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.
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.
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.
It was after midnight, after the hunters have fed, and the young are asleep, and the night creatures keep watch over them until the break of dawn, when Alis got dressed, found her scarf, took her mother’s apron, and slipped out through the kitchen door.
She loved to explore the woods at night, and she took the apron because sometimes she would gather the herbs her mother would need for the healings scheduled that day. Her mother suspected, scolded her even, on the dangers of being in the woods so late, and Alis tried to listen, but the call of the forest was irresistible to her.
Young as springtime, older than forever, it pulled on her heart until she answered.
When a small light flickered in the tall grass, Alis went to investigate. At first she thought it was a firefly, and went to capture it, but only to hold it; she never captured them.
It pulsed again, way too bright for a firefly; something bigger then, but not large…?
Walking into the high grass, taller than she was, she felt the tendrils brush against her bare arms, and giggled. It was as if someone was painting her into existence, and tickling her at the same time.
The light pulsed, but it was growing weaker the closer she came.
When she stopped walking, the pulse grew stronger.
This was a dilemma; she didn’t know if what she approached was living or not, but she knew she wouldn’t leave until she figured out what the light was doing there.
“I’m sorry, little one,” she said, and walked determined toward her target.
The light seemed to go out, but when she got close enough to see, it still pulsed, barely shining, but it was still there.
It pulsed with the light of a small flame through its red garnet scales: a baby dragon.
Alis gasped in wonder, hurriedly looked about for signs of the mother; surely she would not leave her child here, in mortal danger from predators.
The little thing was on its side, little ribcage huffing out and in, and Alis realized it was dying.
“I’ll take you home.You’ll be safe there,” she said. “If your mother looks for you, she’ll find you safe and warm, and she’ll be grateful to me, and give me a ride, and let me come see you whenever I wish.”
The little dragon pulsed in response as Alis wrapped it tenderly in her scarf, and placed it in an apron pocket.
And there was another glimmer in the moonlight, something that made her look again. On the ground, where the dragon had been, was a small book, bound in black, its cover etched with gold, grand, ornate letters with serifs and flourishes, almost unreadable, but she managed to make it out.
The Book of Spells
The little dragon had been lying on top of the book.
How did she miss that?
Slowly, she looked around, knowing it was ridiculous; who would be watching a lone child in the woods at night?
She picked the book up, dusted it off, and put it in her other apron pocket.
She didn’t really know if she would make it home in time, but she was going to try.
****************
Safely back in her room, she lit some candles, and put the dragon, still swaddled, in an open drawer, and peeled back the folded scarf.
The light was still pulsing, but had definitely dimmed.
Aros, her cat, a black and slender rogue, leaped on the dresser to see what his mistress brought, and licked his lips, looking down at the little red, warm morsel before him.
Alis stared at him, and he gave her an innocent look, as if food was the furthest thing from his mind.
She gave him a smile of quiet menace.
“If you eat him, Aros, I will eat you.”
Aros huffed through his nose, jumped down from the dresser, and curled up in his bed.
Satisfied, Alis went to see what she could find to help her patient.
Puttering around the shelves, she tried to keep the glass bottles from clinking, so her mother wouldn’t wake. In awhile, she managed some combination of herbs she thought would do the trick, crushed them with a pestle, blended them with some fresh water, found a dropper, and went back to her room, hoping against hope the creature wasn’t dead.
********************
It wasn’t, and when she squeezed out what was in the dropper, it licked at the liquid.
Alis smiled in pride and pleasure; she was learning her mother’s craft,
becoming adept.
By the time she reached the end of the dropper, the dragon was able to lift its head.
While the candles burned, she leafed through the Book of Spells, and wondered how it was a small, abandoned baby dragon had come to be in the forest, perishing on top of a book of magic.
Chapter 2:
The spells themselves were magical; when she first opened the book, they were in another language she didn’t know, but as she looked at the letters, they began to writhe and turn and twist, rearranging themselves into her language.
She dropped the book in fright at first, not understanding, but curiosity got the better of her, and she picked it up again, surprised at the power contained in its pages, that it would know how to do such a thing.
Alis smiled, remembering her old beloved science teacher, who muttered
to himself as he went about the class, a ring of white hair around his bald scalp, like a laurel wreath covered in snow, speaking of Great Discoveries.
The way he said it, Alis always thought of the words starting with capital letters: A Great Discovery.
She wondered what he would think of the Book of Spells.
What you have made here, Alis, is a Great Discovery…
Or would he be afraid? Was magic just a different sort of science, or something more?
