For NAME Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Adam Smith is a great moral philosopher,
Dear great big father of modern economics,
And very big supporter of freedom of markets
Magnificent main figure in economic thoughts
Would a snack-happy
happy snacker
with a snacky itch to scratch
be a happy snacker
if he snacked a happy snack
such as a happy cracker
or could there be a catch
as it was not enough
healthy happy snacky stuff
and he'd need something to munch
with a much more succulent crunch
a Grannie Smith or Golden Delic'
a happy snack-like pick
happily snackily
should really do the trick
Playing with words is like playing with Play-Doh for the first time,
mixing colors
messing with structures,
feeling it's designs between your fingers.
All five of them.
And then delicately stroking its surface with the others,
learning to comprehend the difference between smooth and rough,
and that the difference between them defines beauty.
It's like wiping the floor clean with its sticky skin,
and seeing van Gogh and Picasso
in the lines that separate red and yellow.
Really, it's just like being a kid again,
and experiencing the awe of simplicity,
the excitement of creativity,
and the gravity of curiosity
I'm the vibes, they're the vipers
I give healing, them keep killing
Words my medicine, call me words smith
Deceit and betrayal their weapons
I call them cobra, them are snitches.
I'm the owner
Them the controller
I always act like
I own or know nothing
They're so ruthless
Acting like they own or know it all.
I'm the completer
They're the competitor
Always fight for something
While I ride for my things
Everyone with their own obligation
Paying attention to whatever they belong.
Hiddfens inside
Clever invworteds
Incite chaos
Inside confusdadated
Confusminds
The mulberry fell to its knees;
in Smith-Gilbert Garden, it prays,
near the moss-stone steps;
and I look on, in curiosity.
It was an oddity, but I learned
of its plight. In sorrow, we make
it right, a great fall onto infrangible ground.
Like a bonsai tree, twisted.
Listed, like a ship at storm,
but sailors will never use nets,
to cast, for silent butterflies;
In July, they gather.
Hereby is Summer magic,
buzzing bees, buckeyes, swallowtails
and painted ladies (sailors swear by them).
Yes, all the prayers needed.
Unimpeded, the mulberry fell,
whilst fluttering wings that disappear
in season’s cold, bring merriness,
there’s little hope for thee.
Still, we visit the treasure that bows,
climb the steps, for a further glimpse.
This garden is where I stroll
among the butterflied tree.
Why is a word that can cause an argument. Why do I get stuck in the my head? Why do I have labels on my skin? Why are you being so dramatic? Why do talk that? Why aren't you happy? Why are you happy? Why do ask so many questions? Why can't you be like the others? Why cant you sit still? Why don't you just shut up and get over it?
Why would you say that? Why is he doing this that to me? Why won't he stop? Why am I wearing clothes associated with my age yet he sees me as an adult? Why is this a tradition? Why is it common? Why won't she be nice to me? Why won't she just love me as a sister and not as a punching bag a reminder of the past the face she saw crying in the back as the show goes on!?
Why do strangers get the love of a blood when I get the fat that's collected when separated!? Why do I have to yell the same only to be met with confusion expression and laughter? Why do I get the feeling of being selfish when I always had my self and why do I have to be the bigger person with smallest number out of three?
I guess the biggest why is ( why me?).
Chief John Smith was a learned chief
revered by some, respected by many
he had taken over the Chippewa as a young man
his peers were all gone now, for he was ninety-six
he figured he might have a year or two left
he lived to be one hundred and thirty-seven
surprising many including himself
That poignant moment when we meet
Like long-lost friends
So discreet
You look good together
Why do you need me
Is he blind
Is it me
We play the game
It’s nothing new
Hotels are full of Smiths
Like me and you
I should move on
You should too
You look good together
Him and you
We plan the next
Somewhere new
Mr and Mrs rendezvous
She’s sleeping now
I gaze her naked way
Thinking to myself
Someday
Turning to hide his shame
The woman with his brother's name.
Every day he'd sit and pout,
The Ambassador of Doubt.
Come dine with Melancholy Smith,
Was born to eat your heart out.
He was raised a single child,
His emotions were defiled.
Both parents saw a mental flaw,
That made sure he never smiled.
No one saw him as a friend,
And the girls would all pretend.
Cast from the crowd, they'd laugh out loud;
And berate him to the end.
On a broken course he'd follow,
The self-pity that he'd wallow.
A sad affair with no repair,
Only left his spirit hollow.
Till one fateful day it's said,
Moist tears in a lonely bed.
Still aching, with hands shaking,
Put a bullet in his head.
Not a soul was there to wave,
Since no soul was left to save.
Without a sound, tucked in the ground,
Now lies in an unmarked grave.
Soldiers with the cornered colonel
Said to crack him like a kernel,
Easily made him surrender,
Account of his orders render…
Colonel Smith, on his neck flannel,
Suddenly facing a Panel
In his house and front verandah,
Two watching from his Coriander…
They knew where to questions channel:
“Who’d twelve men shot from tunnel?”
Many had guessed: Major Lander
But order from Smith Evander…
Their decision shall be final:
They had come as a Tribunal…
“One thing about you Evander:
Death often smells like Lavender.”
Ex architect Tony Smith loved space
especially with black surface
Romantic rather than minimal
engineered on a large scale
I am Irish,
I do not patter a brogue, not lilt, or prate the Celtic.
I’m annexed English, cockney, a dead queens piglish,
chameleon tongued.
Something took me, shook me like a spade
until an un-rooted soil fell, a ground crumbled
grew tropical jungles of alien expression.
Years press, some bulldozed, some were the wrecking ball.
Found my clay feet stomping, squishing mud,
fostering images, a mire between a to zee
but never enough letters to fit a parlance;
my placeless patios, my me.
America, a melting polyglot,
I’m still slanging, hanging words out to dry, new words
told contrary-wise estranged in an outlandish manner
of palaver,
a poetry of sorts,
sounds unbound and breathing
but never replete, yet a bellyful
to live in the eyes and ears.
Speak slowly and I will hear you with my lips.
Mary Smith, a famous knocker-upper
in London's East End,
Shot dried peas with her pea shooter.
At workers windows
to wake them up
to get to work on time
Every morning
Mary walks up and down
the east end with her pea shooter
Shooting dried peas at the shattered windows
waking everybody up to that familiar tune
of tap tap tapping dried peas
on my window.
I just stopped by to get some gas
And had to go inside to pay.
I met this beautiful, blonde lass
Whose attitude brightened my day.
Everything about her was great,
Her smile, her hair, and her face.
Call it what you will, even fate
That I stopped right then, at that place.
She carried herself with poise.
Her confidence was just that clear.
The rest of my day will have no noise
As I remember that one cashier.
I may never see her again.
And, if I don’t, you can be sure
That I’ll think of her now and then
And my gloomy day will be cured.
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