Long Smooths Poems
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The child is always first currency.
Before the ink dries,
before the courtroom coffee cools,
before the television woman folds her careful face into concern,
someone has already counted what the suffering is worth.
The girl with her backpack split open on the evening pavement,
the boy with the shaking hands,
the mother filling out forms
while her mouth tastes like pennies—
their pain moves through offices like electricity.
A man in a tie eats salmon under dim light while speaking softly about liability.
Somewhere else, another man prints flyers, another signs contracts, another builds a campaign speech out of a frightened family’s photograph.
Even mercy has invoices now.
The prison counts bodies at dawn like a farmer counting cattle before weather.
The news anchor smooths her hair and says tragedy with the same mouth that sells mattresses after commercial break.
And the innocent—
God, the innocent— they stand there blinking under fluorescent lighting,
still believing truth is a living animal someone will eventually feed.
I have watched them:
the quiet man at the bus stop,
the old woman translating forms she cannot fully read,
the son who says I didn’t do what they say in a voice
already apologizing for existing.
There are industries built entirely from human fear.
A frightened country is profitable.
A lonely country is profitable.
A divided country is profitable beyond measure.
The innocent do not know this at first.
They think the world is a courtroom,
that evidence matters,
that adults tell the truth once enough damage is done.
Then they learn:
there are people who would bottle another person’s grief
and place it on a shelf if the market were strong enough.
Still, every now and then, someone refuses payment.
A public defender staying late.
A stranger telling the truth when silence would be safer.
A woman placing her hand on another woman’s shaking back in the hallway outside court.
No profit there.
Only the terrible, unmarketable cost of remaining human.
In a world
where humanity is worth nothing at all.
Climb those many stairs, up to the stars.
“Cut!” Comes the child, the wee Pinkerton.
Stunt double, doubles down, with plethora of scars.
Fate is what it is, bumps, bruises...sorta fun.
Pinkerton rolls and bounces, ooches and ouches.
Then they call in the fingering ‘stache, for he smooths
the luscious hairs of his handlebar, never slouches.
Divine with his hands too, damsels-in-distress, he soothes.
Pinkerton pastes on his pastel beard, and breaks out
into a minor character. “Cut! Stunt dou—ble!”
The ‘Stache rips doppelgänger’s facial hair as Pinkerton shouts,
opens mouth, “Hey! Hey! That really hurt!” Now he’s in trouble.
Pinkerton pouts as he takes his final walk into the night.
Rubs his eyes as a werewolf runs by ready to attack.
Those mischievous stars yell, “Cut! Stunt double, fight!”
Alarmed, Pinkerton needs to know who has his back.
A werewolf snarls and twirls his whiskers with a pinky.
Suspicious and brave, the kid gives him a karate chop.
Pinkerton unzips the stinker from bottom to top.
Found out, ‘Stache grabs his blanket and binky.
11/3/2020
Temporary nirvana (albeit elusive),
nonetheless I strive to access
attaining bliss mine soul bless
exceeding exhilaration winning
(with fewest moves against
deadly opponent) bittersweet game,
where life analogous playing chess
mortality embraced hesitantly, I confess
gnarled, knotted, pitted... old fingers
wrinkled mottled flesh doth dress
unavoidable senescence
upon body politic mortality doth express,
though severely myopic,
yours truly eyewitness
self positing query,
asper meaning of life
oft times rhetorical question fathomless
lacking satisfactory resonance,
this mind strives to second guess
time spent probing haphazardness,
asper gaining insightful purposefulness...
coalesces, sans clarity when idleness
experiences Zen, albeit approximately
inducing light trance smooths jaggedness
inviting mindfulness, lucidness, keenness...
absolute zero distraction eases lamentableness
assuaging, deepening, massaging
psychological state with limitless
ascendence toward manageableness
decreasing mental din and clangor
allowing, enabling, providing...
cerebral nearsightedness
to escape into temporary nothingness,
a foretaste of eternal obliviousness
free from preponderant woes,
incessant sweaty palms, a painless
dimension unfeeling unimaginable quietness
impossible to envision raptness,
when death be not proud reiterates stillness
silencing roiling tempestuousness!
Graceful lights pouring over
Dew covered petals
Gentle as a caress, kissing the spirit
With inspiration and serenity
Joy that comes from knowing a blessing
Has fallen from heaven’s realms
Calling to the soul, a breath
Of insight, hope, imagination that feeds
Glorious compassion through
The whispering wings of angel’s dreams
Lithe, flowing colors in hues
Of miracles, creativity
Polished like stones in a stream
Where liquid smooths edges
With the purity of clear, cool waters
Wistful and precious, laughing
Luminosities, sighs of wonder
Famous for the cleansing sensations
Refining praises that soften
Hearts with whispering wings pulsing
In the veins of a chastity
Glimmers of marvelously twinkling
Stars in the night sky, sapphires
Praising the One who made the very heights
The depths and widths and purposes
Of a passion filled with shadows
Tones of hope shimmering on brilliant
Forever, fighting to glow
Like the whispering wings of fireflies
On a pitch-black night darkness
Free on the evening breath
Of inspiration riding a sensation
Joy like music, songs of grace
Praising the One who knows our hearts
And shines His love into our souls
Whispering Wings Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
January 9, 2022
At the dusk of life,
All promises of dawn fade.
The hopes of noon arrive dead—
Petals wilt, beauty flees, and regret dances.
Time feigns vivacity within the day,
Yet grows listless before twilight unveils.
