Eyes Open Open Books
for K.J.S.R.

turned once and what eyes
lost in big beautiful eyes ever since

what do I care if I sink
if I cannot swim

if I am lost in the depths of them


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
7:51 a.m. 20.01.10

Double Dragon

an area of void to fill up with fill
how ever did I empty it

always empty it when I spill what was in it
when I do what Onan did


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
7:33 p.m. 28.01.10

Missing Steps
for Christia Brelsford

what do we do with limbs
do we take them for granted
do we, with them, do mischief

in Haiti, limbs crushed
an earthquake quaked
buildings breaking, crumbling,
tumbling down around Haitians
non-Haitians alike in Haiti

crushed limbs to cut off
like so much excess cloth
to let fall upon a dressmaker's floor

but limbs have bones, blood vessels
muscles, feet with toes, amputated

unable to be restored
will not be regenerated
unlike a lizard's tails

what do we do or undo with limbs
what do we with them achieve

use them to do our own will
to have our own way
or do we with limbs
do the will of God

upon them go where we're called
go where we're sent
or do we do our own thing
go our own way

show me oh God
what to do with these limbs
I was outfitted with in heaven

I want where I choose to go to matter
I want each step to be an investment
in making thy kingdom come on earth
as it is in heaven

God bless every step I take or make


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
6:02 a.m. 27.01.10

In A Minute Muffins

i.
what a minute
wait a minute
within a minute
so very much collapsing
upon so many in Haiti
on Tuesday

ii.
why did they survive
to emerge with machetes
to roam the streets with
to threaten with
to harm with

why them, alive
and so many
with only good in their hearts
dead and buried
beneath rubble

these out and about
these still around
to terrorize
to cause trouble

is nothing left
to fall upon their heads

why did the sky not fall in
upon them

these persons out
to take more lives
their aim, to maim


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
6:12 p.m. 18.01.10

Holy Lines
for T.L.C.

is the implication
that you’d be happy if I hated you

is it or was it your aim that I hate you
your desire to reverse love
you’d prefer to undo, do without,
live without

what if foolish and this ripped from you
you’d be naked, you’d be cold

as bare as fuck and shivering
in winter on New Providence

should I remove the garment of love
deliberately

look at you, laugh at you,
your breasts bare, your pussy hairy
trembling, trying to keep warm
with just two arms

would you then not want
my arms about you
your arms about me

what is divine, from above sent to you
you take for granted, treat lightly
regard disrespectfully

I’d fuck you only if you want me to
if you asked me to

don’t expect me to force you open
with a hard on between your legs


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
8:12 p.m. 27.01.10

Libby’s
for A.G.P.

wish you were near
wish you were here
I'd eat you like peaches

I suppose you're wondering

out of the can
or one off a tree
in the palm of my hand

I'll know when I see you
what spoon to use
or what ladder


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
7:54 p.m. 26.01.10

Duty to Discharge

i.
I was quite moved
by the strikes she struck
by the balls she hit
by the bat she gripped
the butt of

were we dancing,
was it base ball
or were we
having sex

ii.
cock gripped by the neck
flutters, clucks, claws
until its head is cut off

when it is done,
a mission accomplished
it flutters, flaps its wings

what's left of its neck
is a bloody mess

its bloody feathers
to pick all of, to pick all off

must dip its body in hot water
make feathers soft enough
easy enough to pluck, to pull out

hand full at a time
until it’s naked
down to its skin

is it a sin to kill a chicken
should I be too chicken
to kill a chicken

when the time came
daddy killed sheep
a knife across a throat

blood would spout
sheep, even then
would not open its mouth

because goats
could not be counted on
to keep quiet, to be as still

these we took
to the abattoir,
to the slaughter house


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
12:35 p.m. 26.01.10

Clock Tick
for A.G.P.

when did it click or begin to tick
is what I'm concerned with

when did you begin
to be pregnant for me
to be pregnant with me

conception is a moment in time
sperm touches egg
and time commences
a history starts

when was that moment
if you don't mind my asking
my wanting to know

I'd know then when our anniversary is
our anniversaries are

want to know when it got started and how

was it on the kitchen cabinet
on the sofa, in the bed or on the floor

where my darling could it have been
and when

when I've not laid eyes or hands on you
for a quarter of a century

fourteen then, forty now
unable to touch you then
I can ravish you now


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
4:37 a.m. 26.01.10

Rat Trap
for C.C.

