Tag: writing

My Elusive Muse (A Revenge Tale)

She’s right there beside me, watching me struggle, dangling the words like strawberries, or honey running down the comb. I reach to take them into my hands, then they fade to nothing.

She gives me dreams of pushing the stone of Sisyphus.

They surround my head, and I reach up to take them, but they dart and dance like dragonflies.

“Let me have them.”

‘Say please.’ Her laughter is muffled, soft, like we’re separated only by a thick wall we can still hear through.

‘Take them from me. Tell me what I’m thinking you should write.’

“Can I get a hint?”

‘No.’ Again the laughter, and the silence became one not just of amusement, but complacency.

I smiled. “I have an idea…”

That startled her. “But I–”

“It didn’t come from you…” I pointed to the mirror she had her back to, “It came from her.”

She was visibly shaken. “Th-th-that’s impossible!”

“Apparently not. She’s the spitting image of you, and she wants to take your place.”

“NO!”  My elusive muse watched in horror as her reflection gave a feral smile and reached for her, then bolted for the door, but it was locked.

Panic-stricken, she turned to see her own arm come out of the glass….

The Words We Leave Behind

No more impassioned pleas of poetry

to pour into the ears of poisoned people.

Fattened snakes, they peer through narrow slits

for more morsels than they can consume.

They can’t hear their vomit splatter on

the opulence they claim to own,

luxuriating in their greed

though they rot the same as street urchins.

The clashing of cultures and colors

consume the country.

The passion of misguided zealots

wars with

the passion of misguided fools,

though they have

more in common than not.

The poets read to rooms bereft of thought and innocence.

The writer’s craft crashes,

crushed by corporate creeds of false benevolence,

revealing itself a malevolent presence sitting on

the writer’s hand.

We are blind to the irony of a gated community,

and when there’s no one left to bear the blame,

we will hurl each other out to be first in a

wasteland of liberty.

Our words will be the legacy of our spirit’s journey.

The words we leave behind will be the journals

of our departed souls.

For now, for better, for worse,

for a future we won’t see,

we write in the darkness,

ever moving toward the light.

No Quiet Silence

There is no quiet silence.

there’s the turning of the page,

a peal of laughter,

a snatch of conversation, innocuous and inane,

the rush of wind over the ears,

the rustling sway of wind-dancer branches,

the susurration of the sea,

the cracking of the baking soil,

the buzz and click and hum of droning insects,

the sizzle of fires

the churning core of the world birthing mountains

the hiss and patter of the blizzard’s snowfall

the wail of the newborn,

the dying sigh of the old.

And death itself is only sleep,

as restless spirits manifest to tell us all:

There is no quiet silence.

 

Poet of Shadow

I write

in the

shadowed places

 

cold, bleak

and dark

 

Stepping on cracks in the sidewalk

full of cigarette butts,

phlegmatic spit

and on occasion,

blood

 

There are crevices

in the fences too,

where the wind whistles

off key,

enticing me

to emerge

and share.

 

And I want to,

I so very want to,

and know that I

so very

never will

 

The silent shadows

comfort me,

drape their darkness

across my shoulders

like the powerful arm

of a strong friend

 

I shift and settle,

a  bag of  garbage

kicked in the corner,

under a wedge of dim, flickering light

from a faulty streetlamp,

the wires humming in

off key harmony

with the whistling wind

 

Come out to play, poet…

 

‘No,’ I reply to the invitation,

now no longer content to be in

the shadows.

I melt into them.

 

My words spin

out and away,

beyond my control,

into the vast, black

void of heaven.

 

And I write

in the

shadowed places

 

Night Roads

This is a WIP currently being written in serial form at the link below.

Please check it out, and feel free to comment.

Be honest, but kind.

If you troll me, I will send zombie vampires to hunt you. In a novel, of course….

We all know there’s no such thing as zombie vam– (OW! Get back down there, you stinking–!)

 

http://channillo.com/series/night-roads/

Anchors Away

See the sun set on our longing

to invade a distant shore.

See the dimming of desire

to go sailing off to war.

 

Harbored safely and securely,

anchors lowered close to town,

we will speak no more of killing,

and with families settle down.

 

Though the noble masts jut proudly

in the darkened twilight sky,

Hear the cannon’s silence softly

Sing a sailor’s lullaby

 

See the sails tied to the rigging?

They’ll no longer catch the breeze.

And there’s no more pipe and jigging

On the rolling, dancing seas

 

And the whales will give birth again

to calves beneath the moon,

fearing nothing from the surface

be it net or sharp harpoon.

 

And the lighthouse keepers

get to leave their cold and noisy

towers,

for there’ll be no more ships coming

in the darkest morning hours.

 

And violent storms that claimed

the lives of those who’ve gone before

will have no plunder for their crimes

that leave this happy shore.

 

So weep no more, my lovely bride

The tide is standing still.

And I’ll face the sunset with you

Til it sinks beneath the hill.

 

 

I Look Forward to Spring

This seemed to strike a chord…let me know what you think. Enjoy.

Beyond Panic

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

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

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And Yet He Guards the Ruined World

And yet he guards the ruined world,

hearing echoes of long-dead men,

the clang and rattle of long buried swords,

the screams and moans of pleasure and pain.

 

He smells the candles in the temple,

And the perfumes of the maidens,

And the poisons of the traitors,

And the flesh he’s burned in battle.

 

The laughter of the children rings

through the cavernous passages.

 

The hawking of wares in the marketplace

shout in abandoned streets.

 

He is king over ashes,

and ruler of rubble,

with broken towers his castle,

and cracked and blackened bones his subjects.

 

The scavengers that remain

give him obeisance, and

bow and scrape for leave to

hunt scraps.

 

But on the watching wall he stands,

constant as the cosmos,

unyielding as stone,

unchanging as what has been

written before…

 

Unfettered, he is free to fly

and soar and kill and burn

 

And yet he guards the ruined world,

Until it stops to turn

 

The Orb of Life

Look! my friend.

See! and weep no more

I have them here,

preserved by

your perserverance

 

Inside, they mill in

tranquil expectation that

you will see them all,

and claim them for your own.

 

Behold!

 

Your dreams

Your longings

Your desires

Your loves

 

They are here within

The orb of your life

 

But you must reach in

through

 

Your doubts

Your fears

Your rejections

Your hatreds

 

And be able to tell

the difference

for they are double-sided

but they are

 

all yours.

 

I Carried Poem

I carried Poem within my hands

So soft and warm and trusting

I dropped it through a sewer grate

And now it’s wet and rusting

I carried Poem within my hands

And felt its small heart beating

A cold wind blew and though I tried

Death would allow no cheating

A Poem cannot be carried long

Its life is in the sharing

Of love and life and lyric song

And everybody caring

So if you ever carry Poem

Know that it must surely die

If you don’t make your heart its home

And write it down to let it fly.

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