The sun sets early
in wintertime anxious to
flee from the cold night
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
The sun sets early
in wintertime anxious to
flee from the cold night
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
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….
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.
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
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
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.
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