Bev Smith- New Poetry

the art of casting shadow

i love that age is slowing you
i might can catch you now
the light and dark
before it falls
and the twilight that dapples skin
washes away
now while we lay as two leopards
in our long wise contentment
intentionally blemished
where nothing hidden lies
but exposes all

days when trees paint blue

too soon morning drags a finger
crossing the dew
prayers the sun won’t later burn
everything that was once wet
the recluse of surrender
is surreal        in surround
there is no one here but him
i play amid his strengths
him knowing  that weakness
that      i tear apart easily
then just walk around broken
what he calls     brave
today the chimes hang stilled
this texas sky    deceptively blue
he grounds me
in the good dirt
where i set my leaves
when my arms shake
and only falling is left
when even branches
are begging root



when understanding water

i cannot take my hands
and shape some things
some are rough
a blinds eye
caught mid spook
a young colt shy
of what the wind catches
dances his nervousness
against the rein
i can only wait
and steady and breathing
sit deep finding the center
where i left it
between two thighs
under a seat lies a dynamite keg
“easy”  my stroke of his neck
as he Iikes it
and because i don’t yet
see what he sees
i don’t question him
i don’t expect to ignite a match
in this wind


your goodbye
wagered such distance
no hand could be seen
even raised openly
in slow sweep    remember me
not fisted or
middle finger gruffed
teeth ground
arms shouldered
in hurried hung
your hide
hidden by the hill country
you’d recluse to
i imagine you camouflaged

months of debris on skin
your stick and leaf identity
your shadow and dark in their forefront
your eyes white
toned to midnight
my calling and your     no answer
a lone wolf pup howls tonight
i think of you

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 branches
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
painted fence-white
today finds me
feeling red    bold
a cardinal
trying on her husband suit


About the contributor

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