7 poems by Bev Smith

Sometimes we find ourselves in the damnedest places. Stumbling around in the dark,  poetry was the shade I needed before I could tolerate the sun again ~
Equine professional since high school. Horseman since birth. I train dressage horses and riders in Texas on our family farm with my husband and two sons.

 

 

where winter goes

you forget about the green
when it’s been grey this long

leafless canopies tease the wind
like the movement of a terrier’s bone

the shadowing overcast
mirroring the parched bleak gone
of still here grasses

like a vein was severed and life depleted in a bleed out

the green too sweet to the eye
becoming      like some candy shop
a landscape’s shelves
popping in resilient reds,
posh pinks and pungent purples
their yellows    little fallen sun bursts
every petal unfurled    laid
a handmaiden’s perfection

and that grey that carried
as burdening wool her tiring
widow’s shoulder
pulls from it’s heavy winter boots
outside the door of spring

and walks an eve in search of her adam

~ ~ ~

they made home a four lettered word

they open the doors
after cutting from us
our heads
and amid the rolling of them
and our thundering feet
they say go
and find yourself

become that farthest tree
or skyscrape piercing the horizon
with your towering
higher and higher
forgetting your feet

forgetting that small
hillock where a simple house
stood
where lowering sunsets call you to dinner
and dust escapes from pants legs
with a brush of the hand

and smiles greet you
in kind

and they said go from this place
seemingly sedentary
and slow of thoughtful ideas
where corn was either
waiting for rain
or waiting for harvest

where the river never asked
to flow this way or that

go where the streets are paved
and tight lipped
where downcast eyes greet in kind
and where rain
doesn’t have any inkling
of north or south
choosing drown whoever
can’t hold their breath
or those few who give in to swallow
as still others climb upon their heads
pushed beneath

and last thoughts pend
on that hillock
and wonder  if the corn is in

~ ~ ~

this exactly or the likes

my dog

he sleeps where he likes
where the sun will find him
in its rising, peaking
and descent
playing peekaboo through the tree canopies
a corners eve of the house
or first shaded side of most things
afternoon turns now ” i see you ” full sun

he has a bed
on the porch
in a corner    nestled near
but tucked away from the traffic
arrivals and departures
and the when occasioned
patter      or pelt of rain

his favorite spot besides
alien abducted returned there    of anywhere
is on the step head against a concrete planter
in a form of neck bent origami
i call fallen broken crane

he sleeps where he likes
one of the benny’s of dog life
his other is frequenting the woods
pretending he’s a bear
and that one is why he gets that extra pat
and another good boy scratch
above the others that can’t seem to
trek twenty feet beyond either yard
in their grand planning

and why      if he is napping in the driveway
i just drive around him

so don’t tell me
my dog
needs a real bed
he owns a farm

and he sleeps        exactly where he likes

~ ~ ~

yesterday woke me on the ceiling

i have rolled from wake
a bear awoke by spring
belly filling on first berries
greeting the thawing bark
with a scratching claw
and itchy hindquarter rub

i am a kite cut from its string
thinking i can fly
believing it so  as i am
a cloud arms wide are my sticks

a bird on a wire
eyeing a parking lot
spy a fry waiting munched
not today

today
i am that wedge of potato
waiting wings and peck
and a gullet to gulp me down

~ ~ ~

a pirate his booty and a love of things sharp

they’re the neighbors
that stop over    seeing
we’re repairing fence

a stop work pull-glove-off
hand shake    kind of visit
as our eyes scan
a work day’s remains
between sun and horizon
a mere distance pinched
of finger and thumb
to an eyes squint

those ticks on the clock
swinging on    in now

I can’t stand her
and in
enough reasons
for its own poem
but
hurried away
with a phone call
i don’t
get to feign
disappointment

within earshot
I hear him tell you
about allotted time
he sets aside
to spend with her

i’m thinking like a hobby?

my realizing, when i think
of me and you
i’m more of a career
or
even a reign

you say
more like a tattoo
than a birthmark

a lucky run in vegas
that comped room
meals included

what you’d pray
stays in vegas
but sneak home
a carry on

i laugh out loud

knowing    i’m more
a gunnysack heaved
over a shoulder
middle of the night
rowed
to your ship

~ ~ ~

the red in red

i can now see myself
no longer cardboard
among all these browns
among the golden grass
in its yellowing death or

the doves dressed grayscale
their best’s pressed dirt hint
wintering in barren’s branches

blending until stirred
their flutter    erratic’s
escape nowhere flight
to the splayed twig’s arm
above    one level up

the arena sand is pale in its dry
still soft in its broken down of wither
and my perimeters are lined
by far too many board planks
for my sawyer to sway
painting fence-white

today finds me
feeling red    bold

a cardinal
trying on her husband suit

~ ~ ~

thursday

today

i need crawl in

and you say
come on

i’ve got two arms

and in that moment staring

the sun pops
out
a smile

and we grin

and bear because

it’s thursday

~ ~ ~

 

 

 

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2 Comments on "7 poems by Bev Smith"

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I really enjoyed reading your work; you write wonderfully.

I enjoyed all of your poems but really loved “they made home a four letter word.” Your opening words “they open the doors
after cutting from us
our heads
and amid the rolling of them
and our thundering feet
they say go
and find yourself” hit me hard and in such a poignant way. I do admire this ability. Thanks for sharing such a powerful talent.