a gourd
shaped like a pear
shaped like a
tap tap tap
it is a hollow you can shake
and hear the seeds
rattle around inside
it is a gourd
you need to scrub it
down to mould stains
for a pattern
on shiny skin
you can shake
and hear the rattle
of seeds inside
the gourd
under your hands
you are sawing with a blade
taking a slice away
old flesh is mummified
like cotton or mâché
look
the funny shapes
of all the seeds inside
it’s not a gourd
it’s turned into a hollow
you’ve cleaned it out
and chopped the end off
it is a delicate shell
that weighs no more
than air
under your arm
the seeds sit in a jar
over on the table
it was a gourd
but you have stretched
the deer skin
stuck it down
and stapled
with a braided band
running around the outside
listen
tom tom tom
it has a rhythm
has a beat
it drums a sound
to fill the room
a not quite concentric
gourd sound
in b flat
© Frank Prem, 2007
Frank Prem Poetry 
Neat poem, Frank! 🙂
Once, as a beekeeper, i removed a gourd full of little wasps from some folk’s backyard. They were so tiny that they got through my protective bee apparel; they stung the daylights out of me!
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Ouch. That sounds nasty Tom. We’re being inundated in recent years by yellow-jacket wasps. None so far this Spring, but I suspect they’ll be up and about soon.
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