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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 )
 
   
 
 

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

July 2022 word harvest . . .

Monday, August 1st, 2022

July 2022 word harvest . . .

2022.7.3 – Green tree
2022.7.6 – It’s a good day
2022.7.9 – It’s all about dolphins
2022.7.13 – It’s a blue chicory
2022.7.16 – That side of glass
2022.7.17 – You know of course
2022.7.19 – We know
2022.7.20 – I often know when I’m in the where
2022.7.21 – Flies arriving for new dead snake
2022.7.22 – Irridescent blue green flies
2022.7.22 – It’s a two poo morning
2022.7.28 – Be firefly
2022.7.30 – One more word salad
2022.7.31 – Morality

~ ~ ~

Green tree
blue sky
white cloud

~ ~ ~

It’s a good day
when the cop lights
go the other way

~ ~ ~

It’s all about dolphins and endorphins
the purpose and the porpoise
creeping dusk
balmy weather
fireflies
it’s not eat or be eaten
but endless eat and eaten roundabout
my job
is to lie myself to tomorrow

~ ~ ~

It’s a
blue chicory through green grass
morning

~ ~ ~

That side glass
fat mama raccoon and her half-grown
cavort in dark on deck

This side
black cat crouch
low throat growling

~ ~ ~

You know of course
eventually
a tire blows
or sparkplug fades
wheel wobble
or bad oil grade
does you in
in spite of spin
and flounce
in for a penny
in for an ounce
I got 99 monkeys
yet no circus sound
inside this hourglass
of runrealfastdown

~ ~ ~

We know
thanks to postcards from the end
it’s not destination
it’s the journey
the getting
not the gone
which makes me think
Sisyphus must be one happy dude
blessed by endless doing
never done
always on way up
before failing down
never reaching boardroom
to piss its gold-plated toilet
no kissing ass or playing blind
just rolling rock in endless climb
with time to enjoy view
as failure falls
in sparkle of downward dew
no worry
no warts
except (as always)
hurt for the heart

~ ~ ~

I often know when I’m in the where
seldom where I’m in the when

But mostly it’s duck water, dark dollars
and turtles all the way down

Plus broken mirrors and ballerinas
in shadow sun rerun

They say they’re hooks to hang your hopes on
not nooses for the neck

Yet here I endure another day
mostly bone unbroken

~ ~ ~

Flies arriving for new dead snake
flies feasting on old dead worm
life goes on

~ ~ ~

Irridescent blue green flies
on rotting meat
beauty on the beat

~ ~ ~

It’s a two poo morning
how many pounds bagged dog shit
carried past two years?

~ ~ ~

Be firefly
light dark for brief second

Unquiet quiet
meadow pre-dawn

Rooster crows day kills night
lie wakes

Fecund smell of green growing
heavy in humid air

Roll sun up sky
night falls back down

~ ~ ~

One more word salad
stuck to the floor
murky feathers falling
red lights green go
caution costs calling
all out and in
again

circle work
running on entropy
as always

~ ~ ~

Morality
sometimes comes down to
I’m hungry, and you’re food

~ ~ ~

 

revamped Memorial Day poem by Lady

Wednesday, July 27th, 2022

This is the revamped version Lady read at her Coventry Library reading last week . . .

Memorial Day

We were recovering from Covid
and me from my tummy tuck.
We were too weak
to mow the lawn, and it rained
and it sunned, and half the lawn
was grass, and half the lawn was
clover. I trampled through clover
to plant the sunflower rootings
that came in the mail,
the lavender clumps before it was
too late in the spring, bent over
holding my tummy tuck in one hand
lest I bust my stitches, digging
with my spade in the other

I found a garter snake
under decaying fall leaves.
The snake moved like water to the
faucet on the back side of the house.
It slipped into a gap between
the foundation stones.

Snakes do not have hands
but we do – here is the church
here is the steeple, here’s some cave
carved from an ancient river,
handprints paint souls
like leaves on trees.

