Or why I love to write poems about ridiculous things.

Have you ever heard of the World Champion of Watermelon Seed Spitting? Chances are you haven’t and let’s face it- that’s a damn shame. Poetry can sometimes have this stigma attached to it, that in some way it has to be high-brow or classy and that poems have to be about love or nature. This is clearly not that kind of poetry.

Luling

I come from a long line of seed spitters,
Whiskey drinkers, and porch sitters.
We practice at home, sunflower seeds in hand.
I place one to my lips and the sodium
Makes my gums flinch and teeth clinch
To crunch down on the salty exterior.
My tongue mines for gold among
The shredded shell bits and
I lean back, arc, and spit.
Piles of empty hulls, each one
A little further than the last.
Wash it down with a glass of sweet tea.

I come from a long line of seed spitters,
Whiskey drinkers, and porch sitters.
We frequent festivals with
Funnel cakes and bingo.
Places where wooden picnic tables
Set the mood for Bar-B-Q
Where napkins are optional
But turkey legs are mandatory.
Where you can find a
Showcase of antique wagons,
Once meant to take you to the West
But they reached their destination long ago.

I come from a long line of seed spitters,
Whiskey drinkers, and porch sitters.
We pile into pick-up trucks,
Pillows and blankets in the back seat
Arguments over which route to take
Cash in the background
I dream while Dad drives
The 265 miles from our door
Down Texas highways
To the watermelon water tower.
Painted an appetizing shade of red with
Seeds the size of a full-grown man’s stretched hand.

I come from a long line of seed spitters,
Whiskey drinkers, and porch sitters.
We line up for the chance to win
The contest to prove who’s best.
I pick out my two seeds,
Each one perfectly rounded and
Slightly larger than normal.
Tongue rolled tightly, a deep breath
I place the seed in it’s cradle,
Lean back and arc in flawless form.
My black spec soars through clouds and
Back down to the hard hill country ground.