Category: Poetry

I Am the Headsman

I am the headsman.

I collect

the blank stares of the

stupid,

the ineptitude of the

clueless,

the relentless levity of the

perpetual clown.

I am the headsman.

I collect

the pride of the

arrogant,

the boasts of the

insecure,

the innocence of the

naive.

I am the headsman,

I collect

the schemes of

my enemies,

the dreams of

my friends,

the fantasies of

my lovers.

And when I can

no longer

lift the gift of death

I bear,

I will set the bloody basket afire,

and climb on top

to burn

away,

the final dissolution

of

disillusions…

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

Victory Flags (Daily Post repost)

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Enough Is Enough.”

You should know:

Victory Flags are not always grand, unfurling banners embroidered with gold sigils of lions rampant, soaring eagles, flame-spewing dragons, diving falcons, and weapons of war, planted at the heads of armies, looking down into valleys of defeated foes.

Sometimes…

they’re just the right words of comfort in a time of despair,
or dirty, blood-soaked rags stanching bleeding wounds,
or taking a deep, ragged breath before making the next shaky effort…

sometimes it’s looking up the mountain at the descending hordes gathered against you

and getting back up to stand, and exhale a whispered, defiant declaration
into the howling winds and roiling clouds of your most ferocious storm,

“I’m still here.”

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

Temple of the Wind

Sunlight on stone,

fading,

a royal carpet of vermillion,

lighting the wind’s way

into the

empty chamber

to swirl the

thick dust.

We no longer pray here,

but the

spirits

still come.

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

The Familiar

Are you afraid of the

dark

or what

waits

within it?

What is

the thing

with

no eyes

that

sees you

walking blindly?

oh, it hears

your pounding heart,

and it listens,

disturbed by the

noise

of your

silent scream.

The noise

must

stop.

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

Sorry I Scribbled

I’m sorry I scribbled.

I mean, I know how

you

like

everything

inside the / line\s

I’m sorry I scribbled over

your

picture of what

we

should look like.

I’m sorry if I used the

wrong color.

I’m sorry that I don’t

conform

to

Crayola’s decrees…

But what the hell.

I’m innovative.

Pass me the green one…

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

Throne of Armageddon

Empty scabbards

and

broken swords

carelessly tossed

before the

empty throne

Dead torches hang on dampened walls

lighting

Death’s way in perfect

darkness

Distant thunder,

softly rumbling, makes

gentle inquiries,

whispering names of

souls long

vanquished.

All is

ended.

All is

lost.

Behold the throne

of

Armageddon

who no longer

reigns

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

Summer Fire

She rises

from the

broken, smoking ruins

of

my dreams.

With

knife in hand

and

lovely eyes

she cuts away

my screams.

And every fantasy I’ve had

And all my secret schemes

Are ripped from me

and cast beside

the

ragged, busted seams.

Little Queen

Little Queen, Little Queen

What can I give?

“Give me your heart,

that I might live.”

Little Queen, Little Queen

What shall I say?

“Tell me you love me,

every day.”

Little Queen, Little Queen

how shall I prove?

“If I come to sit by you,

don’t you move.”

Little Queen, Little Queen

Here is my heart

Long may I love you

Until I depart

“I love you too, daddy.

Now that it’s plain,

Won’t you come play with me

Out in the rain?”

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

By a Seaport Village

In a cluster of tourist trap

hut-stores

by the Bay

on small,

semi-labyrinthine

streets,

the store

with

the chimes

caught my

fancy.

Weatherbeaten metals

Delicate shells

Wood and stones

Colors and animals

Glass, plain and stained

harmonies blending

in the

evening breeze

Calling

the stars,

Calling

the sea,

to join the

endless

song

of the

voyaging

wind…

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

Throne Room

I died in this chair.

Returning

only to see the

growing shadows

of dusk

once more,

the rusted mailbox

filled

with letters

from my

child,

a portrait

done over

in

webs…

I leave

no footprints,

no tears

to stir

my ashes

mingled

with

dust

on the

creaking floor.

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.