
pulled hard on the ropes
calling the faithful
to bury their heavy hearts.

The sand churned in the surf
and we stretched out on the rocks
naked.

The sun peeled away
our pink skin,

and slowly we forgot
the dead and the living
and all of our sins.

The Long Red Porch
           
A sleepless photograph hid
under mounds of mismatched socks,
whispers of a faded man
sitting on his porch.

The porch was painted bright red
and was more than twice as long
as was wide.
An old oak door leaned on a corner,
while two steps
comfortably rested away
on far end.
Its red mate was much smaller,
quietly keeping to herself                                                                     
on the dwelling’s yellow backside.

During the late juniper breeze
he would sit and watch
as passersby would wave,
and he would in return
politely give a nod.                                                                                     

When the day
was almost done,
the neighbor's cat
would bravely rush past,
but before he could leave
his feet,
the feline was safely gone.

In time
the weather would beat
peeling away the paint,
and in the morning
he would be on his knees,
painting his long
red porch.