Archive for the ‘ poem ’ Category

The Boss of Me

Author: Shari Smothers

Aug 4


Sleep has come banging once more
announcing the night before
wasn’t enough to placate him.

Try as I might to ignore him and write,
he insists on having his way;
yelling in tones mute to the naked ear
knocking around inside my skull
randomly pressing different parts of my brain.
Then standing on my cheek
in audacious Liliputian fashion,
he reaches his hand up
to drag down my eyelids one at a time.

It’s inconvenient timing each night he comes
arriving promptly when the words
have begun to spill, my hands
writing or typing to catch them.
I’m forced to give in,
praying I’ll later recall the words coming.

Still, I relent only after I’m convinced
that if you ask me my name
I wouldn’t remember it to say.

Good night.

©2008 by Shari Lynne Smothers
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Nice, To Me

Author: Shari Smothers

Jul 29

It’s taking my time
spending it ruminating
and recording
random thoughts
that catch me.

Sitting in the near-empty
New Orleans River Walk food court
shortly after the assaults by
Hurricanes Katrina then Rita.

Or in the Magazine Street cafes-
free internet signals
and weak hot chocolate,
stuffed with people
sitting together and alone
mocking city-wide damages
behaving
like pre-disaster days.

Early morning hours
in Boston
at my friends’ kitchen table
before our day begins in earnest.

I’m slow to get going
for reveling in being free.
It excites me so, until
I’m at first struck dumb.
Then through ritual
and determination
reminding me
it’s time to write something;
the dam is broken
words, ideas, stories
come falling out of me.

If you didn’t catch
my intimation
that time
is rarely on my side,
now I’ve said it plain.
It is my constraint;
never wanting to rush,
I rarely have enough time
to just sit and be with things.

©2008 by Shari Lynne Smothers
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Catching Up

Author: Shari

Jul 12

I thought cameras on cell phones
was really quite a waste
until I traveled to Johannesburg, South Africa.

The youths in the group
soon ran out of film
and my stores I had to limit.
After I shared my max,
they pulled out their cell phones
to continue taking pictures
. . . and I thought better of it.

Then I thought,
Cell phones to talk
is that too much to ask?
What’s the point of music
and texting and internet surfing?
until—
Hurricane Katrina hit and
knocked out all communications
save for one, can you guess?
Voice calls were intermittent at best.
But we could with some reliability
send and receive text messages.

I’ve given up on keeping ahead,
content with being able to
catch up to changes.
I’m stowing my cell phone
innovation skepticism.
Since just recently I sent my first email
from Gmail my web-based service,
I’m fully on board with all the new junk.
I’m getting an 8GB 3G iPhone.

© 2008 by Shari Lynne Smothers
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Amen

Author: Shari

Apr 30

by Shari Lynne Smothers

Flury of Cedar Waxwings

Thank you Father, for everything.
For the flowers and the trees
and birds that sing.
For the cool, smooth crooning,
Jazz playing on my stereo.
For all the places You’ve taken me.
For all the experiences I have yet to know.
There are so many things
that I have yet to learn.
There are so many doors that You’ve opened for me
until I know not which way to turn.

I falter at times. Though generally I try hard,
I don’t always put my best foot forward.
Eternally grateful am I that You’re not at all, to me,
indifferent apathetic and untoward.
The ever-vigil watch that You keep,
continuing my very breathing while I sleep
sometimes goes unnoticed.
I can’t always see You through my worries.
I forget that Your graces are
all-powerful through all my stories.
Each scenario I come up with to
worry me to pieces
is a contingent handled. Before I get there
I have been released.

Woe be unto me, not for having been forsaken,
but for forgetting who was in charge of
this light of mine, for forgetting
that Your unerring watch will ever remain unshaken.

from Pebbles in My Shoes ©2004

Back-story: This poem is older than many of the others included in the book. It came from a morning reflection after a particularly hectic time in my life. I was sitting in my car parked at the Lake Front in New Orleans, Louisiana reading a book.

