Our windows
look into each other
like our
eyes
do
whenever you stand
in yours
and I
in mine.
Let’s
jump together,
meet in the middle,
and
f
a
l
l
in love…
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Category: Poetry
Coming of Age
Of which age do I come?
On which day?
I don’t understand this,
for it seems to me that
men
are always
coming of age.
There are only
new times
new similarities
and
old changes
mixing with variation.
A
bubble
of maybes,
this life
I lead.
Coming of age
is holding aloft your
first born son
and
burying your father,
doing both with a hearty laugh
and tears of joy.
Men,
it seems to me,
are always
coming of age.
Every day he does not
understand,
he comes of age
anew.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Broken Peaces
Peace of mind
Peace of heart
Peace of spirit
Peace of soul
Peace of stable relationships
Peace of His promises
Peace of the Blood covering
Peace of the New Covenant
Peace in the home
Peace of enough
Peace of community
Peace with God
Peace with Man
Peace that passes all understanding
Broken
by
me
And in His
mercy
He will put the
broken peaces
back,
and
restore me.
Amen
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Crystalline
The madness stirs.
I feel it in the pit of my belly, I see it by the light of my mind
its eyes are open, fully focused on its target.
Like a snake on a branch, it incrementally inches, painstakingly progresses
My mind strikes out in fear, but it is not vanquished
My soul screams, but its approach is relentless
My heart quails in terror, but its eyes are merciless
Unwavering,
it wraps me in its writhing,
cold coils
and
bites
the heart
And for the first and last time
I lose myself
to
Love
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
One Day at the Zoo (true story)
I looked at Gazelle
Gazelle looked at me
We started to laugh
Ha Ha! Hee Hee!
Isn’t it wonderf’ly
pretty absurd
that we were both
shit upon
by the same bird?
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
I Look Forward to Spring
I look forward
to spring.
I look backwards
to run.
I close my eyes
when walking
and try to guess
what I bump into.
I look sideways
standing,
waiting for
the bus.
I look up at the stars
in the winter sky,
and I look forward
to
spring.
He Had No Favorites
He had no favorites.
He loved them all.
He would hold them in bunches and bundles
until his hands and arms were filled
Though they loved him,
they would not always go willingly
They flourished elsewhere
in other worlds
in other times
in other limbos
When they left him,
he cried for them all.
He had no favorites.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
The Thing in the Corner
The Thing in the Corner
will not let me share
in its mystery
It keeps fanatically to itself,
gazing wistfully at the moon
Its skin ripples in the dawn-winds,
and it gives
a little whimper of a yawn,
stretching til it’s pencil thin
Sometimes it peers curiously at me
as if I were the Thing in the Corner
but I’m not
I’m the Other Thing in the Opposite Corner
of the Same Room
I try to be friendly though, I really do, so it’s not as if it’s
entirely my fault or anything.
Perhaps one day, when we’re both sad, we’ll meet in the
center
of the room and
cry
sympathetically
Til then, it keeps its secrets, and I keep mine.
And now here comes the morning mist
to enshroud the Thing in the Corner once more in
mystery,
and I remain
out in the open, a
vague and random
clue.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Open Space
I like to laugh out loud
over nothing
in
open spaces
so they can’t catch me
with
the net
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
The Words
The Words
shift
like sliding, overcast
shades of gray,
dark and forbidding
and then the break.
The apple of Apollo’s eye
turns golden
and The Words shift like
rippling waves
of green
in the
windblown grass.
They feel better,
freer,
like bare feet
wriggling toes in the soil.
The Words grow
taller, stronger,
happier
They spill out energetically
like
tossed dice,
for all to see and hear
loaded
with life.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr
Beyond Panic 