janeEBsmith - Hello Poetry

I’m looking for a gay cowboy. I was married to a straight-up ******* for 30 years, so now I’m looking for a gay cowboy. One who wears spurs on his boots and chaps on top of his jeans with flannel shirts that still have sleeves so he can slip them through the arms of a brown wool vest. I want a gay cowboy who smells of air-dried laundry, who will compliment my color-coordinated outfits, clean the lipstick from my teeth, tease my hair into place, laugh at my jokes, but tell me kindly when my jokes fall flat, then pat my shoulder to let me know it will be okay. I want a gay cowboy with a well-trimmed beard and silvery hair that he can pull into a pony-tail beneath his cowboy hat. I want a gay cowboy with a body that gives evidence that he’s done the hard work of life, but I don’t care about six packs unless they’re in a cooler on the beach. I don’t care about the color of his eyes or how tall he is or if he can use a grill or vacuums or empties the dishwasher or sews cute little throw pillows for the benches in the barn. In fact, as long as he enjoys clever wordplay, porch swings, chickens in the backyard and people wandering in and out of the house day and night, he doesn’t even have to be gay.

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Dec 30, 2018

Dec 30, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

I'm looking for a gay cowboy.

I’m looking for a gay cowboy. I was married to a straight-up ******* for 30 years, so now I’m looking for a gay cowboy. One who wears spurs on his boots and chaps on top of his jeans with flannel shirts that still have sleeves so he can slip them through the arms of a brown wool vest. I want a gay cowboy who smells of air-dried laundry, who will compliment my color-coordinated outfits, clean the lipstick from my teeth, tease my hair into place, laugh at my jokes, but tell me kindly when my jokes fall flat, then pat my shoulder to let me know it will be okay. I want a gay cowboy with a well-trimmed beard and silvery hair that he can pull into a pony-tail beneath his cowboy hat. I want a gay cowboy with a body that gives evidence that he’s done the hard work of life, but I don’t care about six packs unless they’re in a cooler on the beach. I don’t care about the color of his eyes or how tall he is or if he can use a grill or vacuums or empties the dishwasher or sews cute little throw pillows for the benches in the barn. In fact, as long as he enjoys clever wordplay, porch swings, chickens in the backyard and people wandering in and out of the house day and night, he doesn’t even have to be gay.

35

Where I live, there is always noise. A thousand feet from my back door run ten lanes of roaring tractor-trailer trucks piggy-backing double loads, and Japanese crotch rockets shearing eardrums with high-pitched whining and three hundred thousand cars and trucks every single day. My neighbor says the drone reminds of her the beach, then she smiles expecting me to agree. There is an ebb and flow to the sound from dark rumblings to singing growls. The sound is incessant like the waves that lap a beach. But ocean waves are powerful. They cleanse the sand of footprints and cigarettes. They leave behind a promise in the smooth, unsullied surface of newly wet sand. But those cars and trucks and motorcycles and mammoth, 18-wheeled beasts leave nothing behind but oily grit and noise. Where I live, there is always sun. It is an angry sun, white-hot in lonely, blue skies bereft of comforting clouds. It is a brazen sun blinding drivers on their way home. There is no rain. No mist. No fog. There is only heat. People who live in wet climates say, "But it's a dry heat, right?" They don't know that day after day, unrelenting heat ***** every drop of moisture from my skin and dries my throat until talking is difficult. They don't know that it roasts my skin and boils the tears in my eyes, that it saps the life out of my soul. Here, in the bitter wind, alone on the wide front porch, I remember the heat and absorb the cold. I inhale the sharp, frozen air and try to forget the acrid odor of traffic. Here, I see soft, blended landscapes covered with pure white and dotted with blue trees. Here, the mountains are white and blue and grey. My mountains are brown and seasonal. In the winter, when the haze and smog is blown to the sea, we see majestic peaks tipped in snow-- but when the winds change, my mountains disappear completely. I need to go home again. I will go home. I will leave behind the peaceful greys and blowing snow. Next week I'll stand in my backyard and count the tumbleweeds rolling down the shallow canyon behind my house. I'll watch the wind pick up the sand and whip it through the air like dry snow. I'll listen to waves of traffic a thousand yards away and try to remember this week of winter when the snow kissed my cheek.

