derick-smith
I tell stories. / On stage, on paper, or through others. / Sometimes short, other times a little longer. / Some are abstracted, and a few straightforward. / Most will have you stop (if only for a moment) and think. / But all, in some way, are enjoyable. / / In my writing you will see: a love of alliteration and assonance, a desire to turn pre-conceptions on their head, and an interest in the elaborate as strong as my desire for the compendious. / You may also see explorations in rhythm, and the physical composition of words and stanzas. / / It's my hope you will see something you like.
An enigma:
though I craft verse,
my only response
to your Sufi ponderings:
a failing tongue and empty fingers.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
The swallows and sparrows
dance on the cool morning breeze.
They rise and fall;
float and stall;
soaring, diving, fluttering
and all the while chattering—
not about days been,
nor days to come—
but the present moment;
their current joy.
They trust the sun to rise at dawn,
the moon to appear in the even cooler twilight air.
The swallows and sparrows
(dancing as they do on the cool morning breeze)
worry not about tomorrow—
for today will have troubles of its own.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Within the dragons' den—
the smoke they breathe; twists, turns, spirals
hea'enward in clouds of tar and ash
(their mouths gaping and nostrils flared).
Indeed they don't breathe fire—
They inhale it, swallowing whole
The ancient gift of Prometheus
(the first giver of stolen goods).
A wise woman once said:
'This is the closest one can be
with said sacred element. Yet
such intimacy comes with price
(as with all sim'lar relations).
I see their wrinkled skin
And hear their deep raspy roar that
rarely, though spontaneously
interrupts their philosophy
(or words of the drunk lay-dragon).
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
My Beloved speaks profundities
and pays dues not His own—
while I, the sober fool,
stumble falsely drunk.
Though His wine warms my heart
and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins—
I am not subject to it's dance.
I drink too little, too less
for the drunkard I claim to be.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
Your living water
ferments my soul.
Out spills wine—
a sweet elixir
for thirsty souls,
for hungry hearts.
(Your drinking songs
soothe parched throats)
For our hangovers:
Your living water
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
I love old books—
their smell,
soft and softly mottled pages,
font-faces,
and carefully illustrated frontispieces.
My bookshelves are lined:
old copies of ancient classics.
I love buying old books—
the lost treasures they are,
and the lost treasures they hide:
tram tickets,
letters,
notes,
two-dollar-notes,
and scholarly students' scribblings.
I have some books I fear to open
for fear they'll fall apart.
There are some who love old books—
their possibilities,
malleabilities,
and superficialities.
Their bookshelves aren't lined.
But rooms of reams of bunting, and tables of origami.
(or soft and softly mottled picture frames)
They love buying old books—
not for wisdom,
nor connections to ancestors.
They've no fear of giants' shoulders;
whole worlds are torn apart.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
Between her and our
Almighty Beloved,
this mustard seed faith
grows as the willow.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Intoxicated by you
even my curses
sounded as Hafez.
Rumi was my Disciple.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC