Cona Adams Poet Narrative

Learning To Spit

What can you do with all those seeds,
slick, black missiles that blaze
a path down your throat,
when what you want is to taste
the sweetness that surrounds them?

You collect them, as if they're treasure,
and curious grandchildren follow,
eager to play, sure of victory.
I spat those flat torpedoes beyond
the range of their imagination, and they,

in slack-jawed wonder at my dubious talent,
took turns spitting and measuring,
each determined to beat my record.
I dispensed seeds as lips pursed, tongues 
pushed, seeds flew and the air rang 

with spitting sounds. Grandpa shook
his head, laughing at our nonsense.
The game continued, dishes stacked 
unwashed, pride built, skills increased 
and seeds diminished.

But watermelon seeds' primary purpose
is not to be denied. Lush vines sprang up
in flowerbeds, dwarfed petunias and snapdragons 
and produced huge, sweet melons, 
replete with slick, black pips.

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John Lawless October 2, 2014 at 9:34 AM THIS IS GREAT!!!! Loved it. I am often referred to as the "inappropriate Grandfather" for my penchant for teaching the children and grandchildren all the dubious skills. Cona Adams October 2, 2014 at 12:47 PM Thanks so much. Metaphorically, I reach to shake your hand. They may not always admire us, but they WILL remember us! And what good is life if we have no fun.