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Best Poems Written by Mirabel Smith

Below are the all-time best Mirabel Smith poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

I Wanna Tell You

I wanna write about all the things I love, love, love.

I wanna write about how they make me feel and why.

I wanna write about all the cute things,

Like saying honey, darling, and baby.

I wanna write about honeybees, and peaches,

I wanna write about you in my bed under blankets.

I wanna write about orange,
Purple and green.


I wanna tell you that I love, love love.

I wanna tell you about warmth and the sun.

I wanna tell you that I’m cute, and you’re cute too.

I wanna tell you that I’m happy when I’m alone.

I wanna tell you about humming birds, and dachshunds.

I wanna tell you that it’s cute when you bite my cheeks,

And that I love, love, love when you hold me.


I wanna scream that I’m adorable,

And scream that I know everything is wrong,

But I want to write to you that some things are real, real cute…

And that I love, love, love you.

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

Car Ride

Ritchie Valens sings our way to the country,
Filling the aerostar with boogie woogie.
Ocassionally Pops eyes appear in
The rear view mirror,
Staring intently at us but,
Sidel never notices,
Eyes sunken into Stephen King Novels.
Annoyingly to my mother I fiddle 
With flimsy headphones,
Duct taping them at every
Fall from my ears.
“She yells “Carter! One more move and I’ll chuck this at you!”
The browning apple in her hand, 
Gripping it like a hammer.
Pops eyes in the rear view mirror again, so
Throwing on the old yellow blanket to hideout with myself
I beg for “Donna” to turn off, but
Mother is always ready to begin it again.
Donna where can you be, where can you be?
As the car shuffles, I notice,
Oh Donna isn’t a love song.

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

Pushed Up By My Heart

How disappointing,
My excitement prior to this moment.
It’s the same outcome every time, but
I always am hopeful.
Hair styled to seem natural,
Make-up giving me an angelic appeal—
Should have been perfect.
I should stand out.
He looks to me slowly,
Then continues to cover the rest.
My lips must be just too red,
My shirt faded blue.
I keep anticipating conversation,
Maybe more than just “hello” and “how are you”.
But he’s got his eye on someone now,
She looks kissed by the sun,
Peachy cheeks cosmetics can’t get just right.
He leans in towards her,
Sizing her breasts, hips and thighs.
I continue smiling,
Feelings at the back of my throat,
Pushed up by my heart.
He says “Thank you, better luck next time.”
All us pink ladies file out,
Fingertips sweating onto our scripts as
We throw them in our bag with all the rest.
Usually I tell myself “next time”,
But I can’t seem to bare anymore no’s.

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

Randolph

Up the hill to my home,
Amongst white pillars,
Gardens with fountains and
Green, green, green,
Sits my house.
Brown, because the paint chipped,
With front steps missing and
Worn shoes by the door.
Passerby’s  remark at the yellow of our grass,
Shudder at the chained dog barking.

Through the streets, 
Little piles up until
The rain pours down sending it
Right to our house.
Unpaved driveway colliding with
Rusty pick up truck,
Hood always up.
Neighbors never greeting us,
Guests uncomfortable with
Four pizza stained children running around.

Downtown the main road swerves
Sending you to Bethel or Braintree, but
Just before sits the Kimball Library,
Regal, with high front steps leading to
Two giant doors.
Marble benches carved in with names
Of families who selfishly donate,
Names of families long passed away.

Walking nearby, the bridge,
Crumbles and shakes with
All the passenger cars.
On each side a river,
Gleaming orange and red from
The stones underneath.
Down there hooky boys skip stones and
Smoke cigarettes,
Laughing, about nothing, just laughing.

With two grocery stores,
Fighting for priority and
One Ben Franklins always busy with
Grandmothers buying frames,
Little girls with their Barbie’s clutched to their chest and
Mothers stressing over prices.

With a bank always busy with
Men who spent all their money at the bar,
With men who can’t afford their home,
With men dirty from twelve hours of digging,
Dirty with debt.

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

Waiting Because I Want To

Early today, calling for a reservation for
No apparent reason,
Just missing the romance of unrequited love.
Waiting because I want to for the man in navy blue.
Striding towards me with that smile…
I’ll stand and let him take me.
Waiting because I want to
With my bottle of pinot noir 2003.
Blood stained linen that’s my fault.
Waiting because I want to with my brown curls,
And looking to my watch.
My server questions how much longer
And I nod him away.
Waiting because I want to.
Wondering how much longer.
My reservation was for two, but,
It’s not going be that way.

