Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
TW Smith Aug 2016
When the festivals are over and the roar of celebrations wind down,
I turn myself upon the road that leads out of town.
I venture unto my door, but just before,
I turn my face to the world and beg it to stop changing.
It laughs its usual joyless laugh and then empties a brown bag of spiders onto my doorknob.
TW Smith Aug 2016
I place my hand upon the doorknob,
But it does not twist.
I peer through the peep-hole in the door.
I cannot discern whether the darkness clouding my sight is from the abyss
Or from the shadow cast by God standing just on the other side of the door.
I once again turn my back to the door
And rejoin the conversation of what awaits us in the Hereafter.
TW Smith Feb 2015
Snow blankets the hills and contrasts with the pond.
Birds sing in ancient Avian and wave in flight.
The fish bump their heads against frozen waters, mouth-agape.
I hum hymns.
Snow crunches under hoof.
Trees stand tall, though ****.
I whistle.
But all of the melodies have been taken.
I try to offer up some original melody for my God-king.
All falls shorts.
Surely He smiles upon my efforts.
I press on.
I follow the river as it bends this way and that.
The deer sees me and pays no mind.
I am walking in the path of eternal light.
And darkness eeks out it's existence in the shadow of rocks.
I find comfort in the frozen sands of December.
A Wesleyan whisper from ages ago crosses my ear.
It speaks of Heaven.
Rushing waters pay no mind to change or tradition.
TW Smith Jun 2014
Grind me with the stone of life;
If I come back,
I come back with understanding.
If not then I am but defeated dust.
TW Smith Feb 2014
I was dead in the morning and gone by the evening.
The vultures feasted.
I laid for hours not knowing I was a ghost.
Haunted features.
Ghost town thrift stores and surf guitars,
These are my delights.
Black deserts and high mountains,
Vaquero of the night.
Sun tanned bones and what have you.
Deep in the heart of Texas.
A lonesome ghost in the South
With nothing but a peyote dream.
TW Smith Feb 2014
I have made sounds that were foreign to my ears
And have laid in strange places.
But as long as the fire remained lit at home,
No matter how dim,
All was well.

I have found myself in places a Christian ought not be
And have friended with those even the devil would shun.
But everloving did the fire burn
Deep in the heart of my home.

The night came when the fire was put out
And there was no one to go home to.
At midnight I was in a drunken stupor.
At dawn I was as pathetic as a newborn babe.
TW Smith Jan 2014
I could not read the music
And so I stood bewildered in the concert hall.
And I do not know why my fiddle mourns a sadly lament.

My guitar sings out danciful tunes
And my banjo beckons all to rejoice.
My mandolin calls with the air of easiness
And my tin whistle whispers with an angel's voice.

But my fiddle,
My poor, lonesome fiddle.
It is full of minor keys
And wrong notes.
Painful melodies
And sorrowful tones.
Next page