Bag For Life
And so I blew it
And I some how I knew it, that
I would throw out the screwed up ends
The tighly coiled gut load of sentences
That discharged themselves randomly
In the supermarket
They gave me a 'bag for life! '
Somewhere on the journey I left it behind
At the point of exchange
Where there were no bins
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poem by Yvette Smith
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Winter
In these last days
In which winter has sealed all life in rest
And in these last mad hours blowing through the trees
In which warm lovers have sewn their final ties of happiness
When words iced cold
Break down
Returning to a familiar yearning
In frozen parks
Where empty seats
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poem by Yvette Smith
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To a child on not returning
When time was an island in which we basked
Riding the river as it flowed past
Skimming stones in hazy lazy days
Knowing the immeasurable depth of the sky
Cloud spotting
Tree hawking
Lying under trees mast
In fields, rolls back
The camera from the eye
No 'need ' for states of happiness or bliss
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poem by Yvette Smith
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Poetry
These words are not porcelain
Nor are they sculpted from a certain glass
Nor do they shine even after the hour is passed
But they break like flesh and bone
They are a metaphor
For china
For fragile things
And underneath lies the poetry
Beneath the skin
It lives and breathes
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poem by Yvette Smith
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Bad Poem
A bad poem is like a bad dog
'Bad boy go and sit in the corner'
They often begin in the early hours
On a yellow post it
After a night of restless turning
You may describe yourself
As ' a skewered 'FISH'
This poem is not your chosen dish
It may arrive without a 'fanfare' or a fuss
On a plane or train or bus
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poem by Yvette Smith
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Light
It dazzles in a clear night
Made clearer still
By artificial rays
Making a path to guide us home
It is a beacon
A bright halo of hope
A candle of warmth and sentiment
It makes love sound heavenly
Makes our journey safe and full
As if it were a divine hand resting on our shoulders
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poem by Yvette Smith
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Love is it?
Love what is love?
Is it a handbag, or glove?
Is it that certain look you wear?
At that certain time?
Is it the turn in the year?
Is it a sign?
And can we buy it?
And will we leave it all behind?
In the things shed
The skin surface of things
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poem by Yvette Smith
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My Fridge
My fridge has a life of it's own
It's own
Why don't I have a life of my own?
I, plug it in, [that is the fridge]
And still it has a life of it's own
As it whines and sings
It's broken sonatas
So 'postmodern' for a fridge!
I, on the other hand only moan
Sometimes I think it is haunted
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poem by Yvette Smith
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Love
Love
More possessed than possessing
More confessed than confessing
I love you
Like a new pair of shoes
Like a pair of hands I cannot hold
Love more desired than desiring
More a balm of necessity
Than a fleeting kiss
What have I missed
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poem by Yvette Smith
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A Poem
A poem in three stages
Whilst eating a meat pie
She embraced vegetarianism
Hidden under the weight of his opinions
[and ever expandng girth]
He 'PUBLICLY DENOUNCED]
third world poverty and hunger
[as he reached for his KING SIZED MARS BAR]
On the coroners report it stated
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poem by Yvette Smith
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