I was distracted by emotion thinking about having finally finished college. And I was grateful. I wanted to capture the gratitude, appreciation and thankfulness I was feeling. I flipped to the back of the book that I was reading and let this flow from my pencil.

Amen represents a culmination of a lifetime of gratitude to that point. It’s in this book because that sense of gratitude is ever present, certainly reinforced by milestones in my life, like the publication of Pebbles in My Shoes.

Gratitude Habit

It’s fitting to end this month with this poem because I’m pleased that I managed to participate even for a short while in National Poetry Month. And I got to do it on my own terms.

Blogging is a great way for me to get my writing out. It’s been pretty exciting since I’m usually not so brave. When I think back, this time last year I hardly knew what the bloggosphere was about. Now I write posts at work and at home and I only want to get better at it.

I’m grateful. And this habit of being thankful has taken over my life. It is something that I consciously cultivated as I reminded myself even in my heaviest hours to be grateful. It’s been joyfully dubbed my gratitude habit by a very dear friend.

Please share your expressions of gratitude. I would love to include a link to your blog in a post in early May.

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Oh, the Moon!

Author: Shari

Apr 28

by Shari Lynne Smothers

My GrandmotherLuminous full Moon with its
finely etched marble finish.
A beautiful lamp God mounted.

Looks like He put in
a brand new bulb.
I can see the gray markings clearly.

So brightly does it shine
in the cool blue sky,
it radiates out have its own thickness.

If I held up a paper
I could trace exactly
the picture on the side of the moon.

When my grandmother and I
were out on a night like tonight,
She would sing the moon song.

I never learned that song
I don’t even know that I liked it.
Only that I loved to hear her sing it.

She may have been flat
or slightly off key,
but there was pure joy in her voice

that gave me just one thing more
that I would one day miss,
each time I see a beautiful moon

clearly on a night like this.

From Pebbles in My Shoes, ©2004

Back-story: This is another poem from when my grandmother was sick; it was time I spent enjoying what we had left, and who I was losing, by reflecting on things we shared. The only thing left is the rest of the story. In the time since I wrote the poem, March 2003, a full moon still makes me remember, and smile.

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Stopped

Author: Shari

Apr 25

by Shari Lynne Smothers

Only the sun showed bright.
I couldn’t tell if it was doing it though.
The air was still
the clouds didn’t move
power lines didn’t sway
as there was no breeze.

A green S.U.V. in the
middle of the street
carried people who
didn’t move or speak.
The family dog at the house
across the street

had fur that seemed
to be on pause and a tail
stuck up in the air.
And as I looked around
at the housetops and trees
I saw the telling sign.

In midair was a flightless bird
neither moving forward nor
crashing to the ground.
The world had stopped,
paying homage to
grandmother who was slowing.

A bit longer things held
to let me take it all in.
“We are all on one accord
in sorrow for our passing friend.”

As everything resumed
flying, blowing, wagging, going
and I continued to stand watching
I realized
all that went by was an instant.

From Pebbles in My Shoes, ©2004

Back–Story: This poem came out of a daily writing stint. My goal to write a poem a day happened to fall in the last month of my grandmother’s illness before she succumbed to the ravages of cancer.

On some days I’d write more than one. And often they were not so great. Still, there were those that wrote themselves workably or whole. This one came out mostly whole—much like the long poem for which the collection is titled. But, you’ll have to get the book to read that one.

Not everything that I wrote that month was angry or sad. Some poems were ironically hopeful. But I find a measure of peace in respecting or appreciating the hurting times. I’ll offer you one more bittersweet poem after this one and then I’ll let up.

As a final observation I’ll share, this poem doesn’t make me sad. It’s a remembrance of my history. As with any poem, you have to find your own reflection in the meaning, or not. When you read a poem, cracking it open is often as easy as considering yourself. Start with, “It makes me think of…” and see where you get to.

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