Status Report 16
Sun soon to rise.
Birds chirp anticipation.
Yawn dawns my day.
Yesterday falls way,
smokey ghost haunting dance
with fading ticket.
Day strings things wrong
yet spawns new notes from old
for tomorrow’s song.
Road is bumpy,
eyes myopic,
song is long.
– Smith, 6.22.2015
Status Report 15
It went where it wanted
which was not where it was wanted
but is where it’s wanted now.
Empty boxes are the best
they weigh us down much less.
– Smith, 6.21.2015
Status Report 14
Soaking in a hot bath
toking onto off path
hoping for the not rash
to win the way.
– Smith, 6.20.2015
Status Report 13
Cat on chest.
Purr in ear.
Fur feel face.
– Smith, 6.19.2015
Lady and I will be hosting an open mic as part of Charden’s HeART of Geauga Arts Jam 2015 on Saturday June 27.
The reading will be 1:30-3:30 pm in the Land Conservancy Building, 102 C East Park Street South, Chardon, Ohio, on Chardon Square in the middle of town.
Everyone welcome to read and/or listen. No sign up, we will all take 5 minute turns round robin until either time or poets run out.
If you get lost, stop at the Info Booth in the park in the square and they’ll point the way.
Here’s their event page: HeART of Geauga Arts Jam 2015 — Facebook event page
Status Report 12
Black cat streaks from beneath metallic red car,
just misses morning dove eating.
Looks around.
Slow strolls back under for next failure,
the car too far from food.
– Smith, 6.18.2015
Status Report 11
The dark beneath the dark
thinks whisper of light,
vibrates in belief.
Dark must die to dark
in act of falling.
– Smith, 6.17.2015
Lady reading at Mac’s Backs with Adam Brodsky
Status Report 10
I’m with the one I want,
and me the same to her.
We fit in game of purr,
tilt to nicer slant.
– Smith, 6.16.2015
Bee Lady inspecting our first hive
my beekeeping Lady
Status Report 9
Strawberries are stiff and dry.
I prefer berries made out of berries.
I was an Old Testicle kind of guy,
believed in an eye for an eye,
until the whole world went blind.
Those without sin need cast their first atone.
There’s buried treasure
beneath her cotton white robe,
nipple on mountain seek.
Oh my! what orange eyes you have!
The better to squeeze you, my dear.
Rain comes, rain goes,
sometimes sun, sometimes haze,
the days are rearranged.
Wherever the buck stops, it damn sure ain’t here.
The daily wheel awoke
I walk to turn the spokes
pulling life I’m yoked.
Be aware the Ides of June, the Ides of May,
keep both Ides open.
– Smith, 6.15.2015
Was a bit trepidatious yesterday inspecting our beehive since last time they stung my hand and it swoll into a lobster claw for 3 days, but I went without protective gear anyway. It went fine until we were gathering everything to leave and I picked up a bit of burr comb we’d removed from the hive; there was a bee on it who didn’t like being squeezed and it stung the end of my thumb.
I took some Benadryl right away, then twice more before bed. No swelling yesterday, and this morning I wake with a swollen right thumb. But it’s not too bad. just big and tight and awkward because you use your thumb for everything from picking up your coffee cup to flicking a Bic to toke.
Learn and live so you can live and learn.
her beekeeping man
The Form or Function Farm
Got folk to the left insisting if it rhymes,
it ain’t poetry.
Got folk to the right saying if it don’t rhyme,
it ain’t poetry.
As if I give a flux.
Some insist if there’s any punctuation at all,
it ain’t poetry.
Folk seem determined to determine others,
they should write poetry instead.
– Smith, 6.12.2015
Been having Facebook discussions about what is or isn’t poetry.
Group A suggests Shakespeare didn’t write poetry because he rhymed, and since real poetry doesn’t rhyme, he wrote verse instead.
Group B claims if it does not rhyme, it’s not poetry, it’s prose, which pretty much disses most of e.e. cummings, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, and a large swath of T.S. Eliot.
Mindboggling statements.
One friend said, “All I know is, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing” . . . that’s my view as well — if you swing, you can do anything.
My favorite was “If it contains no marmots or other woodland mammals, it ain’t poetry!” — now that’s a statement I can get behind.
Garden Not Even
Marmots and mammals
and unsorted animals
trample my ankles
as I recheck the angles
for angels and devils
and gal most disheveled.
– Smith, 6.12.2015
Fuck the Poetry Police, and the rules they ride in on.
Whim steps to garden path
Growth loads jewelweed’s spring
Wood’s xylem shades us
~ Lady