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Jan 26, 2018

Jan 26, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

Why I stand on the porch in New Hampshire and stare into the distance.

Where I live, there is always noise. A thousand feet from my back door run ten lanes of roaring tractor-trailer trucks piggy-backing double loads, and Japanese crotch rockets shearing eardrums with high-pitched whining and three hundred thousand cars and trucks every single day. My neighbor says the drone reminds of her the beach, then she smiles expecting me to agree. There is an ebb and flow to the sound from dark rumblings to singing growls. The sound is incessant like the waves that lap a beach. But ocean waves are powerful. They cleanse the sand of footprints and cigarettes. They leave behind a promise in the smooth, unsullied surface of newly wet sand. But those cars and trucks and motorcycles and mammoth, 18-wheeled beasts leave nothing behind but oily grit and noise. Where I live, there is always sun. It is an angry sun, white-hot in lonely, blue skies bereft of comforting clouds. It is a brazen sun blinding drivers on their way home. There is no rain. No mist. No fog. There is only heat. People who live in wet climates say, "But it's a dry heat, right?" They don't know that day after day, unrelenting heat ***** every drop of moisture from my skin and dries my throat until talking is difficult. They don't know that it roasts my skin and boils the tears in my eyes, that it saps the life out of my soul. Here, in the bitter wind, alone on the wide front porch, I remember the heat and absorb the cold. I inhale the sharp, frozen air and try to forget the acrid odor of traffic. Here, I see soft, blended landscapes covered with pure white and dotted with blue trees. Here, the mountains are white and blue and grey. My mountains are brown and seasonal. In the winter, when the haze and smog is blown to the sea, we see majestic peaks tipped in snow-- but when the winds change, my mountains disappear completely. I need to go home again. I will go home. I will leave behind the peaceful greys and blowing snow. Next week I'll stand in my backyard and count the tumbleweeds rolling down the shallow canyon behind my house. I'll watch the wind pick up the sand and whip it through the air like dry snow. I'll listen to waves of traffic a thousand yards away and try to remember this week of winter when the snow kissed my cheek.

66

He said you never laugh anymore since you had the baby. I said I’m tired, I smell like soured milk, I’m lonely, I miss my friends. He said if you don’t like your life, then change it. I said, how, standing there with his second baby in my arms. He said it’s been six months and you’re still fat. Lose the baby weight or I’ll leave you. I said I’ll lose the weight, don’t go. The doctor said a woman of a certain age loses the structural foundation of her ******* Breastfeeding does that, too. I was thirty-five. I had fed three babies and was proud. He watched and was disappointed. I worked hard and was strong. I sneered at women with fat ankles and scaly feet, bad skin and protruding bellies. I said, they should work harder to keep themselves up. It’s their fault. They are lazy. They eat too much. He said, I’m tired of living with sick and crazy people and ran away from home. I was tired, too, but my sons were crazy and sick, and I couldn’t run away. He sold my home took my work, and my garden, and left me responsible for the ones he ran away from. He took the future I thought I was building-- grandmother and granddaddy, holidays, family dinners, companionship, quiet nights. I am become the women I sneered at, round, lazy, and disrespected. I say I know now that they were young once, that their skin was clear, and their bellies flat. I say, don’t think that how I look is who I am. I am smart. I am kind. I understand. I lead. I listen. I laugh. I write. I read. I explain. I learn. I teach. I know. Who I am is not how I look.

