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Harvest Home Poetry by Michael Parker Smith All is safely gathered in Let the winter storms begin.... Power Beings The old man staggered back to his bar stool After pissing his pants. This skinny Mexican guy caught him before he sprawled Across the pool table, across a perfect 7 ball in the side pocket combo shot Off the 12 as a Japanese woman on the television danced Wearing split crotch panties Meanwhile I was thinking about a day 24 years ago When the winds came cold and pure from the north And power beings shook the trees As I stood there silent and still Watching the sky very subtly change from blue To angel wings I thought, well Nothing has really changed in all those years I could go back there now And it would all be the same Love would be just as elusive Just as precious Just as much a dream as it was before Also, I would probably make The same mistakes with even greater idiocy and consequence I realized that I was merely this flowering plant A rose bush, perhaps, or a zinnia And though I was always blooming I would never leave this garden Everyone else would leave And I would remain blooming And blooming As birds whistled for their supper And dogs, in the distance, barked for their lovers Long into the night As moonlight fell cold and silent on my leaves My petals I wondered why the old man was pissing his pants At 2:04 in the afternoon It seemed too early for someone who was not a poet But I imagined him existing in a constant parade Of terrible marching bands It explained everything. Everything except that cold and pure moment When the power beings whirled me away On clear pure air, on silent wings of freedom Over the rooftops and gone Without moving a muscle Scarcely blinking And just like that 24 years are passed in this way As if nothing has changed As if nothing had even happened No daughter No wives Nothing, except perhaps art and poetry and A big dumb perrenial flower And all I wanted to do was scream But the skinny Mexican guy bought me a beer So I drank that instead It was more than good enough And the sun became pale and sore I wanted to leave the garden forever And instead of me Lets the birds remain, singing But there is always hope And faith and love I believe in that More than I believe in marching bands Or television Or any sort of perfect anything Except for fear That's a tough one Fear is everywhere The old man who pissed his pants had had enough of it And my heart was boiling with it Thinking about that day And all those 24 years of days As some really young fucker tanked the 8 ball in the side pocket With his $225 pool cue And the skinny Mexican shook his head and sighed Everybody has a garden Whether they know it or not I guess that's the scariest thing of all ---Michael Parker Smith 9/15/96 Elkhorn WI Consorting With The Bees On Uranus The aircraft swarm like angry crabs on a dark beach And bright as her eyes are over the radar beacon and down Down by the blue lights and onto the white-limned dancefloor As her soft lips say hush, listen to the wind that huddles in the turbulance That is where the magic went and where it comes from But liberation was never this easy before, this intoxicating As the roar whirls back at us over the landing lights I thought I was dreaming of trains, I said, not this As the waves swirled in little clusters of starfish Stranded in tidal pools, marooned in loneliness but still breathing Then she whispered kiss me, watch how you can kiss me And as if by angel wings she flew with light and heart All pearl and gold and purring in that vaste night, While the starfish and I watched, transfixed This is how, I said to them, this is how I got healed And embracing her in that aerodynamic world With those wings that seem to grow best in darkness Was all forever wanted swarming and bubbling as it does When the tides grip the heart and pull and lull As those little whirls you hear in the air after the jet has landed I am an airplane she says, banking 12 degrees left, grab me take me And leaping into her slipstream I am her angel While down on the beach the angry crabs swarm in And the starfish dream of anaesthetic winds And cold lonely planets and premeditative pearls. ---Michael Parker Smith 2/15/96 Milwaukee WI The Dream Parade An abandoned railroad yard burns in the wind Flame heaped upon flame all cloaked in that hushed silver We call air----and we dance as melted twisted steel there And as diesels growl in that inferno, we howl for justice and the sun There are too many clouds in this world Far too many for imagining And we dance the ballet of boxcars and gondolas and iron ore cars And revel in the exploding creosote and hobo dreams We ride passenger trains that scare us They are always 41 minutes late and stop at the same stations And the stations always lead to tall and dangerous buildings. "I hold in my hand, a steam powered light bulb..." I'm quite proud of my invention. "That's nice honey," you say, "finish your beer So we can leave. We'll be late for the movie." At times like this I wonder if it would be different if I wished I was a girl---I wonder if I'd think even once About trains and their magic rumbling in the night I wonder too, if I'd scream as much Or would I scream more In greater sensitivity of these horrors Horrors like the silver caress of the wind Like the serene inferno of a work train caboose On a lonely siding by a rusted semaphore signal Or a kiss caress drink There are many mysteries And many wisdoms Rivers river And movies melt in the projector Or slowly rust And the frightening remains Of Mikados and Mallets Smoulder with anger and silence And the only thing that never changes is the silence And the only thing that never changes is the silence And the only thing that never changes is the silence ---Michael Parker Smith 10/3/95 Shorewood WI Garden Of Geodes Their petals were defiant in the sunlight As blooms that bide within the bud Can only their own hearts defile with wondrous song And so we walk as two amongst these many rocks And hold our hands with silent thoughts That only broken dreams reveal and softly Thus we too are as these mighty geodes This boundless garden is our mansion and we within Can only imagine what the other has revealed To bud and bee And yearn to know what mysteries we walk among and with As sunlight breaks our skin but only barely ---Michael Parker Smith 11/2/95 Shorewood WI Harvest Home Nothing in all those years and harvests Nothing seemed to yield or change All was dust rising up from the fields All was rage and mutiny As the lynch mobs and the reapers Cut down every growing thing once more Leaving entrails of the bounty Strewn across the county roads As only the autumn moon Remained so very steady and so very quiet Hanging there in the sky like guilt For all those days gone by have come to this And across those empty fields One can see forever Instead of the bright tassels of corn Or the soybeans turning warm and brown But all one really sees is how cold forever is And how empty it can seem The touch of it is not what one would imagine or desire There is no comfort in all that wonder No closeness in those stars All that has been imagined Dangles like some hangman On a long red string of rope And not even those warm glowing lights from that barn Over there Across the empty shivvering fields Not even the daily ritual of milk Can bring constancy and warmth to this It is, to be honest A bit like we imagined it to be But never as we want it No matter how beautiful and brisk ---Michael Parker Smith 10/02/96 Elkhorn WI Go to Page 2 Home The Literary Life Blog Me Jake |