********************
She remembered the marching out of the warlocks and witches to burn in the surrounding lands outside, most of them beaten bloody, some stripped, some whipped, some weeping, and some defiant to the last, but all of them afraid and unwilling to die…
The sound of fires, of screams, of cheers, of screams fading to silence, of leaving feet, and Alis staring, a small child, easily unnoticed in the bloodthirsty gathering, standing just inside the ring of sheltering trees, looking at the blackened bones that had but a while ago supported and framed living flesh.
She stayed, looking, walking about in horrified fascination, staring up at the remains, some of whom still had their eyes somehow, until the first of the crows came in the early evening, when the smoke had cleared…
*********************
She didn’t want to think about that now.
Yes, Alis, you’ve made a Great Discovery, but you had better get some sleep. You didn’t gather any herbs, and Mother may want to go in the morning.
The Book of Spells went under the bed; she decided to leave the drawer open, in case the dragon needed to stretch, and she blew out the candles.
She looked over at Aros, who was still in his basket, sleeping.
She hoped he knew she wouldn’t really eat him, but with Aros, it was better to keep him guessing; he could be such a cuss sometimes.
Pulling her covers up, she took a deep breath, settled in, and looked out at the setting moon until she drifted off to sleep.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
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 was lost in a strange forest.
Looking about, exploring, the trace of a finger on a blossom, the parting of the river current with a dipped finger, the dappled sunlight of high summer in a shady grove, I called out to answer a whispering voice.
A rustle of branches, so slight I thought it a woodland creature, and she emerged into the clearing, saw me seated on the rock, my knife at work on an apple, and without fear she approached.
Her flowing, bell-sleeved gown was the pale green of a young pine and didn’t seem to bend the grass with its trailing train.
“Why are you here?”
I looked up, bemused more than startled. “Why do you ask?”
“For the sake of knowing.”
“I was…called…here…” I gestured with my knife to take in the grove in general.
“Who called you?”
I smiled. “Was it not you?”
She did not smile. “If it were me, I would not have asked.”
“I don’t know, then. Am I not welcome?”
She came further toward me, stood before me, examining, her eyes large and luminous. They were just shy of hypnotic, but with power, nonetheless.
“All are welcome here.” Looking deeper, her eyes sparkled with many things, magic, mischief, mystery…
“Ah, good.” I sliced the apple and offered it to her on the tip of the knife She took it with her fingers, munched awhile, looked about the grove.
“You live here?”
She seemed to give it thought before she answered.
“It is more like we live in each other.”
I began to think she might be mad, so I grew cautious.
“May I ask your name?”
She sighed.
“I have many, and they are all equally unimportant, but if you would name me, I am Soyala.”
I offered her another piece, which she also took.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Soyala.”
“And I you, Traveler.”
“How did you know I was here.”
“I heard your call. There was something in it worth seeing.”
Again, the hint of madness. “How can you see inside a call?”
She looked at me as if I were the dumbest of beasts, then smiled indulgently, and placed her slender hand on my chest.
“The heart, Traveler. The heart speaks for the soul; there is music in the call, and yours was sad. It ached with loneliness, and so I came to keep you company for awhile. ”
I looked at her in amazement, surprised to find a tear rolling down my cheek.
With profound tenderness she took the hem of her green robe, and daubed it off my cheek.
There was a stain of blue there, swirling with various shades of it, before finally deepening, and staying dark.
She looked into my eyes. “You have been alone a very long time. It is love you seek, but I cannot offer it to you, Traveler, or I would give it freely, and you could stay here forever.”
“No one lives forever.”
“But love does, Traveler.”
She pulled back, straightened, smoothed her robes, looked off into the distance, and said it again, softer. “Love does.”
She took my hand and led me from the rock.
“Come, I will walk with you to the edge of the grove, back to the road, and our time here together will end.”
“But you said I was welcome.”
She smiled. “I said all are welcome, and they are. But none may stay.”
We walked in silence, the only sound the random trill of birds, and the rustling of her robes, and the crunch of my boots.
Finally we emerged into the light of a westering sun, deepening in shades of amber and tangerine and persimmon, lighting the stitching of cirrus clouds afire from below.
“Will I see you again?” I asked.
She took my face in her hands, and searched my eyes for the depth of the question.
“When you love again, Traveler.”
She released me, took the rest of my apple, and walked away; I heard the rustling of her robes as she left me, and watched her disappear into the trees.
I started down the road and looked up.
The last of the sun was almost gone, and the darkening sky was blue and green, trimmed with a vestige of gold.
And the evening star slipped across the sky, a silver tear from the moon’s saffron cheek, and guided me home.
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 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
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.
I like to laugh out loud
over nothing
in
open spaces
so they can’t catch me
with
the net
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Beyond Panic 