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BAMBOO SHOOTS
Works of fiction and poetry by friends of Bamboo Ridge Press.

Bamboo BuckarooBAMBOO BUCKAROO

I am born. . . . If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.



Here's the draft of a poem I'm working on today

Published by BAMBOO BUCKAROO | Saturday, June 08, 2019 7:55 PM


This is NOT a contest entry.


One Way of Looking

I didn’t think I had anything to do today
but I checked my calendar just in case
this aging memory of mine sometimes mistaken

This week I forgot a doctor’s appointment
and I felt tremendous guilt for doing so
wondered how they’d feel about their wasted time

I try to keep my calendar updated, precise
and I’ve learned how to set alarms, but sometimes
I forget to add an appointment, so no alarm is sent

I love the days when I can do whatever I please
not answering to any obligation, to anyone anymore
tapping away at the keyboard all day, if I choose

As I write, I tend to look out over my garden
notice how one plant has grown well, another maybe dying
perhaps how one has come into flower overnight

This morning I looked out and saw a mynah bird
perched on the limb of my neighbor’s monkeypod
and I sensed he was waiting for me to teach him how to speak

I watched him stealing closer, edging sideways toward me
head cocked to one side, eyeing me with one black eye
begrudging me, I knew, my ability to speak while he stood mute

Then suddenly I was drowsy, felt a sleep coming on
and a chill caused me to shiver before him, unblinking
sensing momentarily a brush of seaweed rolling at my feet



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