Frank Babcock

Give and Take

Fishing spins a mystery under glass
where lips approach a rising lure. A flash
and tug then things go still…and wait,
a chance it might return again.
Hooks and barbs all dressed with plumes
and bait can wait all day. The water sleeps
and then explodes with awesome force.
The same with love, its ebb and flow –
the casting out and reeling in,
reflections hint upon the shine,
the waiting on the rocks for lips
to strike like drops of opportunity,
that moment of uncertainty
until the splash of energy.
Two hearts beat fast, the angle set.
The caudal dance of give and take begins.

Twist and Kiss

Picking an apple when ripe
is like a kiss. A little twist and it lets go,
I hear the whisper in my ear, so sweet,
detect a drop of moisture on the skin
and feel the dusty coat of wax about to shine.
I rub it on my sweater. It was time.
Some apples hang there nice and straight,
and others sit in tangled bunches.
Some fill out evenly as a globe,
others puff their chests like toads,
making wonderful earwig homes.
When I climb the ladder to pick my pomes
I reach the sky and touch the stars.
The branches crowd the higher I go
‘til I think they might just push me off my perch.
It’s twist and kiss and let them roll
so slowly off my fingers
into the canvas bag that rides my hip.
A rogue apple freed begins an avalanche
and fruit and leaves come tumbling down.
The apple glitter sneaks inside my shirt
and starts me itching, scratching there.
The thuds make bruises and cuts, enough
I must decide to keep or let them rot.
When resting in their wooden crates
I hear them kiss or do they twist?
A lovely sound, so full of promise,
these apples that I picked.
From tree to table, sauce or pie –
the kiss returns a million times.

Frank Babcock lives in Corvallis, Oregon and is a retired Albany middle school teacher and owner of a bamboo nursery. He writes poetry to share the strange thoughts that rattle around in his head and to get them off his mind. He started with an interest in the beatnik poets, Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg. He has a long way to go and much to write before he sleeps. Poems published in the local Advocate, Willawaw Journal, and Panoplyzine.