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)

Poem #21

We humans are older than the Internet.
It’s good to remember that
it doesn’t know everything.
It only knows what we have told it:
the stories
the words
the coded ephemera
and ethernetized data.
One of the reasons we love it so
is because the things it holds
are our own.
Its voice is our voice amplified
by a myriadfold.
— Annette Marie Smith
(Poem #21 National Poetry Month)

Moving Forward Retreat

postalcarrier

Here I am on the job, Writer/Letter Carrier. πŸ™‚
I’m so honored to have been nominated as a candidate and selected to attend the Minnesota Union Women’s Retreat! My union is picking up the tab for all expenses for this three day opportunity to network and workshop with other women to foster greater participation by women in their workplaces, unions, and communities AND I get paid for those days ‘off’.

brochure

Here also is a pic of the brochure and some helpful hints for improving the Women’s Retreat experience. I hope you notice that they specifically ask for the poetry. πŸ˜‰

Ghost Dresses


β€œThe Dress Lamp Tree” photography by Tim Walker

Ghost dresses hang like fruit
whisper in the leaves
talk of the places they have been
and they are going
but only in their dreams.
Ghost dresses are the ones
that never made it to the prom or date
the ones that in reality lay in crumpled heaps
made up of too much weight.
Would that all the phantom dresses
had had their day in the sun.
Something that can only be achieved
when dysmorphia’s undone.
— Annette Marie Smith
(Poem #20 National Poetry Month)

Poem #19

nailart

I wanted blossoms and skulls
a nail polish metaphor representing life and death
but the Vietnamese nail tech refused
to paint skulls on my nails
shook her head and looked at me askance.
I told her it was a metaphor
showed her a photo of what I wanted.
She shook her head again, spoke rapidly to her co-workers
shook her head again and gestured curtly, a cutting motion
with her hands.
Sigh. I didn’t want to upset her further
by trying to explain my desire for such symbolism
so I told her just to give me branches with blossoms
petals unfurled and branches black
against the startling pink of my pedicure.
I thought of sugar skulls and the Day of the Dead
and how different cultures view things in their own way
and who is to say
who’s right?
Maybe we’re all right
in that it is the conviction of our belief
that makes these charms, these symbols, these metaphors
work for us, influence us, bless or malign us.
We are the motivating factor behind all our spiritual graffiti.
The writing on the wall only comes true
through the power of me and you.
So anyway, my nails look great!
— Annette Marie Smith
(Poem #19 National Poetry Month)