July 2016
E. Martin Pedersen
martinpedersen1255@gmail.com
I left my hometown of San Francisco, California, in 1978 for a long hitch-hiking trip around the Mediterranean, ending up in Messina, Sicily, where I still live. I teach English at the local university. My poetry has appeared in Frigg, Strong Verse, Ink Sweat & Tears and others. To relax, i play the banjo, follow baseball, take summer walks on the PCT and blog at www.emartinpedersen.com.

Gram


Took me into her walk-in closet
When I was only a boy
And showed me her trophy
A funny bra with two lumps
She explained that she’d had an operation long ago
Cancer, which is bad
And had her breasts removed
She’d been a nurse
So she knew the right words
I only sort of knew what she meant
It was creepy to imagine
No female knockers
Only scars and a fake bra
But then we went into the kitchen
Cloved ham and yams and berry pie
And she made bread with homemade jam
The best I ever had in my life
One happy day at Gram’s.





Heirlooms


Everybody’s throwing heirlooms off the wagons
Too much weight for the ox
You could sink on a river crossing
Buy new trinkets at the gift shops
Souvenirs from the National Parks concessionaires
And Chinese goods filling colorful discount stores
I still have a couple cute knickknacks
They’re from Grandmother’s home in Concord
Paperweights, letter openers, the dog ashtray with his big open mouth
I asked the kids who wants this old stuff when I’m dead
They yelled, ‘Not us!’





Arms across Breath


In a chair of whispers
by a house made of living wood
a mile above the crystal beach
I can't smell the salt
but the waterfalls cough and spit
birds jaw
butterflies snap their wings
a pine tree stretches
with a moan and a crackle
the grass eyes the flowers with envy 
as the sun arrives expectedly

All the sleeping grandchildren on earth and underground
breathe across easy deserts and mountains
gently blessing my forearms.





Seated after Lunch


The shifting shadows of tree branches
on the ground
waltz (one two three, one two three)
with patches of brilliant March sun
while this wind chills
behind my right ear
I bet that woman has soft skin …
time for me to get
up from this park bench again.





Good Friend on a Beach


Was I not a good enough friend?
I just saw you the other day
and we laughed and drank
If I could have helped you
I had the keys to your house here on Maui
but you’d disappeared
After a week the police found you
on a secluded beach
a bullet in your brain
a note from the hospital
folded in your breast pocket
All bad news
You never were the patient sort

I’m so sorry
You had to dot your ‘i’s
alone
And thank you
for being
Good friend.
©2016 E. Martin Pedersen