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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists, photographers & adventurers.
Our relationship was forged to the soundtrack of Yoko Ono's magic,
frenetic, love-laden song, "Walking On Thin Ice." ( play song )


May 26th, 2016


Past Imperfect

Dawn comes.
Day’s spawn stirs
climbing light’s stairs to possible stars.

Or clings instead stark to dark
tossing hope to mope
on mind’s morass.

What was, was.
Soak in sulk of done gone past
or get off your ass.

Rise to wise.
Work the struggle puzzle.
Don’t rewalk past acts.

– Smith, 5.26.2016

Back 2006-9 when we were living for 31 months in 10 counbtries on 3 continents, this blog had a huge readership with many comments. When we returned to Cleveland March 2009, I still wrote a lot on the absurdities of returning to American kulchur and kept most of them.

Then I got tired of myself, my words, and went to posting a poem a day with 2 fotos. No one reads poetry so we lost pretty much every reader . . . although I’m surprised more folk didn’t follow the fotos.

So now no one’s reading, next month I’ll start writing stuff again. Of course there’ll be no one there to notice, which will make it hard to win readers back.

But there’s still a vague chance I’ll be recognized before I die for my art, poetry, and writing, so this will be a warehouse of delight if and when I am. And more importantly and logically, this is a storage locker for our future books.

It boggles my mind how large an audience a lot of famous folk have for their second rate output. Talent seldom trumps luck and who you know. Donald Trump is a perfect example of this.



Lady Poem May 26, 2016

May 26th, 2016

Cool breeze on a day going to get hot
whilst my intense frenetic quotidian thought
knits bird whistles chirps growing more insistent –
that and breeze lifts my attention to the open window
the nearer sparrow sweet and her fellows
on further branches cross the street less so
rasping straw ricocheting echoes

The potential of the day parlays
the scraping of the basin

~ Lady


high wire with no rope

May 25th, 2016


Finally caught up on my daily May poems.

Been going through 10 years of archived blog posts searching for previous surreal dreams. Will start posting the special ones. Should be remembering my dreams better since this is day 18 of not buying grass . . . smoking every day seems to flush them from short term memory. Like to know my dreams because they’re clues to how I’m doing mentally and emotionally.

~ ~ ~

Balance Act

Before the light
after the dark
the spark of day hints rite of way

Write it fast
sing it slow
reach for high while working low

Things change
roles roll
you can fight or go with flow

On this high wire with no rope

– Smith, 5.24.2016

~ ~ ~

Storm Front

The clouds come in
through dark wet sky
pushing cool and rain before them.

We wait to see their anger.

– Smith, 5.25.2016



Lady Poem May 25, 2016

May 25th, 2016

In your own sweet way
you deposit small and secret stickinesses
biological residues, friction ridge skin impressions
on smoother surfaces, paper collecting the taggants
of your unwitting corduroy, latent discoveries visible only
by ruthenium tetroxide equivalencies from the hunches
of intuitive photographers working in dark rooms
pulling watermarks from qt curiosities

~ Lady


Spirit & Bone in Skin

May 24th, 2016


I’ve started a dream file, going back through our 4,032 blogs on WalkingThinIce in search of some of my surreal dreams I started remembering during our 31 months of living in 10 foreign countries for 31 months. If I smoke grass daily, I don’t remember my dreams because they’re dumped from short term memory as I wake, but in our first 17 months of travel, I was grassless 75% of the time, only finding grass in London, blonde hash in France, and black hash in Morocco.

Here’s my first dream, in London:

dream 2006.8.10

Dream last night – we were in some steel and glass canyon of a German city and I asked Kathy where the car was. She ignored me, walked away. I was confused, went out, came back, held her arms and asked again – she laughed oddly and ran away. Finally saw the sad sad sorrow in her eyes and asked her ‘am I alive?’ She shook her head no. Asked her if my death was my fault – she angrily says “it might as well be as fast as you were driving.” Lots more, including oddly cut holes in the expensive hotel floor. Finally found out someone had killed me and I turned into Jim Carrey and the dream became a revenge movie with us tracking down my murderers and getting even.

Catching up, catsup in my ketchup, mustard in my seed. Mary E. Weems, Lady K., and I are doing a poem a day in May . . . all three of us are a few days behind schedule.

~ ~ ~

Status Report 213

Black dog chews my ego
envy eats my eye

As for this
the me you see hid in lie

Float high turd in piss
below low flow

– Smith, 5.22.2016

~ ~ ~

Spirit & Bone in Skin

Bone and Spirit forming flesh
scratch direction in the sand
to work the waking wheel

Spirit soars with wind to cloud
lifts heart to breeze
to soothe her sorrow

Bone takes flesh on flight
slides from moon to sun
to warm his marrow

Both wear it well
skin that is
under press of flesh and heel

– Smith, 5.23.2016

~ ~ ~



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