I found a morel
in our yard by the compost gate.
It came up ready, nary any pull
ripping noiselessly from the ground

The honeycomb head wilted as I carried it
I brought it just to show it to my husband
I turned around to put it back –
I could not find out where it
came from

What can I say
but clay tests the hand
and it makes pottery

Last year I found one too,
a morel, and I expect next one
next year

We hold hands on our morning walk

Our dog stops at the telephone
pole at the end of the street,
looking for sweet new blades
of spring green grass

A neighborhood dog barks.
Somewhere out there
there’s agreement

On Audible we learned
birds recognize each others’ calls.
The robin hears the sparrow
the jay mimics the crow

The birds feel like we feel
It’s going to be OK
The mirror in the garden
says namaste

This year’s bees are cleaning
out last year’s hive beyond
the grand pine you can see from
the bridge on Pearl

The tree’s how we know
where our house is. Smith wants
to paint the other side of the
picket fence white so we can see
it from Pearl

In July as you step off the deck
you can smell honey from the oven
of the hive’s hot hatchery.
They fan their wings,
evaporate water from the nectar
to thicken into honey

The bees give warning bops
but rarely sting. We are on
their flight path to the field
they dance and waggle about

Last year they went up and up into
the trees, half the hive, I watched
them, a dark cloud up and over the
pine until they looked like
gnats in the robin’s egg sky

I watched until the view
evaporated

This year
regardless of their tolerance
we will check every frame
until we get to the bottom of it
and wipe out the queen cups –
cells that look like peanuts dripping
off the frame bottoms – the bees make them
to propagate their hive, to swarm

We keep them –
we are keeping them regardless
of their consensus

Golden and angry
they’ll stay in their nest
and in the winter you can put your ear
to the hive, hear the beating
whir of the lion’s heart, an engine
powered by honey

And birds –
You know, birds’ eyes have four cones
where we have three. They can see
kingdoms in an ultraviolet canopy

Thoughts are in the trees –
living books, and mycorrhizal fungi
tap out signals from their feet

Pick up a leaf with the labyrinth
of your fingerprints –
it drains into a palimpsest
the map on your palm,
the rivers on the leaf

– Lady

 

low output’s better’n no output

Wednesday, July 6th, 2022

Another slow poem month, which is fine cuz low output’s better than no output.

2022.6.4 – Seems like life
2022.6.8 – Tried to be nice
2022.6.10 – Sitting silent
2022.6.22 – The hungry dead and dying
2022.6.24 – Holes to be filled
2022.6.28 – Conversation with Wife 55
2022.6.30 – Halfway thru 2022

~ ~ ~

Seems like life
is a moving target
and I’m the bullseye

Going through the bushes
through the bushes behind the trees
the trees beneath the leaves

Pieces of meat
in the middle of the road
welcome to the suture

Big mess upstairs
but that’s above my grade
I do crumbs below

Day’s dusk
how much damage
then to now?

~~ ~ ~

Tried to be nice
told mosquito
leave me alone I’ll leave you alone
but it bit me
so squished it with a clap
now both our bloods all over both
and nary a lesson learned

~ ~ ~

Sitting silent
in dark, rocking
beneath rainpoundroof

Millions of years
from dinosaurs to gasoline
then two centuries to extinction

I try to outwait pain
eventually most leaves
and I remain

~ ~ ~

The hungry dead and dying
not nice
but that’s life
always has
still is
time to change chime

~ ~ ~

Holes to be filled
holes to be dug
all life long

~ ~ ~

Conversation with Wife 55

“I shouldn’t have toked. I’m incapacitated.”

Isn’t that part of a circuit?
You know, incapacitors and futile-to-resistors?

“You’re strange.”

Well, most folk go to the mountains
to search for the Yeti.
I’m more into The Valley of the Yoni.

“You should write that down.”

You know, I was going to be a pop singer
but I got myself vasectomized.

“So what, you became a soda singer instead?”

~ ~ ~

Halfway thru 2022

Rolled a joint for the journey
then left it on the table
see free stone future

Rusty words
hold me together
as I work these trap lines

Spend much of my light
in the dark

The rich rule
by tongue, gun, neglect
regret

Yet here I am driving through Ohio
taking my weed tax dollars
to Michigan

Going for the going
not the getting there

We appear to be pods
packed in lies
the rich eat like flies

Toke of whacky tobacky smoke
add caffeine
voila! brain woke

Does sadness sorrow?
does sorrow get sad?

