In the winter cold I rise
Look the killer in the eyes
Spilling blood I claim my prize
Singing slaying songs.
In the woodlands dark and sere
Where the creatures creep in fear
I will light a fire here
Singing slaying songs.
In an empty castle’s shell
Haunted by the fiends of hell
Axes toll a killing knell
Singing slaying songs
On the ocean’s tide they come
Chests of gold and casks of rum
Think I’ll go and get me some
Singing slaying songs.
Through the city streets I walk
See the demon-shadow stalk
Now his outline’s drawn in chalk
Singing slaying songs
On the land or on the sea
Doesn’t matter much to me
Last thing that you hear will be
My savage slaying song.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
2014
Slaying Songs: A Reaver’s Hymn
All rights reserved
It started again.
That damn twinge of melancholy that quivered
in her everytime she saw a leaf fall.
How she hated the cold months.
Hated them!
Coming with their inevitable fury, trapping her.
She would bundle up, drink coffee, anything to try and stay warm.
But somehow, they always got through her defenses.
Catching her up with their swirling winds, nipping at her.
She would take flight.
And they would follow.
And she would find herself naked and alone in a blasting wind of white
attacking the bare trees and stubborn pines,
and they would laugh at her.
She was trapped again.
Caught up in the majesty of it. Calling her.
Haunted by the wind’s lyrical melodies. Calling her.
She would reach, and touch, and feel and taste the snow,
laughing with all the giddiness and abandon of the little girl she once was,
the wind wildly tossing her hair, and she would say, very softly:
“Be still.”
And the winds would die.
And the snow would drift gently.
And the stars would glitter tranquilly in
her eyes.
She was held in reverence here.
They always had to remind her.
She was
a goddess.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Winter Woods / Day of the Dark Full Moon (compilation)
December 10th, 1983
All rights reserved
As I was moving from PA, I literally found some of my old poetry in a shoe box I thought was long gone. The following poem is from the second of two collections I wrote back in 1985. One was called Assorted Absurdities, and the other, A Scattered Shower of Poems, hence, the image. Both volumes were a mixed bag, and seeing some of the poetry here on wordpress tonight, I got jealous (yes, jealous. Don’t judge me…well, go ahead, but it won’t matter…really, it won’t…ok stop, I can’t bear it)
I hope you enjoy one of the better efforts (imho, as they say…)
A thing I must more often do
Is write a happy poem or two,
To fashion words into a smile,
To while away a little while.
But then a word, a line
Not right,
And then I’ll stay up through the night
And curse and brood and BREAK MY PEN!
Oh goodness, there I go again…
A thing I must more often do
Is write a happy poem
Or two.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
A Scattered Shower of Poems
1985 All rights reserved
I stared into the Shadows
The Shadows stared at me
And so we asked each other
“What is it that you see?”
I said “I see the ashes of plans
I once did trust”
The Shadows whispered back to me
“We see but blood and dust.”
© Alfred W. Smith, Jr.
2009
All rights reserved
Beyond Panic 