Fernando Smith

Artist

Poet

Performer

 

Poetry 2

 

God sits alone

in his room

smoking cigarettes

down to the dimp

remembering all

the women he

has loved

and let fall

through his mighty

fingers

 

His long silver

hair

is slicked back

with a crusting

Brylcreme

his beard needs

a trim

and the snakeskin

boot

on his right foot

has a hole in

the sole

 

He waits and waits

the telephone doesn't

ring

anymore

all his friends are gone

or dead

the family grown

It has been

an unremarkable

life

God

The Last Station

 

We are at the last station

the eyes of longing have closed

the old sadness is lifted

it is a wave concussed

on the shingle of a

love affair at rest

 

The last station

a shy breeze reconciled

to the upper branches

of the pine, marrying

me to you

finding happiness among

the cones underfoot

The price we pay

 

The dancer I could not be

you became, catching

applause

on a roll of the hip.

The tree I planted reached

out to your window

dropping leaves onto

the kitchen floor, taking

eighty years to

find a cheek.

 

This is the price we pay

for the lives we lead.

 

The war ended

empires fell

rose

and fell again

legends lost in

collective forgetting.

 

"Who goes there?"

 

"It is only me, my friend,

passing through the

night, living and dying

marrying your daughters

whispering in the ear

of power

disappearing your sons

from street corners

and classrooms

taking my turn

to dance

around your roses."