Friday, September 30, 2016

This Garden Uneven

Soul Fire
—Poems and Artwork/Photos by Smith 
(Steven B. Smith), Cleveland, OH


Meandering through Mammon
in search of moral tampons

Gotta clothe the surface
to make us worth us

Can't be down and dirty
climbing up the well

Ain't I purty?
Ain't I swell?

 Light Rider


Music and word long been wed
in tribal fire dark
with drum and bone of flute
and hum and thrum of throat
as shaman sang the people's song
in measured rhythmed tone,
beat keeping story going,
rhyme for mind to pass along.

Hunting chant and victory wail
with drum and tune of bone prevail.



She sands sound into shape
of mood and pale moon,
the voice of casting calling,
says belief grows like weather,
that near and far are one,
a baseline spun by all,
for all,
that rock's a heavy place
since thought escapes discerning
and unused ambits spirit way away
until we say there may be splendor
with neither artifice nor anger,
just leaf of life on tree untendered
in this garden uneven.

 Not This Way


Going into the forest she said
We need to find a way to find our way
back where we've been

Easy he replied
we'll drop bread crumbs to follow

That won't work she sighed
the birds will eat our trail

Then we'll use poisoned crumbs
and follow the dead birds back

 Flower Dance


Turning on the gas
to heat pre-dawn pan coffee
a small beige moth
frantically darts about the stove.

Just as I warn
"Be careful little girl
you're heading for the heat"
she flies into the flame
adding fuel to fire.

Coffee tastes the same.

 Cool Shades


O Great Cog
release me from this wheel
I'm but broken bit
neither tooth nor flair
save me from this pace
before I wreck the place
for I am wrench in works
will impede the flow
jam the am
and scram Your precious plan
You should offer me some slack
put me on the beach
coated with soothing oils
a book in hand
pen and paper near
grass in pipe
strong black coffee dear
food units to imbibe
the occasional magic mushroom
to color reason
and I will season tone
while You work the other drones



There's truth in the dark
in the hours before dawn
if I could find the inner light to see

It whispers "I'm here"
soft and seductive
just outside my human
in the hour of the wolf
when sleep won't come
and wake ain't here

No baby being born
no madness lurking
so I light some nag champa
and om a hum job for the soul
while making coffee for mind and flesh

The truth is there
playing hide and seek
offering wee peaks
like an old stripper with wrinkled skin
hiding behind pastel scarves



This outside-the-liner slunk from his package
escaping the system as such
proving full well the old-timer's adage
best helpful avoiding the clutch.
Three parts vermillion four hour twenty
you want it I'll match you some lies
tailor your running the con in the cunning
even provide your replies.
Ain't no reason nor season ensuing
these sounds are just wandering wry
tongue torque-type teasing easily slewing
aiming to igloo the lie.
Come sign my mime for more or less legion
returning blue sky to the why
forget these foolish fuel fossil religions
let's earn us some hot apple pie.
Oh jump for joy, employ jubilation        
express all your ritual wry                      
in laughter leading relaxing nation       
reducing stress levels too high.            

. . . more growl howl groan moan werewolf rock—music by Peter Ball (1949-2015), words & voices by Smith—at


Our thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for checking in from Parts East. We’ve had several guests in the Kitchen this week from thataway: Michael Marrotti from Pittsburgh, BZ Niditch from Massachusetts, Smith from Cleveland. It’s good to hear from our faraway SnakePals.


Today’s LittleNip:


The rise up
sometimes weighs down

The ever dark diminishes day

Seems lessons always cost
in time or money or climb

Just keeps going
this it it is

One step in step of the other

Savor some yesterday
keep hope for tomorrow

It's the bait that sets the trap



—Photo by Smith

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words dancing across the universe! And scroll down to 
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