Poetry 3

    Poetry 3

    i live behind the glass, on the corner of framed and hung

    by Bev Smith


    a one eyed glance of half lid
    somedays all I can dare

    for fear the cracking glass
    will spill with secrets

    my fearing most the ones i forgot

    an out the door in passing look
    making sure I’m right side up
    from wrong

    and this side of a backhanded
    ” i love when you wear
    your hair up”

    and you’ve revealed, against my back
    it’s deep long flow of brown

    but I do like the swishy sway;
    my neck, sometimes the sun.
    so I’m okay
    with a disconcerting frown
    and your motherly
    outlook of work not done.



    those things we say

    by Bev Smith


    we’re truly
    an evolving
    of knuckle


    at the ear.


    never displaying
    my church mouse
    it became obvious –

    we were
    a great race.

    branch benders
    of the best

    never falling
    to hit
    more of a jump
    to jump
    in our leaping.

    i’m gathering,
    more breeders
    and fighters


    cognitive thinking
    by generations.
    we’d dare dangerous
    betwixt it’s codes.

    i know this
    a given

    that time
    my youngest little man
    changing clothes
    for bed.

    i watched our generations
    shield on shield

    when reciting
    a common phrase from my childhood;
    as my mother’s before me.

    pulling his tiny t-shirt
    arms up



    without so much as a thought.

    until my clueless face
    ashen white angelic authority


    in his deepest




    ” mama -why would you say that ?”


    it was then i knew,


    I knew


    as i’d only ever
    raised both my arms.



    water bending secrets; if not taught swim, one best still kick

    by Bev Smith


    who knew
    once aboard,

    your baby train
    would not stop.

    and each dream
    became a bassinet,
    a new bed
    then stroller.

    hand me downs
    only cool twice
    because now,
    gotta replace
    all that lead paint
    of three kids ago.

    crib slats
    started killing babies
    who’s parents
    couldn’t count.

    you being educated
    i got a new crib,
    and lucky.

    but before
    the invention
    of stranger danger
    i knew
    the locations
    of far too many
    cookie jars
    on the block.

    and every dog’s name,
    by their backyard
    where preferably
    they wanted
    not to be petted.

    when somehow
    now grown,

    i taught mine

    ”not all dogs
    are for us to know.”



    Our Papyrus Birth

    by Bev Smith


    our papyrus birth
    lays yellowing
    before the ink blacks
    of blotted footprints.

    we -all arms and legs
    growing off the pages
    then in upright drift,
    strode toward the sun.

    a cloud
    upon each shoulder
    a shadows cast
    ‘tween rib tapping
    in hollowed thump.

    the deep auburns
    that sliver,
    blowing a torrents gust
    though the seasons.

    beneath the brittle.
    i’m drying,
    an ache
    along it’s branch.

    trying to think back
    to the last time
    i felt -of green.



    that sweetest peach

    by Bev Smith


    can we not
    run naked in this light
    eyes open
    and sit cross legged exposing
    our secrets as wanton gift.

    touch skin smooth and newly kissed.
    honeyed golden of warming sun.
    course fingers through our veins
    faster, farther
    and in shy eyed hither merge as one.

    and in our yonder days
    when skin holds the desert as its arid own,
    oasis scarce.
    our gaze of afar, the distance of our farthest reach

    i will remember you
    as still that sweetest peach.


    this thigh,
    this thigh quivers ‘neath your touch
    seeking strong, your grip

    before more lines
    forming new faces,
    trace of age and much more wisdom.

    in lace scantily clad
    destined for your gaze.
    intricately woven
    needing one of youthful eyes by two
    to measure it’s elegance
    against my firm elastic flesh,
    pliable and soft
    bending sheer beneath
    its lattice weave.

    -to answer your query

    ” they are french
    i believe ”


    and we will lay to lavish
    all our silver years
    lost, lingering in and among the images

    that none, if we so bold -told

    could conceive.


    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.












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