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by J.L. Smith

Poetry Post-A-Thon: High Tea and Fancy Things

This poem was published in Alaska Women Speak’s 2015 Winter Issue.  Written especially for their “talking over coffee or tea” issue, this one is “High Tea and Fancy Things.”

 

High Tea and Fancy Things

You choose Assam for your mother,

because you think it best resembles her tastes:

simple but brisk, a taste familiar

but bolder than her usual Lipton.

For yourself, you choose the Chinese Green Flowering Jasmine

because its fancy green leaves and rosy petals,

hand-sewn to resemble a closed flower that

open when steeped in hot water,

makes you feel sophisticated,

well-traveled and grown up in her presence.

 

She looks around in the unfamiliar Alaskan tea shop,

many miles from her small, Midwestern hometown,

its fine china teapots with matching blue and white willow

pattern tea cups and silver demitasse spoons.

You both act normal despite the delicate

three-tiered glass tower of French treats and food:

the tomato bisque, petit fours, and purple macaroons.

 

When her hand reaches for the scone.

she contemplates the small, silver knife,

the one with the curved handle

for spreading the clotted cream,

when the knife drops to the table,

a soft landing on the cloth napkin.

She looks to you and shrugs her shoulders,

grabbing the scone, dipping it into the clotted cream bowl.

 

Some things are just too fancy, she says.

And, some things need not be, you reply.

You both laugh as you shared in a moment

much prepared for, but made simple as can be.

by J.L. Smith

Poetry Post-A-Thon: Da

This one was published in Peeking Cat Poetry in October 2015 (8th issue).  Yes, it is about my little girl.  No, really I am not turning her into a Russophile, but really, would it be a bad thing if I did? Ha ha.  Just like mama!

Da!

My ten month old baby girl says “da”
like a good Russian comrade.
Her hands flap in the air, beat her chest
with the conviction of Lenin presenting
his April Theses in Petrograd in 1917.

I tell my husband “da” counts as a word,
as it means “yes” in Russian.
He shakes his head: in English
it is short for “dada” or “daddy.”
Yet, he knows his Russophile wife better:
You’ve been speaking Russian to her, he insists.
I’ve been too tired to speak to her in anything
other than English, I tell him.

But that is not true:
ne pravda.
I have read her tales of babushki and koshki—
Grandmothers and cats—
because it interests me.
Makes reading to a seemingly disinterested
audience easier, more productive.

Yet, I wonder, as she sits in my lap,
her corn silk hair thick like mine,
her lips open wide,
her hands clap patty-cake,
as I reach for the bottle.
Bringing it closer to her,
I pause before I can say khochesh and
use English instead:
want your bottle?
She smiles with her two front teeth,
“Da!”

by J.L. Smith

Poetry Post-A-Thon: Dark Clouds Descend Low

This one was published in Three Line Poetry‘s 33rd issue back in September 2015. Enjoy!

Brief, haiku-inspired.
Dark clouds descend low
Mountains like whipped topping
The July morning cools

by J.L. Smith

Poetry Post-A-Thon: Spectators

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.

by J.L. Smith

Poetry Post-A-Thon: Willow Rebuilds

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.

by J.L. Smith

When You Write

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.

by J.L. Smith

The Things You Write

Went to a writer’s retreat this last weekend and we had 2-10 minute contests for a bottle of wine. I ended up winning the bottle of wine with 1180 words! Reread what I had written, and you know what? I can’t spell, LOL