The pen
in the
hands
of the
old man
Hands
light and spotted
as
long-forgotten
ancient scrolls
on a
dusty shelf
Hands
that will soon
crumble to pieces
in
time’s cruel crucible
He takes
his thoughts
and
writes them down
They are as
stones
in the path
to mark his life
and its
passing
His pages
become much like
his crumbling
hands,
long-forgotten
until
A curious mind
plucks his thoughts
like ripe berries
from the dusty
shelf.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
Ere long, the North Wind’s Kiss
too soon will come.
Her constellations gather
with joyful anticipation, for
her Kiss
brightens their stars,
and drapes them in all their
celestial finery.
The fleeing sun trips, and
drops its light.
Extinguished now, and
shows its belly
to the freezing night
that savages, with cold fangs,
its crimson carcass to
warmer climes.
She smiles, and betrays us with a kiss.
The red blush
of berries and cardinals’ feathers
hide
the treacherous blue
of her
frosty lips.
Around her,
a cloak of virgin snow
trimmed with
crystals of ice.
In one hand,
a bough of evergreen,
the scepter
that bows not to the
bitter wind,
her chill herald.
She comes in all her
dread and fearsome
Majesty
to drive us to
our hearths,
our blankets, and
our graves.
And lays
another tender, loving hand
across the seeds
of
Spring
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
Ice
slithers
over the rock
it hangs down in
feral-toothed
whiteness
cold fangs
in
moonlight
the rocks
wait
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
his breath hangs
white and smoky
on the
winter wind
carrying his life
before him
lifting his prayers to
Heaven
speaking his words
to some great, nameless
thing
dissipating
words ignored
prayers unanswered
life gone
he
is the
nameless
thing
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
The sun sets early
in wintertime anxious to
flee from the cold night
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
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.
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
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
Clusters of Butterflies
Torrents of Bats
Clear Pretty Blue Skies
Swarming of Gnats
Murdering Dogs
Laugh-n-Play Kids
Wallowing Hogs
Warm Coffee Lids
Friends who’ve forgiven me
Friends who’ve betrayed
Friends who’ve abandoned me
Friends who have stayed
Women who swing their hips
Women who don’t
Women who’ll lay with me
Women who won’t
Enemies Frenemies
Besties and spouses
Living in tenements
Dreaming of houses
The Creak of Old Windmills
The Flower that Wilts
The Strength of my Youth fades
The Jousting Lance Tilts
The Windmills keep turning
I don’t quite know how
I fought them all Bravely
But I’m
Leaving
Now.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
December 29th, 2014
Tilting at the Windmills of My Mind
All rights reserved
We all have
Uniqueness
in
Common
And
Conform
in
our striving to
be
Individual
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
November 28th, 2014
A Thread of Human-ness
All rights reserved
Beyond Panic 