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

Erotic Ache

I’m gonna put on some music, and
Take a breath,
Slowly, extend my chest up, and
Face the sun so warmly. Then,
Count to three,
Breathe in.
Remember how your necklace kept catching your hair?
Kept asking me to take it off you but	
The way it sat, 
Just below the neck, I
Wanted you to wear nothing else.
But, right now,
My body is aches, and
I know you want to help me but
This is more of an erotic ache and
I want to be good…
But if you were here
I’d
Make sure you understood I want to kiss you.

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

Despite Love

Amazed at how much you give us, we
Tremble when you speak because your words
They move us, so simply,
Moving us,
Especially when out of the crowd,
You catch our eye,
We gaze,
Locked in smile,
Knowing we must look foolish, but,
Who cares…
You found us by yourself and,
Nobody here thinks we are on your level.
Nobody here thinks we deserve what,
You want to give.
Giving after all feeds us,
Feeds me, so much that
I’ll go back to the moments when
Things were so hard.
My stomach remembers the
Clenching.
My stomach remembers the
Tightening.
And despite how amazing you are,
You know,
Despite how much in love everyone may be


Yesterday,
Today,
Tomorrow,
Despite love I think,
You make it all easy.

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

Memories of 1940

My name is being called from the street.
Looking out my window,
Gray.
Hesitating, I linger longer,
Biting my lower lip.
Remembering my child,
I lift her.
Bringing her to my chest tight.
Small breaths warming my skin, as
I tiptoe to the door.
Down the stairs, following
Impressed footprints.
At the last step I
Hear worried whispers.
Families watching me from their doors,
Pitying me.
Reaching for the handle,
BANG.
Door flies open.
Three men stand waiting.
One grabs my brown hair,
Throwing me to the ground.
He kneeling next to me spits
“Filthy vermin,
no better than a cockroach,
thinks she can take her sweet time,
thinks we got nuttin else to do.”
Wrenching me up,
I squint,
Dust in my eyes.
Breathing in deep, I
Kiss my child,
My child,
Who has done nothing but need me,
My child.
Odors pinch my nose and, gasping
Pull my shawl over my child.
Pushed forward,
I see everyone for the first time now.
Naked.
Standing.
Silent.
Scared.
Knowing what’s next.
Knowing why their hands were dirty.
Knowing why they were given shovels.
Lifting my child to my face,
Kissing her puckered lips,
Telling god 
“I understand,
But why her?”
BANG.
My life into the trench with,
My child.
My child who has done nothing.

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

Around the Corner

Around the corner you can see her,
Sitting in the window sipping English breakfast.
Each morning she wakes up excited,
Rises from her bed to check her email.
She rocks her foot, tucked beneath her leg,
And smiles out the window.
Slipping on her cotton robe, 
She heads down the oak stairs,
Into her maple kitchen.

Teapots are scattered throughout the rooms,
Staining letters, newspapers and old photos.
Sadly she leaves them unwashed for days,
Until her weekly house cleaner arrives.
She makes sure to buy the most authentic ones,
But because of the small town they tend to be all similar.
Lightly painted lilies, tulips and lavender.

At her desk one would assume she has never left home,
She has written more plays and novels than Shakespeare,
And possibly more tragic.
Like him, she writes of lovers, regulars, and upper class,
But I find her stories far more real.

(unfinished)

Details | Mirabel Smith Poem

A Hardened Sound

It’s a hardened sound,
Hearing me cry.
It’s a hardened sound hearing me cry.
You don’t have to listen, though,
If the note’s are too high.

My hands are well worked,
Playing on your bass.
My hands haven’t ever hurt worse,
Playing on your bass.
“Baby let me quit now---it’s getting late.”

You’re rotten mean screaming my name.
You’re rotten mean when you scream my name.
“Let’s take it easy---let’s take a break.”

I wanna take your car,
And drive away.
I wanna take your car and
Drive away.
But you can’t come, no no,
You have to stay.

It’s a hardened sound hearing me cry.
But you don’t have to listen cause the note’s are too high.