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Jul 5, 2015

Jul 5, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

A certain age

He said you never laugh anymore since you had the baby. I said I’m tired, I smell like soured milk, I’m lonely, I miss my friends. He said if you don’t like your life, then change it. I said, how, standing there with his second baby in my arms. He said it’s been six months and you’re still fat. Lose the baby weight or I’ll leave you. I said I’ll lose the weight, don’t go. The doctor said a woman of a certain age loses the structural foundation of her ******* Breastfeeding does that, too. I was thirty-five. I had fed three babies and was proud. He watched and was disappointed. I worked hard and was strong. I sneered at women with fat ankles and scaly feet, bad skin and protruding bellies. I said, they should work harder to keep themselves up. It’s their fault. They are lazy. They eat too much. He said, I’m tired of living with sick and crazy people and ran away from home. I was tired, too, but my sons were crazy and sick, and I couldn’t run away. He sold my home took my work, and my garden, and left me responsible for the ones he ran away from. He took the future I thought I was building-- grandmother and granddaddy, holidays, family dinners, companionship, quiet nights. I am become the women I sneered at, round, lazy, and disrespected. I say I know now that they were young once, that their skin was clear, and their bellies flat. I say, don’t think that how I look is who I am. I am smart. I am kind. I understand. I lead. I listen. I laugh. I write. I read. I explain. I learn. I teach. I know. Who I am is not how I look.

43

I miss the sound of his voice, the low timbre, the quiet growl spoken softly into the phone, into my ear, that puff of breath that tickles with each hard consonant. I miss the heat from his skin through the fabric of his shirt when he held me close. I understand, now, the songs which croon of one last time, of once before you go. I wasn’t offered that last kiss. that last lingering mix of warmth and salt, of pleasure and tears that says goodbye.

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Jan 27, 2015

Jan 27, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

Last goodbye

I miss the sound of his voice, the low timbre, the quiet growl spoken softly into the phone, into my ear, that puff of breath that tickles with each hard consonant. I miss the heat from his skin through the fabric of his shirt when he held me close. I understand, now, the songs which croon of one last time, of once before you go. I wasn’t offered that last kiss. that last lingering mix of warmth and salt, of pleasure and tears that says goodbye.

15

Oh, God, the longing I feel for those misty mountains, cold in the morning light, dripping from the midnight's rain. I long for the tree-shaded darkness against mid-day sun, for wet, warm hours. I feel the calling, the drawing home across the sea, to a time before, a place known only in soul's memory.

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Jun 24, 2014

Jun 24, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

Longing for home

Oh, God, the longing I feel for those misty mountains, cold in the morning light, dripping from the midnight's rain. I long for the tree-shaded darkness against mid-day sun, for wet, warm hours. I feel the calling, the drawing home across the sea, to a time before, a place known only in soul's memory.

12

I don't know if I’m good enough. Oh, I can string the words like silvery, satin, wild-caught pearls along a silken line... I can foment strong, heavy words like boots that march in ****** mud or hot, shivering sand. I can sling words like silent razors slicing swift and clean. But every day... every day when the word count rises when writing’s the thing and not the play, when words must stick together in factory formation to add up, to bring forth, to produce... maybe I’m not good enough for that.

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Apr 11, 2014

Apr 11, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

Good enough

I don't know if I’m good enough. Oh, I can string the words like silvery, satin, wild-caught pearls along a silken line... I can foment strong, heavy words like boots that march in ****** mud or hot, shivering sand. I can sling words like silent razors slicing swift and clean. But every day... every day when the word count rises when writing’s the thing and not the play, when words must stick together in factory formation to add up, to bring forth, to produce... maybe I’m not good enough for that.

15

I want to see Jesus. Not the storybook one in the white robes with the blue eyes, the dark-eyed Jesus, brown-skinned and stained. I want to see Jesus the man who was God the man whose feet were ***** whose sweat dripped as he sawed the wood with Joseph, whose hair fell into his eyes as he bent over his work. I want to see Jesus whose lean back was muscled from years of hard labor whose hands were rough from handling raw timber, who could have fought the soldiers and won because he was fit and able but who didn't because that wasn't the plan. I want to see Jesus strong, respected by men, honest and capable, used to negotiating prices, smiling and confident. I want to see Jesus the man who loved his mother and followed her instructions even when he would have preferred not to. I want to see Jesus the man who was God when he walked through the crowds who loved him, disappeared from those who would harm him and strode across the water as though it were land. I want to see Jesus the man who gave up his healthy, well-liked, successful life to become the savior of the world. I know God-- invincible, maker of heaven and earth, almighty, omnipotent, omniscient, always with us. I want to know Jesus who came to earth just because he loved me.