must cock my gun to fire
impossible to half-cock it
useless if I could

must cock it, must be ready
adversary appearing out of no where
out of thin air

must keep my gun cocked
to fire upon whoever comes around
comes along to take life or pen or gun

must keep a pen cocked, a rat trap set
with pork or cheese

poem must be as taut as this, as taut as that
a poem is my raccoon trap

useless to have it unless it’s set
able to fire, able to go off

able to snap if meddled with
if I am rubbed against


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
2:05 p.m. 18.01.10

Wedding Outfit
for A.G.P.

as tangled up with her, with Haiti
as making cloth,
threads crisscross

as many going east/west as north/south
and so many colors

loom in Picardy, in France
where Matisse was born

submit to this, commit to it
or entities apart already

we in poems, inextricably joined
important that what is being blended
are the same quality, same quantity

fibers to make fabric
to make a garment with


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
9:40 a.m. 17.01.10

Kisses & Tears
for Leslie Saiz

it came to departure
I was in tears
unable to hold back
the fall of these

unable to hold back either
kisses falling upon her face
like rain falls

a drop here, a drop there

not like friendship or family
confined to two cheeks

not like lovers,
two lips making tulips

falling kisses like falling rain
anywhere upon a face

upon earth, upon flower seeds
or flower petals in a garden
or growing wild

unable to bear
having to say bye bye

crying and kissing her
wanting to stick
as many bows as possible
into or onto a gift

wrapped and packaged
about to be sent

more bows than she could bear
her husband near, his

and this man in Havana, in tears
as if tearing actually

paper ripping
because she was leaving

husband and her
and friends they were with

having to, as surreptitiously
as they got into Cuba
get back to the US, its West Coast,
to San Francisco

authorities assuming
that they had gone as far as Mexico
and were returning

how though could she forget the poet
in love with her, crying and kissing her
saying goodbye to her in Cuba


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
5:00 p.m. 16.01.10

Je suis tombé
for Z.P.A & A.G.P

in agony down town
crying out, stomping the sidewalk

aching over losing you
leaving me because
I am unsure why

concluded that my heart’s divided
or elsewhere

must you say fuck it, drop it

is it not worth it to pick up the pieces
an oriental vase, glue it together again

what I’m into, I’ve stumbled into
what can we do about what is accidental
the dents, the broken windshield

who we crash into, we commence
history with, if we are fortunate

fall in love like a vase falls
can I be blamed
for falling stars or leaves falling
or snow falling
or falling rain


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
7:12 p.m. 20.01.10

In Half-A-Minute in Haiti

over the course of a year
a city counts, numbers
its traffic accidents
its traffic fatalities

as if the entire city
were a vehicle, traveling swiftly
with its millions on board
crashed into a wall

the living with the dead, buried
screaming, crying
until they are rescued
or could cry out no longer

stones moved in seconds
to trap, to bury, to pin down

what strength and what time required
to move them, these tomb stones

who on earth with hands,
with heavy equipment
able to move, to undo
what was done in half-a-minute

Haiti like a car crashed
bodies everywhere

everybody left alive,
grieving or groaning
others moaning

eyes of the world
wide in disbelief
agape, aghast
face of horror, horror to face


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
1:55 a.m. 19.01.10

Millions for A Millipede
for Antoinette Penha

as if some muscles in my person,
in my personality are nonfunctioning

aggressive about some things
complacent about some others

half of me active, half as if atrophied
unable to activate what refuses to move
what refuses to budge

like limbs active, activated
as many others unable to move

unable to get message to them
or through them
unable to get through to them

have I the will it takes to better myself
financially, am I able to make myself
attractive for a wife
guardian of a family

I shall need divine assistance
I shall need inspiration
a wife alone can bring

need circulation going through my entire being

tired of feeling, of being hopeless
in the face of anything
outside of poetry and its environs

I do need to be more aggressive
about finances, about material possessions

I’d like to look attractive or more so
less monk-like regarding what I eat
and wear and drink
about how I go about and get about

I need to be less of an embarrassment
to who is attached to me
and to who might wish to be


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
1:10 a.m. 19.01.10

1 O’clock Mass

i.
ants that we are, wiped out in an instant
can we be as humble as ants are little
as ants are helpless

light enough to float upon the waves of life
come hell or high water
come rain or come shine

ii.
do nations unite or do they divide

certainly facilitate name calling
Haitian, Jamaican
this Englishman
that Russian

iii.
fragility of the state in which we abide
as fragile as the plates
out of which we eat
as the cups out of which we drink

can drop any minute, can crack up anytime

this world we’re in
this globe we’re on

upon a saucer spinning


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
Written on Thursday, January 14, 2010
between 1:25 p.m. and 2:55 p.m.

