Friday, January 18, 2019

Hope's Possible

60 Pigeons
—Poems and Photos by Smith, Cleveland, OH


I was born in Dead Leaf Montana
raised near Brown Grass Gone
my momma loved walking the ridges
daddy was the Devil's son
ate insects in swamp water for dinner
for fun watched roadkill drying in dawn
trying to catch our breath
as pus oozed from corporate spawn
so took what we could from the dying earth
knowing we wouldn't be here long

 Tin Woodman


Sitting in dead woman's chair
facing north
third floor of Victorian house
looking east out window 30 feet up
at 80-foot Sycamore in next yard
its upper 2/3s a friendly glow
of setting sun slanting up
softening through added air
to an old glow
of once-bright memories
the leaves rustle shudder shimmy shake
in breeze as branches sway and bounce
a thousand leaves agleam
in suss of gold and bustle



Coyote waits with trinkets in bushes
to trick you out of your foreskin
baubles as bait
the luxury of lie
he'll fuck your wife
eat your kids
crash your car
and debit your deeds in doubt and deception
Coyote lies
that's what he do
what Gods does
he points here while stealing there
nowhere good
he'll wear your skin better'n you
make your wife happier too



Give us a kiss, miss
the male men say
as they reach for her tits
offering to pay
to play with the possum
between her legs
swearing it'll be awesome
and hopefully often
their bag in a beg
broken body bits
dripping down their leg
between this the myth
and the mist that it made



The three wishes way
is complicated in cost...

sometimes a finger, sometimes the forearm
sometimes forever lost

the cost of complicity
factors the formula:

you wish for money,
your insured child dies   

you wish the child back,
it shambles in rot from grave

so wish three must always be
"make it like it was before I fluxed it up"

it always costs, each and every way,
all the time, every day

pay now, pay later,

wish, or not
costs a lot

 Eye of Darkness


Some run with rabbits
some hoe the corn
come daylight in Damascus
it's all part of morn
morn built on yesterday
morn torn from tomorrow
form come what may
in shadow, silence, sorrow



There's no reward
for getting rock to top
no good job, no take a rest
no go home, you're done
so always when almost won
I stumble strain
let rock roll back
rest as it tumbles low
while I look long at valley
from mountain's high
the trees
the breeze
the sun in ease
delight sight
then slow stroll down
to start up again
dropping one chip of rock
since with each failure at top
I chop one chip of hill
to carry down
so day after day
rock roll after rock roll
mountain gets shorter
one nick at a time
till eons down the line
top of mountain and bottom
will align
and rock won't roll



Dodging disasters
dancing thin ice
checking for monsters
who aren't very nice
salt over shoulder
creeping down stairs
bad getting bolder
playing unfair
mirrors of Narcissus
snorting up sins
rocking with Sisyphus
boredom within
holes in my pockets
no cash to fall through
my future's a fuck-it
of past payment due
heart she be hurting
brain may explode
rich out there lurking
life to erode
yet loved in my loving
and friends to abide
though society's grueling
right here is right fine
my wife is my sweetheart
our cat quite divine
in poetry art
we walk one fine line
so pockets of pearls
in pus must one seek
for life but rehearsal
of endless repeat

 The Temple Pillars

Today’s LittleNip:


I am tall, the ground far,
gravity heavy, back ache.

So? Better over than under,
better running than rot.

Hope's possible, though not probable,
no one yet may save the day.


Thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s fine potpourri of poems and pix! As he says, hope’s possible . . .

The Other Voice in Davis meets tonight, featuring Deborah Shaw Hickerson plus open mic. That’s 7:30pm at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Road in Davis. I misspoke on the early edition of the Kitchen yesterday, saying Taylor Graham and Tim Kahl would be reading there tonight. (I also said Taylor would be reading at the Placerville MLK Commemoration on Sunday, when it’s actually Monday. WhatEVER was I thinking…?) Actually, Tim and Taylor will be reading on Sunday at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series on F St., 2pm.

Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.


 Coconut Sloth
—Photo by Smith
(Celebrate poetry—and hope!)

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.