Michael Smith

Jun 2016

Michael Blonski

Her favorite flavor
Is poetry
And she dines
On the beauty
Of escaped sadness

She never sees the world
As it is
But rather
As it's written within
Volumes,
Created by
Harvesters of
Reality

Every drink she has
She's one step closer
To writing
Her master
Works

Every drink she has
She's one step closer
To losing
It all

Gone from the world
Isolated by
Soulless concrete
Forever in
1984

The cool breeze
Won't lift her spirits
When she's
Never laughed
Without purpose
Before

Michael Smith Jun 2016

The Old Barn

It will never tell its secrets
Old boards, an audible moan
Holding up the sagging roof
A crumbling foundation of stone

The years have done their damage
The summers of scorching sun
All the wet and icy winters
A battle with nothing won

An old harness in the corner
Wearing its coat of dust
A plow no longer plowing
Growing a harvest of rust

If we would only listen
Oh, the stories it would tell
Of barefoot kids in the barnyard
Mama ringing the dinner bell

Tonight will be the last night
That it shadows in the sun
Tomorrow it’s gone forever
The old barns race is done

Jun 2016

Aeerdna

forget me not

Forget me not
when my soul will go to sleep,
when my lungs will stop breathing
and my ashes will disappear in the wind,
when my eyes will shut,
my colours will fade to grey
and my words will quietly remain
behind my cold lips,
forget me not
when my time will come to go to the unknown world
when my legs will stop walking
and my heart will stop pumping
when my arms won't have the power
to hold you closely,
when I will be living only in the past tense,
in lost whispers
and fading memories
forget me not
forget me not
I'll still be here
I'll still be here
to kiss your heart.

Michael Smith Jun 2016

My Masters' Glory

It's in words, my masters' glory
Yet many think it's just a story

Inherit I, the sins of man
It's all a part of my masters' plan

To get the things I think I need
I'll cultivate the serpents seed

Caligula, the king of mayhem
Seek the good man, go and slay him

****, and ******, endless plunder
The righteous frown, they start to wonder

Is He there? Faith can weaken
That's the dark mans' flashing beacon

He works magic through the winds
Do you wonder how the madness ends?

It's in words, my masters' glory
Yet many think it's just a story

I wrote this poem about 30 years ago, and had not thought about it for some time. I walked into my bedroom today and picked up a piece of paper on the floor, and it was this poem. That's pretty weird.

Michael Smith Jun 2016

Forgotten Boy

The November chill touched and tortured his bones
The dark alley smelled of ***** and sour cabbage
His bed of stained cardboard was wet and soggy
Another night of bad dreams in this makeshift home

Thinking about what happened that long ago night
Trying to explain, to ears that were closed
Shame and fright worked together in the assault on his mind
forcing his eyes to cover his face with a persistent tide of tears

He could remember every hurtful word
“No! It’s just a phase”? and “I’d rather see you dead”
Discarded like unwanted trash
He was only seventeen

Sobbing in that alley tonight, remembering the love and the warmth of before
Before dreadful secret was voiced, before the love was repossessed
He told them about that boy at school
In one instant his entire life was gone… home… family… hope… all gone

Later in the cold of night, the car idling at the curb
Sickened by the thought of what he was about to do
But a boy has to eat, a hand on his knee, a tear in his eye
A broken heart in a shattered soul