Its carcass leaves behind bitter regrets—
Like emptiness gripped in bare hands.
If you still feel time’s galloping pulse,
Run with blistering speed, lest it leave you behind;
For time deceives, wears down all strength,
And barters vigour for disillusionment.
Build your fort—adorn it with success;
For mockers wait to scorn your fall.
Only steadfast endurance sustains your stride,
And smooths life’s rough gallops on your way.
Near a distant sun
Under an uncontaminated crystalline sky
Exists a world without me
Where the viridescent grass ages unchallenged
Wears wizened beards
And bows only to the wind
Where the waters crash when you thirst to surf
Smooths when you desire to paddle
And ripples towards shore when you’re heading home
Where zebras change their stripes daily
From neon green to psychedelic purple
Or any color in between
Where the “H” on a building simply symbolizes “Help”
And is a communal gathering place
Where anyone can ask and receive assistance with anything
Where government is synonymous with communication
Leadership is synonymous with service
And opponent is synonymous with respect
But, this distant inhabitation,
Magnificent as it may be
Lacks Caleb, Adam, and Kelsi
Two sons and a daughter that have shone so bright
That they must have burned themselves into my pupils
Since they are always in my sight
So, I turn from this distant scene
A dream without an imperfect me
Because,
A world full of wonders
Will always fall short of wonderful
Without the likes of Caleb, Adam, and Kelsi
TO A MULTIHUED DAMSEL IN THE BEAUTY
OF HER WETNESS
Out of the womb of seedless waters came her birth;
No less than always has been her silent beauty—
Radiant essence crowning the heavenly throne of Earth;
She’s a spectral reflective bouquet of God’s creativity.
Mothering Sun smooths each of her rays into its special place;
As her regal dome challenge the matter of her magnanimity.
No force of whispering winds can move her from her chosen space;
For the celestial realm has surrendered to her aura’s nobility.
In vain, many have set sail in search of her beginning and journey’s end;
Failed voyages of endless searches by the adventurous brave and bold.
Yet, her celestial curvaceous tinted arch still excite the curiosity of men
With voracious appetites for things whose worth and beauty rivals gold.
Yes, from time immemorial, man has been privy to the sight of her beauty
And teeming glow;
Yet, since that time, man has never ever been able to hold and control
God’s teasing rainbow!
the rooms grow smaller
quieter
after every departure
clicks the latch
they're built to keep
weather out
not harbor grudges
that echoes leave behind
forks, vases, plates and pens
settle into their places,
as though, they're expected
the yellow walls
once held afternoon teas,
until the laughter
sealed the paint
and screened the light
the banister
smooths its touch
before any hand
remembers its feel
the curtains
lift their seams
peering underneath
themselves
the stairs
borrow sunlight
for the tread of feet
the kettle
answers itself
in a kerfuffle
chorus of steam
the floorboards
clear their throats
one board
too soon
the hallway
widens for every
shadow
still waiting
outside
every afternoon
rehearses mornings
one curtain call
at a time
the dust learns
the shape
of fingertips
the chairs
lean much closer in
to listen
the doormat
combs its
greeting nap
every echo
tries on
a different voice
as the house
leaves
the door
ajar
for no one
The mountain keeps no ledger of our names;
it wears the centuries like weathered wool,
while we are footprints written on the tide,
brief alphabets the evening learns to erase.
The oak that shaded lovers and wandering saints
lets each leaf loosen without protest.
Its golden whispers spiral to the earth,
small prayers returning to the book of roots.
We gather houses from splinters of hope,
brick our laughter into stubborn walls,
hang portraits where yesterday smiles forever—
yet dust rehearses quietly in every corner,
a patient sculptor polishing all possession
into the color of forgotten roads.
Time is an invisible river
that carries castles and cradles alike.
Its current smooths the sharp edges of triumph,
rounds grief into silent stones,
and teaches even iron
the soft language of rust.
Once, I believed my heart
was a lantern no darkness could swallow.
Now I know it is a candle in cathedral wind,
its trembling flame made beautiful
because it cannot bargain with forever.
Still, the dawn scatters silver
across the shoulders of the sea.
Birdsong stitches morning to the sky.
Children chase butterflies
as if joy itself had learned to wear wings,
and old hands cradle sunlight
like water cupped from a sacred spring.
Perhaps that is the secret.
Not to defy the dust,
nor curse the slow surrender of the flesh,
but to bloom while the seasons remember our fragrance;
to leave kindness like wildflowers
along another traveler's path;
to love until the soul becomes
lighter than the ashes it must one day leave behind.
For dust is not merely an ending—
it is the quiet grammar of beginnings,
the seed's dark cradle,
the potter's waiting clay,
the soft brown page
upon which eternity writes again.
And when the last wind
gathers my scattered hours
into its invisible hands,
let it carry not my bones alone,
but every smile I planted,
every tear I understood,
every hope I dared to kindle.
Then I shall not fear
becoming dust,
for even dust remembers
the stars from which it came.
I stand by the stream
listening to the sound of flowing water.
the gentle invitation it offers
is a soft unraveling
of everything the day held too tightly.
it murmurs over stones
in a language older than sorrow,
each syllable a cool blue note
slipping into the air.
there is a tenderness in it,
a steadiness
that smooths the edges of thought
and loosens the knots beneath my ribs.
the stream keeps moving,
silver-bright, unhurried,
teaching the me
how to breathe again.
and as it trickles and flows,
its gathers calm around me~
a quiet presence
that feels like being held
by something patient
and endlessly kind.