Life Line
for Antoinette Penha

are you grieving or what or where

suffer because you’ve not checked in or called home
worried about your whereabouts
emotionally, mentally, actually

how together we were
before the earthquake struck
before the earth shook and took so many Haitian lives

have to do without you, I don’t want to
want to cling to you in whatever times
have you cling to me

where are you holding on,
what side of the boat, of the ship, rocking

must put up with the rolling waves,
the ship’s pitching, as well as worried about
how you are and where

want to get my arms round you, want to know you are secure

empty hole where, in me, all last weekend, you filled me up

what has extricated you, evacuated why, abandoned, why

vicissitudes of life pull us apart
these to attend to, I want you home, want you with me

connected as we were before earthquake divided us

poem I make with pen and ink, is all one line
a length of rope I throw out

end for you and one for me
if one or the other were to fall overboard
into the sea or into the sky above


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
3:03 a.m. 15.01.10

Aim To Please
for E.S.

you said don' write bout you
but I want to

sweet of you
penetrates right through

clip clop, horses hooves
heartbeat, words beat
like that

want a poem to gallop
to get to you quickly

ii.
assemble words

what to cause them to adhere
to one peace of paper or to cohere

string them together

what invisible connections
between related persons
between related things

people who are by blood connected
are they by arteries,
by veins connected

people who are by love connected
in a squall of rain
put an umbrella up

one left, one right hand
make fists about a walking stick

iii.
worthy or unworthy of her
is appreciation wasted

on words I pin down
staple to pages with punctuation marks

she wears flat shoes, makes steps
feet rise and fall

how are we attached to earth
are we, are we attached
in what way, by what means

I pick up my pen, I put it down
up or down, I'm writer still

both feet or one foot on the ground
just as much a citizen

as we are when we jump rope
and we're off the ground,
in the air

I've put a poem on paper
to try to please you


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
written on Friday,
January 15 2010
between 4:20 and 5:25 p.m.

The Other Cheek
for Creselle Dean

pitch-black face, pretty as can be

why this, all my life,
has been my favorite skin shade
is a mystery

but I'd see black skin, women especially
and I'd get goose bumps
thrill of it too much to bear

what is stirred or penetrated, I am unaware

titillates the soles of my feet
affects hair follicles filling my skull
of this effect I am aware

wrestled with her, last time I saw her, I recall
wanting to limit how much I cared
or how much care I expressed

needed to put a wall up, needed to keep it up
one cheek enough

another kiss, another cheek, was going too far

had to draw the line somewhere
feared my wish might have been
to take her away to my emporium upon a hill

she resides elsewhere, has children in her care

did not wish me to encircle her or cage her
she had not long before escaped a cage
she was not happy in

I looked closely at her face last evening
loving it, its collie-blackness
it is what lights my fire, always has

was it Goya, Spanish painter, who knew so well
how to use black

how well have I used black, I wonder, in my art

what colour should I juxtapose it with
with what colors did she complement her skin shade,

profound and lovely as a Long Island midnight
before electrification and street lights

looked up, all you saw were stars
snowflakes of all sizes suspended in heaven

what does she fear when I get near
what does she find necessary to wall out
what does she embrace

I wish I were as attractive to look at as she is
she brushes her hair back, wears it in one

you should see the waves
in this black black woman's curly curly hair


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
12:01 a.m. 15.01.10

White Chocolate Mocha
for Shonni Curry

sweet you are
how sweet you were to me today

able to go/able to take me
from feeling I'm nobody
to knowing I'm somebody

lovely lovely
pretty pretty

my poetry likes to say things like
“I'll fuck you silly!”
I'll not let it

like a dog upon a leash
bark at you, leap up
leap out at you

calm and tame, I'll come with my dog
to escort you home

wearing your mini
a little tipsy
after beer consumed
after wine consumed
after dancing, winding
showing what you're made of

