The world is changed
by looking out your window
with wonder,

and next
by stepping out your
door with delight-

transfixed with mystery
and held, enraptured,
by the constancy

that holds you here.
It is changed by
the honest loving of it

without need or judgment.
To choose the eyes
to see with today-

kind or unkind,
gentle or angry or bitter
or even thoughtless?

What is there to see, really-
what choices reflected
in the panes that hold the view?

~D Gregory Smith


I hold my head up, barely-
with parades in it, it’s heavy.
I look at the world and know
that they’re all looking at me.
They are.
I’m important.
I have to be or there wouldn’t
be such a beautiful fucking parade,

At least today they’re looking.
They can’t really ignore the music
and the sweat, and the skin and the feathers.

Some bring their kids,
I automatically make way for strollers.
I notice lots of dogs, some very fancy.
I get tangled, briefly, in a sparkly leash
when a bulldog in a tutu
takes a turn for  a terrier.

There are beautiful, beautiful people.
Beauty, I know, a distraction from pain.
Smile, it’s your day!
They smile, on cue-
they really want to mean it.
There are old people- at least fortysomething.
It’s funny, they smile anyway.

Some stand back,
not really there, but they have to be.

And some, I know, are quietly holding
a heavy excuse to beat me with
(they practice on themselves, like I did).
But not today,
They’re outnumbered.

Is blue the sky, or the other way round?
Today, it doesn’t matter.
My eyes are clear
my back is straight,
my neck getting stronger
with every passing feathery float.

~ D Gregory Smith


Who do you find me to be?
Or, maybe I already understand the answer
without the questioning eyes you try
to love me with (bad sentence, are you judging?).

Where do I go for the truth?
Or, maybe you have found that place I know
to hide in when the Nazis threaten to take
my family,or, -did I do that again? Do you care?

What I know is this:
Your, mine- and maybe we can say our-
Vision catches the sparkle at exactly the
Same time and it’s done exactly right, right?

It happens regardless of grammar and syntax.
It just does. And maybe we can’t help
but grab at water and look for air
Despite knowing, but still wanting

To hold, to touch, to see, to taste
Not only with my senses but yours.
Because it’s fun and scary and senseless, maybe,
And that’s the only thing that works. Right?

~D Gregory Smith


Eden, dead.
Utopia, a dream.
Moment by moment
The slip into the future-
The banana peel of the now
Sends us landing on the butt of a cosmic joke.
This one, like all jokes,
Hiding truth in its funny sleeves.

There is no future.
This is the hidden truth.
The truth that is deflected-
Dismissed as evil,
As hopeless,
As ridiculous,
All lies.

There is no future.
It is sleight of hand.
It is the distraction
From this moment,
This breath
Which is absolute Truth.
And the future would have you miss it,
Damned to what never comes.

And working to make us miss
what will never come again,
The promise of the future leans seductively
In the doorway to nowhere-
Handsome and pretty and empty.
Watching lustily as we step closer.
Preciousness wasted,
Drop by drop,
Breath by unconscious breath,
Behind us.

~D Gregory Smith

I Dreamed A Dead Dream

I dreamed a dead dream.
They’re all dead, aren’t they?

Isn’t a dream a not-live thing
that seeks our attention,
that begs for our breath?
It needs these to spring,
as Athena did,
from the head of Zeus
(she arrived dressed for battle),
breathing, awake
and ready.
Or, even to come as Aphrodite,
floating gently on the foam of the sea.

My dead dream, devoid of color-
like the world in The Flood
became the gray and angry, hysterical sky.
Does it remember life
like a shade 
of the Underworld,
 unsure of itself ?
Or does it see the world,
perfect, and simply waits
with the pain,
waiting for whatever it needs
to make its own fascinating entrance?

Is my dead dream closer
every time it is dreamed-
closer, closer
no matter who dreams it?
Less lifeless, somehow
in being seen by me,
by you,
especially by you.
Do you remember that your
dream is dead-
that it needs you to live?

Or do you forget,
rubbing your sleepy eyes?

~D Gregory Smith


The way seems perfectly clear,
Laid out in front of me
And marked
And easy- except for the big trucks.
Those impersonal behemoths
Scatter snow as they roar past,
Blinding and harsh.

Now, in this little moment,
It’s not so clear,
Not marked, not easy-
Only white and loud.
Can I remember the path I just saw
For the instant it takes them to pass-
And stay on the road?

I wonder, and grip tighter,
Mind going to that place where
Everyone wears black and says
Nice things about me.
The seconds pass and I remain
On course, not dead,
But slightly less alive than my fears
For a moment longer.


Eyes- A Poem for the New Year

Not rotted or frozen, but alive,

sleepily living despite the layer of snow.

Something there,



and eyes are blind to it- deny it even,

and live the desperation, hating that there is no green,

refusing to look at the evidence under the snow.

The sages know.

They know white contains green in its spectrum,

and theirs are the faces that smile in the cold

with the pleasant secret of knowing that there is no secret-

only eyes that choose to see wonder,

that love to look for green,

especially in a cold, white world.

~D Gregory Smith