Surpassing the Joneses


Homeowner’s pride manifests itself in many ways. Delivering the mail allows me to see an abundant diversity in style approach. These bowling balls lining the walkway to the entrance of this home must have seemed a unique and signature statement.

But then of course there is always THAT neighbor, the one who has to copy your bowling ball idea by scattering them around their own yard and then they go and add a white horse — up in a tree — as their fantastical response to your whimsicality.

Poem #29

Even my oxters tingle
when in proximity to you.
My philtrum makes itself known
and you throw my normally agile tongue
into a stuttering swoon.
— Annette Marie Smith

(Poem #29 National Poetry Month)

Learned a new word today — oxters– and having a bit of fun with it in my 29th poem. 🙂

Kenning the Rain

Do you have to be taught to smell the rain? My child posed that question to me.

Jas: “One of my earliest memories is of you pointing out the smell of rain to me. I hadn’t really noticed it until then. Do you think that’s something that has to be taught?”

I distinctly remember the day and moment my grandmother asked me:
“Can you smell that?”
“What?” I said.
“The rain coming,” said she.
“What does it smell like?” I asked.
“Like rust, like blood,” said she.
And then I DID smell it. The rain imminent and beautiful. I could smell the green in it too and all the blues, the darkness of smoke in liquid form…

Poem #27

wings heavy with the darkness of sleep
beat against my thoughts
make of them a starry night
with the deeps of space
and time is a rocket ship
metal sails unfurled
to catch the winds of change.
— Annette Marie Smith

(Poem #27 National Poetry Month)

Poem #23

The waters of the lake have closed their doors.
No way of seeing what’s beneath the surface
much less a doorstep or set of stairs
leading down to the wine cellar of its depths
where the finest old casks
the best vintage bones
and wreckage lie.
— Annette Marie Smith
(Poem #23 National Poetry Month)

Poem #22

Sunlight and shade
dance circles in/around the wind-tossed pine
and the pine’s needles light up
like candles in candelabra bunches
burning bright against the shadows
that hang like dark masterpieces
from the old tree’s branches.
— Annette Marie Smith
(Poem # 22 National Poetry Month)