"C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Fingers once stained with soil and weed sap now bear traces of ink. In the past five years over two hundred of his poems have been published in dozens of print and online journals, including 14 by 14, Innisfree, Lucid Rhythms, The Raintown Review, Harp-Strings, Nassau Review, Hidden Oak and Shit Creek Review. "
Time Slips Honey
One rose sniff down a dreary lane, embalmed
in butter. Wonder if you'll feel the same
when heavy-laden treasure ships becalmed
tomorrow founder off the proper name
of your employer. Sand is not a type
of footing only found on paper; it's
geography ground fine, a lemon ripe
for picking from the many little bits
of history we remember: citrus dreams
encumbered with an extra load of twine
and paper clips. The world is as it seems,
and all the errors it contains are mine.
The two of us should congregate more often,
before the natal cradle comes a coffin.
I Stand Around
And Time, imperious magistrate
of all that is,
Oppresses subjects he seems to hate --
Morphing wordage he's been known to phuk
with is fodder
For logophagic legions that truck
To the entrance of a slaughterhouse
where the charnel
Conventions of blood-letting will douse
the proud carnal
Conflagrations everyone's worried
about. And I
Look back to the past I thought buried
beneath the sky
And find it wanting, but not without
veins of merit
That my own offspring someday, no doubt,
There stood Ruth, aloof.
I struggled to uncover her untruth,
but could discover none.
She didn't seem to mind when I approached her,
and needed little coaching when I touched
her beating heart and made her part
of every dream I'd ever played
inside the chamber of my head.
The lead had turned to gold,
to amber, raven, ruby, pink
and other colors (had I paused to think)
no spectral palette's broad enough to hold.
toeknuckles touching tooth
roof of southward searching
mouth unbuckled froth
she roared a blinding
un-uncled hard landing
finding, finding, finding...
I mumbled out a bit of witless babble,
and then she told me that she had to travel,
today -- her plane was leaving in an hour.
And that was that: So long, I'm scratchin' gravel.
It bothered me, the way she hurried off,
but nothing like the days and weeks and months
until I learned to laugh again, to scoff
at my unraveling, to swallow lunch.
The Christmas after, I was hoping for
a miracle -- another rising star
to dawn into my life, a future wife
perhaps -- before my faith had lapsed too far.
Was ever there a god who walked this earth?
I heard some knocking, stuffed my empty stockings
and shuffled through the hall and to the door.
I opened it and nearly hit the roof!
There stood Ruth, the living proof.