Peaceful outside
turmoil within
what a waste

Madness
and its sacred lies
of success

In this feudal world
I feed my feral

There’s should
there’s is
there’s seldom both

I add stone
to my body river
and join flow

What does lilac?
Truth

~ ~ ~*

 

One Sparkplug Short

Friday, June 17th, 2022

*Good morning, Cleveland and the Smith clan — Smith (Steven B. Smith), Lady, dog and cat. And mighty thanks for Steven’s sharp shards of poetry and visuals: “Parts of truth tell more of truth…”* sez Kathy Kieth editor/publisher Medusa’s Kitchen

One Sparkplug Short – 9 poems, 10 fotos

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/06/one-sparkplug-short.html

 

May 2022 poemestry

Wednesday, June 1st, 2022

slim poetry pickins last month

2022.5.1 – Unknown water
2022.5.13 – Deer silent
2022.5.14 – Kin of my yeast
2022.5.14 – Help us Mr Burroughs
2022.2.17 – My Morning Dental Cleaning
2022.5.28 – The lie of night
2022.5.29 – O to be dog

~ ~ ~

Unknown water
dripping off known roof
tapping at sill

What does it want?

~ ~ ~

Deer silent
appear
bound away

Where does sound go
when it goes away?
does the forest fall?

I watch the worm
I watch the deer
I watch the year

~ ~ ~

Kin of my yeast
crawled from the sea
made back with two beasts

Roaring pedal to the metal
rushing cross the bridge
o for more petal mental

~ ~ ~

Help us Mr Burroughs
the MAGAts are on the move
in naked launch

~ ~ ~

My Morning Dental Cleaning

“You have to fill out this information.”
I already filled it out last year.
“You have to do it every year, for the insurance people.”
I don’t have insurance.
“You have to fill it out anyway.”
No I don’t, I replied as I left.

~ ~ ~

The lie of night
lays with lie of day
begats tomorrow

In sitting sun
toking under dogwood tree
counting my nail holes

~ ~ ~

O to be dog
head out car window
fur face full sun

I’m a sparkplug short
on a cold damp day

~ ~ ~

 

new Lady poem this morning

Monday, May 30th, 2022

(new Lady poem this morning)

Memorial Day

We were recovering, too weak
to mow the lawn, and it rained
and it sunned, and half the lawn
was grass, and half the lawn was
clover. I trampled a path through
the clover to plant the sunflower
rootings that came in the mail,
the lavender before it was
too late, holding my tummy tuck
lest I bust my stitches

I found a garter snake
under the decaying fall leaves.
It moved like water to the
faucet coming from our
foundation stones and
slipped into a gap

Snakes do not have hands
but we do – here is the church
here is the steeple, here’s some cave
carved from an ancient river,
hand prints paint souls
like leaves on trees. Lay back
and watch the innate kindling
of the TV in the mind
passenger’s trip

We hold hands on the holiday,
the morning walk

Our dog stops at the telephone
pole at the end of the street,
looking for sweet new blades
of spring green grass

A neighborhood dog barks.
Somewhere out there
there’s agreement

On Audible we learned
birds recognize each others’ calls.
The robin hears the sparrow
the jay mimics the crow

They feel like we feel
It’s going to be OK
The mirror in the garden
says namaste

Memorial Day –
the Grand River –
sedimentary layers
clay limestone shale
dog shit on the bank

It’s fecund
it smells like rusted blood
it smells like coffee

We’ve canoed the river and
on its banks I’ve picked up rocks
to find salamanders

I carry the memory of days there
like a lotus of a transcendental sobriety

I found a morel
in our yard by the compost gate.
It came up ready, nary any pull
ripping noiselessly from the ground

It wilted as I carried it
I brought it just to show it
I turned around to put it back
I could not find out where it
came from

What can I say
but clay tests the hand
and it makes a pot

Last year I found one too,
a morel, and I expect next one
next year

This year’s bees are cleaning
out last year’s hive beyond
the grand pine you can see from
the bridge on Pearl

The tree’s how we know
where our house is. Smith wants
to paint the other side of the
picket fence white so we can see
it from Pearl

In July as you step off the deck
you can smell honey from the oven
of the hive’s hot hatchery.
They beat their wings,
keep it just right

The bees give warning bops
but rarely sting. We are in
the flight path to the field
they dance and waggle about

Last year they went up and up into
the trees, half the hive, I watched
them, a dark cloud up and over the
pine until they looked like
gnats in the robin’s egg sky

I watched until the view
evaporated

This year
regardless of their tolerance
we will check every frame
until we get to the bottom of it
and wipe out the extra queen cups

We keep them –
we are keeping them regardless
of their consensus

Golden and angry
they’ll stay in their nest
and in the winter you can put your ear
to the hive, hear the beating
whir of the lion’s heart, an engine
powered by honey

You know, birds’ eyes have four cones
where we have three. They can see
kingdoms in an ultraviolet canopy

Thoughts are in the trees –
living books, and mycorrhizal fungi
tap out signals from their feet

Every day I thank the Lord
the shape that’s buoyed me
in its volume of ancient
recorded oxygen

Pick up a leaf with the labyrinth
of your fingerprints –
it drains into a palimpsest
the map on your palm,
the rivers on the leaf

~ Lady

 

Cleveland Gray, 2011, 4:34

Tuesday, May 24th, 2022
a Ball/Smith experiment from 2011, 4:34, Peter Ball music & recording, me words and voices
“Mutant Smith material is quite the churning of the underbelly!– highlights to me so far being High Wind Weather, Onward Ho, S.O.P. and damn, the Cleveland Gray is like a throat walking inside out through an invocation to Howlin Wolf.” — Ben Gulyas

 

latest Lady

Saturday, May 21st, 2022

Lady’s latest poem

Visceral as a fresh caught cut perch
yearning as the dog looking hours out the window for the car’s return
I love you, I would say to my family
the gulp in my heart tendered between mortar and pestle
like the unexpected swipe of a burnt cigarette on the arm

With some,
we spend more time together in dream
than real life
expansive surprises of rooms
come out of a flap of shuffling cards
like a rabbit out of a hat
We make a cardboard castle
We sit on the patio and watch the backyard pond
the trees as sweet to sight as
fresh washed salad

I know
the knowledge of what the Cuyahoga
has done to its banks over centuries

The accordion wheeze
the new born spring swallowtail
taking its first steps on my patio
we only know where it folds up its
wings to rest because we see
where it’s been

where we are now, where we
have been
Let’s hold it, let’s keep it here

– Lady

 

my May 2022 Medusa’s Kitchen feature

Thursday, May 19th, 2022
short and mostly unsweet
9 poems, 10 fotos
“Smith is visiting us today with his usual music and color, and we thank him for his many postings across the years, even as “dark things/grow/fester”. We do indeed need to lift our eyes up from the ground once in a while. And be careful what you don’t say . . .” – Kathy Kieth, editor/publisher Medusa’s Kitchen

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/05/looking-for-old-sun-new-risen.html

 

April 2022 poem harvest

Sunday, May 1st, 2022

April 2022 poem harvest

2022.4.12 – Parked car
2022.4.18 – Heat rises
2022.4.21 – Such beauty surrounds
2022.4.22 – New green leaf
2022.4.23 – Bluebells and forget-me-nots
2022.4.24 – Republicans
2022.4.25 – Coffee
2022.4.26 – The low body hum
2022.4.27 – Morning walk
2022.4.28 – In dim light
2022.4.29 – The silence that’s not silence
2022.4.30 – The possibilities are endless

~ ~ ~

Parked car
grey day
rain rhythm roof

~ ~ ~

Heat rises
cold creeps
people lie

You got yr bear
you got yr butterfly
you got yr Pope in the would

Bone dance
birth to death
before and after

~ ~ ~

Such beauty surrounds
yet I stare at the ground
looking for dog shit

~ ~ ~

New green leaf
winking through
winter brown

~ ~ ~

Bluebells and forget-me-nots
old sun new risen
goldfinch glow

~ ~ ~

Republicans
are burning books in Texas
killing folk in Tennessee

Dark things
grow
fester

~ ~ ~

Coffee
in sip by sip
out one steady stream

~ ~ ~

The low body hum
of caffeine and cannabis
before dawn

~ ~ ~

Morning walk
five deer sleeping
where red-winged blackbirds play

~ ~ ~

In dim light
as evening evens day and night
silence thick with signal
distant traffic
burbling fish tank
clocks ticking
sleeping dog’s dream barks
and the ever-present slow hiss of reality
ringing in my ears

Be careful what you don’t say
it might define you

~ ~ ~

The silence that’s not silence
knows yes from no
knows quicksand of maybe
abyss of never
the endless of now

I go from room to room
time follows

~ ~ ~

The possibilities are endless
depends who’s looking when
or where
it’s a joke
a circus
and I’m the clown

I can say my way
quite cleverly
but you wouldn’t want to be me
ever
though strangely enough
I do

~ ~ ~

 

 
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