This one was published in Alaska Women Speak‘s 2015 Fall Issue: Fireweed theme.
Fire Angels
Girl with corn silk curls twirls
in the meringue sundress into
a field of fireweed.
Her hands slap the magenta petals
like a propeller, spinning the fluffy
cotton until she collapses,
but does not stop,
making fire angels in the weeds.
This one was originally published in Alaska Women Speak
Spectators
The cracked windshield, blotted with rain,
streaked with each wiper blade pass, as
we wasted time with a drive past the Chugach
Mountains, thick with gray cloud afros,
adorning each peak.
Miles of guard rail sheltered
our route from the swollen Eagle River just feet away
until the gray broke for a brief patch of fireweed
and a moose cow and calf,
their red-brown fur
nestled against the magenta petals
as they waited along the roadside:
spectators to our rainy day parade.
This one was originally published in Alaska Women Speak
Willow Rebuilds
from the shards of glass, the piles of wood ash,
the remains of once soggy work shirts and jeans, and
a burned out jeep.
Beyond the twisted metal of a former guard rail and
the cardboard signs thanking the Alaska Sockeye firefighters,
the birch and spruce warriors still stand.
Some trunks burn black while others burn auburn,
like a passion that refuses to die or rest defeated.
Yet, off in the distance, where the ash grass turns
a brittle yellow then a tall green,
the fireweed rises,
its magenta petals ignite the landscape with life,
encircling the new plywood,
and the owner’s grinding saw,
as the cabin rises again.
The shower water raged
above my apartment but it did
nothing to dampen his voice.
This was my comeback publication. After not publishing for 16 years, I ended up publishing this in the 2015 summer solstice issue of Cirque.
Femininity
With my femininity under my arm,
we hustled down the dusty
shell of a broken college town,
past the crooked props
that used to sell feed
and pens to students, where
I offered my femininity to my fiancé.
He refused it.
Passersby frowned and jeered:
The wrinkled grape thought it was
best suited for a child;
Her charge thought that I was just too old.
A fluffy pink, the doll’s dress was
–with pink bows, of course.
Blonde with pigtails, the hair was
–with tight curls, of course.
Shattered sidewalks failed
to absorb the shame,
as my femininity receded
into my ragged college jacket along
with my spent youth
and thrift store receipt,
only to allow patches of its plastic
head and feet to emerge
when I least wanted it.
Posted over 3 years ago…
This is the one that started it all. Although I’ve always considered myself a fiction writer, I’ve published mostly poetry. Of course, I have just returned to writing and publishing after a 10 year sabbatical of sorts, so we will see if I can get some fiction published.
In the meantime, this is the first poem I published. The funny thing is, I never intended to write poetry; poetry found me. This is the second poem I had ever written. It was for Jon Tribble’s beginning poetry class at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. I struggled every week for something to turn in, while it seemed everyone else had a workbook of material to pull from each week. After that class ended, I took a gamble and sent this poem in with two others to Grassroots for its Fall 1999 issue (yes, that long ago!). This one was accepted. Enjoy!
Sara
Cool September breeze ruffles
the cheap, tattered peach color hair tie.
Lovely off-white recital gown
laced with light pink ribbon lays loosely on your skin.
A dull plastic pearl necklace—
perfect for the performance.
Luscious cantaloupe colored gloss,
fuchsia nails as possible finishing accessories
The stage cages you with its cheap metal.
There is no release.
Death is the only null in your contact.
But, even death would never redeem
your torture whether it be in heaven or hell.
That never mattered—
they still wanted more.
They went ahead.
Poked your side.
Yanked your tail.
Batted your head.
You are not human.
You just wear the dress
your owner gave you.
Feelings are not yours to feel.
You are incapable of it.
They said so.
What happens when you are the monkey in the cage?
I am celebrating National Poetry Month at the blog for the entire month. What better way to celebrate the month than to post poetry? I will be posting some of my earliest works that I have published in various literary magazines over the last 4 years. Sadly, some of the magazines have gone defunct, but nevertheless the poetry remains.
Anyone else want to participate can certainly do so! I can be yours or someone else’s work.
Any others poets interested in participating? Let me know. I plan on posting a poem a day, mine or someone else’s. Also maybe a prize or two. 🙂
Check out Jennifer Smith (@jennifersmithak): https://twitter.com/jennifersmithak?s=09
I was at a writer’s retreat recently and someone remarked about how much I had written in a short amount of time (about 4 years). They mentioned that they were older and had not written even a fraction of what I had written. You know what, though? My first thought was, I have not written enough, and that I have been making up for lost time, but when I thought about it, that wasn’t what I said. You know what I said? You will write when the time is right for you. And, you know what? I meant it. Writing is not a race or a competition. It is about writing the right things with the most sincerity at the right time and place.
As they say, you do the best for you. You can compare, yes, but remember you can only do you.
J.L. Smith 