On Matters of Themes (Part 2)

ChOiCeS  cHoIcEs Choices

Earlier, somewhere in the dusty digital archives of this blog, I posted against the initial pressure to ‘choose a theme.’ It seemed I was being bombarded while looking through the myriad fonts and graphics available to me, and so I planted my flag of non-conformity and said “I will not.”

Which kinda changed to “Not yet, anyway.”

So now, having been here awhile, and having roamed around from blog to blog to blog, I have to say that some of them are quite eye-catching. That being written, while I stand by my original premise that content ultimately drives whether we like, visit or follow, (or unfollow and unlike *hisss, booo, shame on you*),

I think for this year I will choose a theme, and see how it goes….

In the Simple Things

It’s in the simple things:

intimate, small gestures that say you care

a palpable connection felt when eyes meet

knowing the thoughts, finishing the sentences

a connection of hands, the intertwine of fingers

the ebb and flow of bodies

giving and receiving

a binding of hearts and souls

a freeing of spirits

and we understand

the ancient lore of oneness

singing in rounds of alternate harmonies

walking together

down the pleasant path

to

Home.

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

The Sweet, Wise Cosmic Dream (80’s poetry)

If honey ran in mountain streams

the sugar sparkling in moonbeams

and I could hear the screech-owl’s screams

would I then have the sweetest dreams…

Of flying into starlight

with very keen eyesight

having a smooth flight

upon the winds of night?

Would I return with morning sun

the majic of my wings undone

or shattered by the hunter’s gun

(perhaps a god was having fun)?

To then become a man again

staring at the horizon

sheltered in an empty den

the earth’s poor earth-bound citizen?

Would I keep flying into space

to some far, timeless secret place

not to rejoin the human race

as cosmic winds caress my face?

I would prefer the last

and not think upon the past

That time when I was one of you

Unless you wish to travel too….

I thought you would.

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

June 25th, 1983

The Sweet, Wise Cosmic Dream / Assorted Absurdities (a poetry collection)

All rights reserved

Attic (my 80’s poetry)

Stranj

to see an attic

that keeps

no memories

Dust and heat

spirit

thru the

closed window

It is here I take

leave of the world

for awhile

to think

and sleep

Cobwebs float

lazily,

majic carpets

in

slow motion

As I look around it now,

perhaps the

memories

are yet to be made

that will fill this

serene emptiness

Perhaps

I

shall be a

vision

it has known, a

memory

it shall keep

before it is

cluttered

with

the future

of

the past

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

June 23rd, 1983

Attic / Assorted Absurdities (a poetry collection)

All rights reserved

In the Temple of Her Heart (Chapter 2)

Heat suffused his face at her words, her boldness. She laughed, playful, delighted at his discomfort, and charmed by it too, and left him with the tingling warmth of her hand under his chin, as if he were the dog that rescued her, and she’d scratched his fleas there in gratitude.

And there it was, the opportunity of a lifetime, all because of a rabid dog.

In and of herself, Nahaia was pleasing to the eye, and Arlun counted himself fortunate; marriages were often arranged, and he’d seen some of the mates of his friends, both male and female, and his heart went out to them.

He knew, at least in theory, that in matters of the heart such things were ultimately superficial, since some of those marriages flourished in spite of the physical shortcomings; it wasn’t often, but it did happen. Shaking his head again as he packed, he put it from his mind.

It was not an issue for him.

Strange land, strange customs, strange people, foods, gods, and so forth were going to occupy his days so much that he didn’t need to worry about anything else.

The sun climbed, wearing down the day hour by hour, until finally, shortly after noon, he was ready to depart.

After tearful goodbyes and long hugs that showed fear and reluctance of accepting their new positions, they realized that in their eagerness to please, they’d opened themselves up to public examination, and courtly interference; there was nothing to be done for it now.

Arlun set out on a good, sturdy horse his father procured from the local horse trader; the man’s eyes positively glittered with greed at the thought of having a palace connection, and he was all too happy to accept a small deposit for a lucrative profit when the horse arrived safely; Arlun’s father’s word had proven consistently good throughout the years, and he was respected and trusted as a man of integrity, even among those who snickered at his poverty behind his back.

The animal was fine and even-tempered, and Arlun found himself relaxing as the road unfolded in its own lazy, meandering way toward the land of his bride-to-be. The afternoon sun was not overbearing, and the road was empty of everything except the creatures of habit that needed to cross it.

Seeing no real need to rush, his hands easy on the reins, he let the horse set it’s pace, and allowed his mind to wander…

She was resplendent in a gown of dark blue trimmed with gold, bedecked with a necklace, rings, ankle bracelet, and armbands set with sapphires and lapis lazuli, her raven hair unbound, but styled to frame her delicate face, and draped just so over her slim shoulders, her deep brown eyes rimmed with kohl and shadow, and when she smiled at him, his heart was bewitched beyond recall.

He heard no music, tasted no food, saw no other rival for her in his eyes, and blinded his heart to the possibility. 

Her father saw the stars in his daughter’s eyes, and the smitten smirk on the young man’s lips, and approved, for the youth, as far as he was concerned, had already proven his valor. His queen spoke to Arlun’s mother of plans, and he spoke to Arlun’s father of coin, and before the night was over, an agreement was reached.

  Arlun knew none of it, and would not have cared if told.

  As they danced, he breathed in the honeysuckle fragrance on Nahaia’s cinnamon skin, longed to taste the berry stained gloss of her lips, wet and gleaming in the festive light; he longed to hold the slender, graceful sway of her body and make it sway in other ways, and could tell by her shy smile that these were mysteries she would keep for him alone until he pledged for her.

  “Ah, Nahaia, my princess, my bride, my wife…” he rolled the words from his tongue, thoughts in the distance, and at first did not hear the rider fast approaching behind him.

When he did, it was too late.

Morning Vespers

I wipe the webs of sleep away with a washcloth and water

The coffee can yawns as I pop the lid

The scoop hisses and burrows under the ground

coffee beans

and whispers in sibilant protest as I dig it out

The brown beaten seeds spread their grains across the brown filter

and the river of tap water runs through the percolator pipes

The seeds are leeched of their chemicals, reluctantly released

This is the second death

And through the darkened carafe glass is my temporary salvation

And in the wraiths of steam that rise from the cup

in the light of the rising sun

are the

Morning Vespers

My answered prayers

I live to see the caffeinated

New Day

again