Five Poems
by Craig Cotter
I spun
vinyl 45s,
blue
plastic
Sears stereo
*
First 3
Uncle Albert,
Maggie Mae,
American Pie.
*
Wore grooves in them.
*
Thank you
Don McClean,
Rod Stewart
and
Paul McCartney
for turning me on
to lyrics
that turned me on
to poetry.
Bat
Each dusk thousands of bats
fly from caves in the San Gabriel Mountains
to eat insects.
*
One morning there was a bat next to a still lit porch lamp
beside the Barkell’s front door.
Mr. Barkell went to the garage,
returned with a broom and shovel.
With the broom he gently nudged the bat,
hoping it would fly away.
It crawled a few inches on the red bricks,
then again hung motionless.
Mr. Barkell knocked the bat to the concrete front porch with the broom.
It began flailing and he ended it with the shovel.
*
Days before
a garter snake by the four trees.
My dad took out our nearly identical shovel
and split the snake in half.
It did not writhe but died instantly.
He scooped each half with the shovel
and threw them in the vacant lot.
*
My dad and I were hunting pheasants
with our German short-haired pointer Jagger.
Walking Michigan fields
we saw in front of us a 5-foot blue racer
blown in half with a shotgun.
There was the blue front of the snake,
a large hole in the sand with blood,
then the other half.
A hundred feet on
a squirrel blown to pieces.
Another hundred feet
a chipmunk.
I got my first gun on my 12th birthday,
a broken-barrel, single-shot, 20-gauge shotgun.
*
Jagger flushed a pheasant.
It was my turn to shoot
but it flew too fast,
couldn’t tell if it was male or female.
After it was out-of-range
I registered the color.
My father was mildly disappointed
with my slow hunting reflexes
that never improved.
*
We went into a stand of pine trees
to wait for crows.
The stand a half acre
planted by a farmer as a snow break.
Shady and cool inside,
the ground covered with pine needles.
Looking straight up,
blue sky—
but, after 30 minutes,
no crows.
*
My dad said
dairy farmers in Little Falls
would pay him and his friends
5 cents a crow,
that shotgun shells cost 2 cents,
so you could make some good money
as sometimes with birdshot
you could bring down 3 crows with one shell,
netting a 13-cent profit.
Get Out of that Kitchen & Shake those Pots & Pans
Today is going to be the best day in my life.
Like other days.
Unique.
I might have a milkshake.
A God-Centered Poem for Bernie White
I don’t understand Grace, the Trinity,
Krishna or why George Harrison
lived in a 118-room mansion.
*
My last confession was in 1980 in East Lansing, Michigan.
When I entered, the arch-bishop offered me the booth
or to sit in his office, which I chose. We sat in chairs
facing each other five feet apart.
After sharing my quite innocent, 19-year-old sins, he began
asking questions.
“Are you a student at the university?”
“Yes.”
“Do you cheat on tests.”
“No.”
“Are you dating?”
“Yes.”
“Are you having sex?”
“Yes.”
“Sex outside of marriage is a sin, you should ask God for forgiveness.”
“No, I’m in love with her, I don’t think it’s a sin.”
He phrased it in a couple different ways and I did not accept his view.
“Then I will ask forgiveness for you.”
I walked out.
*
Down in an earthquake,
wood, metal and glass splinters pierce me in the rain—
*
Once, 30 years ago,
a DC-10 I was riding in
hit a bang in the sky,
dropped out-of-control—
I thought, “Party’s over.”
The pilot, after regaining control:
“Nothing to worry about, we crossed the wake of a 747.”
Dear Bill,
Peonies droop and fall apart.
No one stole them.
We never had any
they were the Hames' next door.
When you're 9
boundaries aren't clear—
*
My grandmother was insecticide in 1921
walking with a glass jar of kerosene
dropping potato bugs in one by one.
*
I can ask Bill Hames if it was his mother
who planted the peonies.
She has passed away.
Her name was Clara.
It didn't seem right
the stalks weren't strong enough
to hold-up the heads.
*
The Japanese
have developed an interest
in hepatica.
Photo by Roger Smith
BIO: Craig Cotter is the author of four collections of poetry, including the aroma of toast (Black Tie Press, 1989), THERE’S SOMETHING SERIOUSLY WRONG WITH ME (Black Tie Press, 1990), CHOPSTIX NUMBERS (Ahsahta Press, Boise State University, 2000), and After Lunch with Frank O’Hara (Chelsea Station Editions, 2014), which was a finalist for The National Poetry Prize. He was a finalist for the LAMBDA Literary Arts Award in New Gay Fiction, the Tampa Review Prize, the Word Works Prize, the Lost Horse Press Poetry Prize, the 42 Miles Press Award, the Southeast Missouri State University Press’ Cowles Poetry Prize, and the Fjords Review Poetry Prize. His poems have appeared in hundreds of journals around the world. He lives and teaches in Pasadena, California. For more information, visit www.craigcotter.com