He Left In Summer

Summer, green, fern, and branch,
beautiful words, small but precious gifts for the gods who left us behind.
We keep offering gifts.
Every year the birds sing and shadows shift.
The sun sets and the moon rises, a pale flickering
old timey movie. What wouldn’t we give
to share just one moonbeam, one sunflower,
one unshuttered day with them
these household gods of ours who have left us behind.
Our continued presence is what we perennialy offer
sacrificing on the altar of loss the very best we have to give —
ourselves wafting to them on the smoke of our love, our life. — Annette Marie Smith

Wide Open

He left his mind open wide
like a window onto the night
and all manner of things came in:
mosquitoes, sneak thieves,
stray bullets and ominous clouds
all came streaming in.
A cat, black as ink and just as fluid
stepped delicately over the sill
and then, just as delicately stepped back out.
A cat won’t stay in a place barren of soul.
Wastelands are not for them.
When he opened the window
not only did all manner of things come in
but one particular thing went out
and that thing was him.
His soul slipped free like a Peter Pan shadow.
No soap, no needle and thread and careful stitch,
no Wendy, can reel him in. — Annette Marie Smith

This Is a Poem With a Great Butt

“If only poems had cleavage,
people would look at them more.” — Miekel And

This is a poem with a great butt
peach perfect and shaking your tree.
This is a poem with flawless skin
to dip your fingers in
and perfect teeth.
This poem has ‘it’
and is seriously flaunting it
in a Kardashian/Instagram/retweet/viral way.
This poem has cleavage
and is displaying it in shameless selfie sensualization.
This poem has all the cultural cues
to sell anything — from cars to sparkling water
but it also has something to say.
it? — Annette Marie Smith