He Is an Ark

He is an ark,
they said,
and he will carry you
over those troubled waters.
He is safe and heaven sent.

But she leapt from his wooden arms
and over the side and into the churning sea
and reveled
in what had been called folly
but felt like every kind of free.

The long shadow of his prow
followed her, an accusatory finger.
And he had two of every kind of net
and two by two of every kind of sharp edged thing
with which to hunt beneath the moon. — Annette Marie Smith


When I am lost in the forest of bad dreams,
the branches like heavy drapes pulled against the sky,
my feet tangled by hidden vines,
I feel your sunlight
rising up from the dark earth
and kissing each step that I take.
It is not possible to feel fearful
when you have managed a communique
between worlds.
You have sunk into darkness and come through in gleams,
conscious-self, reaching
like strong armed flowers
to support me
through the quick-mud of unconscious muck. — Lucid Dreaming, Annette Marie Smith

What the Feathers Carried

What the feathers carried —
cries in the voice of eagles
of the power of numbers
and trills fainter than hummingbirds
fluttering of singularity
bespeaking that even alone these feathers
they lift mountains
of belief upon their backs
mountains that float
just like hope
on imagination’s airways
they fly
high enough to touch the sky
of infinity
and so they carry
forever on their wings. — Annette Marie Smith