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Sep 27, 2013

Sep 27, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

I want to see Jesus.

I want to see Jesus. Not the storybook one in the white robes with the blue eyes, the dark-eyed Jesus, brown-skinned and stained. I want to see Jesus the man who was God the man whose feet were ***** whose sweat dripped as he sawed the wood with Joseph, whose hair fell into his eyes as he bent over his work. I want to see Jesus whose lean back was muscled from years of hard labor whose hands were rough from handling raw timber, who could have fought the soldiers and won because he was fit and able but who didn't because that wasn't the plan. I want to see Jesus strong, respected by men, honest and capable, used to negotiating prices, smiling and confident. I want to see Jesus the man who loved his mother and followed her instructions even when he would have preferred not to. I want to see Jesus the man who was God when he walked through the crowds who loved him, disappeared from those who would harm him and strode across the water as though it were land. I want to see Jesus the man who gave up his healthy, well-liked, successful life to become the savior of the world. I know God-- invincible, maker of heaven and earth, almighty, omnipotent, omniscient, always with us. I want to know Jesus who came to earth just because he loved me.

27

I wonder is he embarassed at all to show off a new wife when they knew the old one too? Does he think about it? Does he wish that he could remove the old one from history so that he could introduce the new to the people they once knew? Oh I forget. He did that. He took the new back in time across the continental divide and showed her to the people who knew the old. He did erase her in their minds. Only the old is embarrassed to be replaced. Only the old thinks of these things. She is not busy being new and so remembers. But old and new are such common occurrences that no one thinks anything of it now. It is how it is. That’s all.

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Jul 24, 2013

Jul 24, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

Old and New

I wonder is he embarassed at all to show off a new wife when they knew the old one too? Does he think about it? Does he wish that he could remove the old one from history so that he could introduce the new to the people they once knew? Oh I forget. He did that. He took the new back in time across the continental divide and showed her to the people who knew the old. He did erase her in their minds. Only the old is embarrassed to be replaced. Only the old thinks of these things. She is not busy being new and so remembers. But old and new are such common occurrences that no one thinks anything of it now. It is how it is. That’s all.

17

Here’s what a divorce does: Divorce Takes a remnant of a family from the house they moved into 10 years before when their family numbered 6 then added a 7th Divorce Takes them from the house where a new daughter came home a new Marine came home the first daughter-in-law came home the first grandchild came home the newest daughter to be came home where we battled illness and survived where we laughed till we cried. Divorce Takes them from the house where friends have gathered to celebrate birthdays bonfires a prom a dinner dance a wedding. Divorce takes one away puts two in limbo makes three leave four-legged family members who can’t live where they are going. Divorce shatters family abandons dreams mutilates memories condemns the future. Divorce only helps the one who wanted it. 4/13/2012

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Apr 29, 2013

Apr 29, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

What does a divorce do?

Here’s what a divorce does: Divorce Takes a remnant of a family from the house they moved into 10 years before when their family numbered 6 then added a 7th Divorce Takes them from the house where a new daughter came home a new Marine came home the first daughter-in-law came home the first grandchild came home the newest daughter to be came home where we battled illness and survived where we laughed till we cried. Divorce Takes them from the house where friends have gathered to celebrate birthdays bonfires a prom a dinner dance a wedding. Divorce takes one away puts two in limbo makes three leave four-legged family members who can’t live where they are going. Divorce shatters family abandons dreams mutilates memories condemns the future. Divorce only helps the one who wanted it. 4/13/2012

35

Boston Police Dept. ✔ @Boston_Police CAPTURED!!! The hunt is over. The search is done. The terror is over. And justice has won. Suspect in custody. 5:58 PM - 19 Apr 2013

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Apr 19, 2013

Apr 19, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC

janeEBsmith

Did you see this tweet? It's a poem.

Boston Police Dept. ✔ @Boston_Police CAPTURED!!! The hunt is over. The search is done. The terror is over. And justice has won. Suspect in custody. 5:58 PM - 19 Apr 2013

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