Negative Mind

The moment is borne on the break of the morn with a hope

gilt

gilt (Photo credit: jenny downing)

whispered well from the night.

That the soul can be torn-

with the tiniest scorn of a mind uncaring, asleep-

is truer than writ

and often is split with normalcy’s lure in it’s mouth.

The joy of the pain of memory’s gain

becoming a burst-

a purified trout breaking up.

Always happily glancing-

sometimes lightly dancing-

eternity treading lightly on brow.

But there followed behind

the laughing mind,

quietly mocking it all-

paining the heart

and ruining the art that

so gracefully graced the wall.
~D Gregory Smith

Christmas Eve

The snow covers the sins of the world,
some say,
and the light slowly returns to the hemisphere I live in.

But the guns are not silenced,
the hungry not satisfied,
the angry not loved-
despite the peaceful heart,
the plentiful harvest,
the need to be understood-
despite the gospel of childhood that springs to life about now.

Maybe it is spite, after all, that is the enemy of all we love-
that stands in the way of love.

Despite

 

~D Gregory Smith

Poem for Tuesday

~Promise

I notice the green turning brown
and the windy warmth of the dry
air that says “Montana, it’s August.”

It’s nowhere else, this feeling
that asphalt and lichen are creeping,
both oozing across their rocks.

That rodents start storing and
birds empty the feeder in record
time; nameless, timeless hoarding.

It’s the movement of the heat
that keeps it interesting- it’s exactly
what movement always does.

The dance, the  sway of the
breezing brush throwing out its
eager arms for dry sun, it calls me.

The voice is raspy, smoky even,
as it pulls me in to the story of
mountains and stream beds and meadows.

I love the smell of it all-of the green
and the brown that hits my nose now,
knowing I can wait and watch with the birds

and the rabbits and the trees and the
streams and the green and the brown, for
the still promise of orange and yellow and white.

~D Gregory Smith

The Voice Of Injustice Is Silence

I’ve been asked by a number of people where I got the tagline for this blog.
It came from a poem I wrote a few years back- and I honestly don’t think I stole it. Many things go through a writer’s brain between thought and writing- at least this writer- and I am never really satisfied when I read on of my published poems. I guess that’s why I keep writing them….

Still

It is time to open your mouth
And shape the sounds that give form
To the deathless moans of pain and suffering.
Because the voice of injustice is silence.

It is the industrial silence of the corporate owners
of the soul of America.
The owner of the rape victim
Has turned out to be the rapist,
who nurtures its growing fetus
with anger and guns,
With temples and sugar and crack.

It happens because it is
Purchased with favors
And scratched backs
And pretended piety.
The silence of fear,
Of the voiceless ones
Who see no Jesus in their
Cornflakes- only the one meal of
Their lonely, silent day.

“Keep them down and quiet,”
the fools say,
Because their money blinds them to
Moral bankruptcy and stupidity
And their power-drunk ears
Are closed to their own heartbeats.

But the voices will wake,
Sleepy maybe, at first,
But rested and ready.
They and the very stones will
scream, shouting from
The driveways of the country clubs
And the walls of the churches and schools
And Capitols, “Enough!”

It will be.
And the peace will not be a quiet peace.
It will be real and full of the sounds of
Life.
Unpurchased and awake.

Wrong

You are wrong about me.
Taking my measure with quick glances.
Pretending you own my story and telling it
With short, ugly words.

The light in my eyes
A stranger to your own, because you
Can’t seem to look long enough to
Recognize yourself- or anybody else, there.

But you know me- even though
You pretend to be completely
Alienated by the audacity
Of my words- which,
Upon second glance
Are held quietly in place
By the light in my eyes
And the spark in my soul
That refuse to bend to
The ugliness you profess to be beautiful.

And you wail at the injustice
and the abomination
and the economy.

And I mourn the loss of your sight-
Praying
That I am wrong about you, too.

~D Gregory Smith

Ten Becomes Eleven

A slide show of images
with flashes of faces,
glimpses, varietal vistas
I love and not love, yet.

With sounds and tastes and
scents to complement rain,
snow and sunshine, grass,
flowers and falling leaves.

The highway between
home and Sound, palm trees,
pride, babysitting and dogs,
airports, books and a dream.

The family- biological and
accidental, chosen and
necessary, met, unmet,
imagined and realized, all here.

Joints and hands, hair,
fingers and skin, eyes
and ears- older, wiser
maybe, complain anyway.

And handful of pills-
all different colors, shapes,
do their thing inside
and life, grateful, continues.

The houses, the faces,
funerals, weddings, hospitals,
parties, debates, lonely quiet,
advance, retreat and sleep.

Love as puppy breath,
too-early mornings with
him and them, us, all of us,
at home- anywhere we are.

~D Gregory Smith

Bully

I knew it when I saw it
-I always do.
Especially when it’s waved
in front of my face.
Flaunted and taunting.

I hit it. Like on TV.
I yelled inside “Ha!”
When it went down,
Shaking, trembling,
though I hit with words.

But next time I hit
It will be better.
I hear the words, firing me up
to go beyond them,
to hurt more than hearts.

I feel my body tense,
Muscles knowing more
How to put it in it’s place
Than words ever can.
I believe my story about it.

It goes down because it has to.
It has to because if it doesn’t,
It will be me, a person.
And that won’t happen
When I can steal power.

~D Gregory Smith