I'll want what's left, the rest of the night
something to do together
to make it half as cold
twice as warm as it is
these nights

not nights to be alone
chilly without Chi Tea Latte
without Hot Fudge Mocha

joker wants to poke a piece a log in the fire
fire in the fireplace
warm a cold living room

two sleep naked


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
12:39 a.m. 14.01.10

Full of Your Papaya Seeds

fill me will you
fill me with you

what an invitation
party for two, I'll come

should I wear underwear
will you

underwear off
legs pulled apart

invitation extended
fill me will you


© Antoinette Penha
& Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
10:58 p.m. 10.01.10

Moths Beat About Bulbs
for Antoinette Penha

out of whom did I screw four children
out or in, how do we screw them

are our children light bulbs, like bulbs
to light a dark corner, a dark world

or are they screws in hinges
so doors can swing open, so doors swing shut
when night falls
or when we wish
to shut someone up
or shut someone out

or screws to keep an air craft from unraveling
like knitting, high above the clouds

out through the window, high in the sky,
I ponder screws I see

imagine the wind undoing them
imagine them becoming undone

screws keep an air craft intact
as intact as an egg shell
passengers, chicks inside, hatching,
preparing to be born

we screw children out, we screw children in
we screw children up, we screw some down

Mary watched her son, Jesus, son of man
hammered to a cross

nails through hands and feet
a spear through his side


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
4:24 a.m. 10.01.10

1,230 words for Antoinette‏
do, send picture as readily as you can. Obie. P.S. I thought about your
having been married twice and this seemed like having had too much
experience - like being so far removed from new. Then I thought and compared
this experience with instead never having been married but having had a
dozen different boy friends with sex included with all. I know a woman who
has ten children. These ten children have six fathers. When though are we
too far from new? And what of the possibility of aging - of living - of
experiencing and remaining new? Note these two sets of opposite poles: old
and young and old and new. One can be young and old. Another one can be old
and new. In ways I am old and new and in other ways I an old and old. What
of you? How do you feel? What state or condition are you in? Then there is
our perception of ourselves contrasted with or in complement with other
people's perceptions of us. And what of life and death or rather birth and
death? How far have we journeyed from birth - in time as well as across
space - and how near have we journeyed to our inevitable end? Looked at
another way: how much of Obie have I used up and how much is left? For you,
how much of Antoinette is used already - like an amount of tooth paste in a
tube and how much of her is left? And further: Who or what has used what of
us has been used and how? How pure - how uncontaminated is what remains of
us? What was used of us, was it squeezed out or was a mouth placed upon the
tube that's us - the tube we're in and was it sucked? Medicine I understand
should be poured into a spoon as to put the bottle to our heads contaminates
what's left. Could someone follow who has made use of us and find us fresh
still - pure still? I wonder deep within of these things always. This is
probably why I am not married yet. And what of me - how well - how
uncontaminated have I been kept? Writing is for me, I think, my attempt to
live - to know without being KNOWN in the Biblical sense. I write to renew
myself. Still I feel I wear myself out and I'm decomposing like a head of
lettuce or cabbage whether I like it or not. How I struggle though,
Antoinette to be new - to renew - to keep new. This is what I remember of
you - how absolutely brand new you'd seem always. I wanted that. I wanted
you. Almost out of my mind once over how flower-fresh you always seemed in
your grey blouse and blue skirt - with never a strand out of place; you and
all your class were writing an exam - you and everyone with your heads down.
I got so absolutely carried away [I think I had been imagining doing it for
a while.] I attempted to kiss your cheek; pretending to be examining your
paper - examining what you were writing. Just before I planted a kiss upon
your cheek you responded with disgust, kissed your teeth and awkwardly
pushed me away - rejecting my odd expression of love for you. Ever since I
have felt like a reprobate and unfit to teach - unworthy - felt ever since
that I should not have been/should not be permitted the care of - to be
custodian of such innocence. I felt I could not be trusted not to corrupt
what was - who was pretty - who was pure - like sullying well water or
dirtying a clean wall. This sickness though, it seems, is central to our
human condition. What does anyone want to do with what’s virgin or with a
virgin? Our inclination is not to preserve virginity in others. Instead, in
our culture, we are eager to take it away – our desire is to corrupt it.
Afterwards we brag about our having come upon what was fresh – what was pure
and plundering it – even as Columbus, Ponce de Leon, other European
conquistadors behaved towards and within the new world. For their actions –
their rape of place and people, they were given land, titles and honors.
Additionally I am reluctant to offer people things - food, drink, gifts -
fearing that my heart is insufficiently pure to give anything good. My
writing though is my gift to the world. What I write I give freely. Mixed in
my writing is the good and the bad in me - honesty - honest me. It is who I
am. It is truth. “Can you love this?” I seem to say. Can you love me? If you
can you can have me. Can you take the bitter with the sweet? Have you a
taste for this - for it - for me? Have you stomach for it? I think I am
human and good and bad - and honest about it. I think this is how we all are
- wonderful and flawed - wonderfully flawed - made of the dust of the earth
and of the breath of God. Are you of such a combination made, Antoinette?
Are you honest about it? I need to beg your forgiveness here and now if you
are that Antoinette. I was carried away in a way I hardly ever was in my
entire ten years of teaching. This has troubled me - worried me. Only
forgiveness can restore and redeem me. Am I a good person? Am I a bad
person? I know this: I am human and as a human being, I am capable of the
worst crime ever committed by anyone - by any man which was crucifying
Christ. I know also that, as a human being, I am capable of the greatest
good any man or woman has ever done which is to give my life as Christ did
for someone - this completely selfless act. I know I too can resurrect by
love’s redeeming power. I believe that I am capable of being loved – capable
of being totally forgiven. This though does stretch my faith. I do need the
powerful force of faith to accept and to receive such a depth of forgiveness
for the sins I’ve committed – like the one against you – committed because,
I have concluded, I am a no good person. This is what I am faced with having
to overcome, self-condemnation. I am caught therefore between man's worst
side and his best side wanting to die and wanting to live - wanting to love
and wanting to kill. I live longing for harmony - balance between these
antithetical forces. I love you as well as I am able in my broken state – in
my fallenness – in my forlornness. I long to be happy. My desire is that it
lasts. Instead it visits like a mirage – it glimmers and goes away with me
trying to summon it again always – trying to find the code – the right set
of tricks to cause love and happiness to reappear. You, Antoinette, have
reappeared. I want to see your picture. I must locate one of mine to send
you. See attachment. With all my love, Obediah.
Wed 5/16/07 11:04 PM

Nylon Lines
for T.L.C.

how do I make up for what was so carelessly lost
for what you lifted not a finger to save

you do not cherish my words, our words
you know how much they will be worth in time

or are you unaware of what we are weaving
what you let go down the drain last evening
is unforgivable

I thought you could be relied upon
thought computers and how they function, your area

our words lost and you nor I, you said,
could do anything about it

and you so nonchalant
words lost included my critique of your work
all my effort and passion and it did not seem to matter

I've seen you enthusiastic, quick
about other things, at other times, not about this

all our tenderness shared today
all the love I felt and put into words
how polite we were, how emotionally bare

that it did not matter to you
when it mattered so much to me, bothered me,
bothers me

as sluggish as a dolt, as one semiliterate,
semi-retarded
had me thinking such a one
was who I was dealing with

one minute or for several
yesterday for several hours, on the same page
until we were not, until we are as apart
as one who reads and one who doesn't

though we have to both be literate
because all our contact is via words, all scribal

I've had so few minutes of conversation with you
though we've spent several weeks of nights on line
chatting, cussing, fussing, writing poems

breaking up, making up

little one I hate and love
you have no idea of erections I get
in response to you, your work, your words

your hanging on to me at time as if for life
I'd feel vital, needed, loved

get excited too when I am forgiven
after having wronged you
forgiveness that's divine

you teach me to be patient, to be tender
teach me to love you

more than where your legs V where they meet

love your legs and arms as well
love your head, your hips, your hands, your neck
fingers, toes, lips, nose, tongue, your pussy tongue
saliva, vaginal juices

unable to put feces, menstrual blood in a love poem
I'll add your liver, lungs, your intestines, large and small
arteries, veins, bones and bone marrow

and what of what of you that is not physical
thoughts, personality, soul

what's for me to love and what's for God
or do we come together because he's love
and he is where love is and with who's loving
and with who is a loving person

hair upon your head, upon your body, I love too
I love your breasts, I love your nipples
I love your navel where you were until not long ago
to your mother joined

you are joined to me now by lines of poetry
like lines which join a fisherman to a fish


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
3:20 a.m. 05.01.10

Across A Divide

i.
Beatriz

big woman-baby, a thumb in her mouth
this suggestion of helplessness
when she knocks me out
when her hips are a globe

able to carry it, able to spin it
I longing, yearning to be the axis of it

friction to make smooth
we’d have to lubricate

easy enough to do this
look at her in her dress
large patterns of blue flowers
against a black background

she alternating gyrating
once clockwise with gyrating
once anticlockwise

these two circles in 5 seconds
and our affair ends
and I must return
must play them over and over again
to remain erect

tried this morning, early,
without ejaculating
though I did come close

I had, I have, so little to go on
a split second
and an apparition evaporates

need her like the earth, as near as this
from sunrise to sunset, from year to year

this year is ending fast
in about an hour, it will be no more
like a cake,
not even crumbs left

ii.
what are they trying to explain that they cannot

what can they not say plainly, clearly

what are they always coloring red
with too much emotions

these people of whom this man behind me
here in church, is complaining

who run on and run out
and complicate matters

because of which,
he prefers to avoid them

iii.
Atlantis firecrackers going off,
celebrating a new year commencing,
I thought was something or someone
thumping, stomping on the roof of the church
or in the ceiling

has this church a ceiling

took me a few minutes to unravel a mystery

I thought of thunder
but not the right rhythm, not the right melody

then I remembered
how close Kemp Road is to Paradise

remembered
this is how they celebrate such occasions

only I am not outside to see the spectacle
I hear the noise, the annoyance
while we worship

Watch Night at St. Margaret’s


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
Written between 10:48 p.m.,
Thursday, December 31, 2009
and 12:16 a.m., Friday,
January 1, 2010

Rough Stones to Lift
for T.L.C.

i.
have I or haven’t I
the right to feelings I’m feeling
to this happiness you’re generating

hearing from you generates
attachment to you generates
tied by sentences by poetic lines

have I someone after all
to lift poetry with, to carry the cross of it

I can this instant, burst into joyous tears
over what I do have and don’t have

over what I fear you might do
if I attempted to catch it,
to hold it in my hand, mist that it is

fear you’d disallow it

how can a man 55, a woman 22
fit together
fight like we fight, feel what we feel

are we not on earth now
inside minutes passing
inside the seed of time

like seeds with two sides, in two halves
avocado or yin and yang

ii.
it seems she is as intelligent as I am
it seems she is my intellectual equal
even if her father is my age

I know no one on earth
whom I’d more gladly fuck, more readily fuck

what a miracle that would make
what a miracle that would be

however long away from me,
when she returns, she’s number one

her place in my bed, in my head
I admit her, permit her her seat


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
1:28 p.m. 04.01.10

New Year New Day
for Commissioner Ellison Greenslade

running about like chicken
with heads cut off
after criminals decapitating each other

sirens forever wailing
policemen whipping through
whipping pass, whipping by

as if they were out to stop crime
unable to stop what has already been done

when the police shows up
it is always already too late

just as doctors need sickness
to stay in business

the police needs crime
to justify their existence
to guarantee employment

whipping about through traffic
through whatever color traffic light

is to make them and what they do
seem so vital, so indispensible

what makes me suspicious
is how vital policemen and politicians are
or make us think they are

and how in this same country
poetry and poets have little
or next to no importance

should what poets do
not be more highly rewarded

can it not be one of the instruments
in the nation’s tool box
used to fix what’s out of whack


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
11:12 a.m. 01.01.10

Left upon a Page
for Arianne Etuk

I believe in what she worships
want to worship that same God

wonder if she'd lead me to him
to what it is she has faith in

dripping wet with God she serves
I too long to be baptized
want to know what I am missing

I’d make a fool of myself similarly
gamble for the worth she’s filled with

to have a cup or mug of it,
saucer full for breakfast, one for supper

her to sip on now and then
well of what is springing, saves a nation

I could have been a Catholic priest
she could have been a nun
instead we're in this world

know a priest who was, like a fish,
thrown back into the water
like grunt, like big eye John

we're in the water swimming
like swans, she glides
though underwater paddling, no one sees

glides through life, entered mine
ripples widen out in all directions

it tickles, it is my blood she's in
arteries and veins, rivers she traverses

turn to look at the wind pull a sail boat
with what grace she comes, she goes

want to be carried away, to be carried along
no way, with the wind in my sails, can I go wrong


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:35 a.m. 30.12.09