Not A Poem

This is not a poem, poetry was yesterday and days before
For thirty days in thirty ways we each and all set forth our words.
For thirty days in thirty ways we clebrated April's days with poetry
On this the thirtieth day of April we mark the day with our poetic prose.
We celebrate as newborn peepers peep and springtime flowers blossom
We celebrate the work of poets whose words made April our own month for poetry,

~finis

For April, poetry month, I and other poets tried to write a poem a day. Here's all of mine.

# 29 On Finding A Poem

Can't Find A Poem
by GC SMITH

I'm lost,
I cannot find
a poem
of any sort;
I'm gone
away from home
where my
journal lies.

I'm lost
I cannot find
a poem
of any kind
as I don't have
a newspaper
a book with lines
or even a magazine

I'm lost
I cannot find
a poem
of any rhyme
so, I guess
I have to pass
this poetic challenge
this one time

# 28

For Phil *
by GC SMITH

He's with me today
in Lowcountry SC
cast net twirling,
blossoming, floating out
over salt marsh waters
fetching dinner,
shrimp tonight

Tomorrow it will be
a string and chicken neck
catching Atlantic blue crabs
fat jimmies and sookies
for the boiling pot
and our tummies

Then we'll fish
casting lures for
spot tail bass
or sea trout,
perhaps
we'll fish
a Carolina rig
for flounder

Phil hasn't left;
he'll be with me
every time I shrimp
or crab or fish
and he'll darn well
bring me luck

* My friend and fellow poet Phil Rader was born and raised in the South Carolina Lownountry near Charleston. Either John's or James' Island. I live on Lady's Island. Phil passed on last week but his great spirit stays with me in SC.

# 27

Of This World
by GC SMITH

Where from?
Who knows?

There's Druid somewhere
in my muddled genes
there's French
there's German
there is much Irish,
who knows what
else from where?

I'm Jew,
Luthern,
Catholic,
and
Athiest

My politics
are eclectic,
my thought process
no straight line

Where from?

Perhaps simply
from and of
humanity

# 26

Vomiting Words
by GC SMITH

I cannot
figure out
what kind of poem
to write
that won't
appear
to be
a blight
to readers'
eyes and ears
or
what will not
be
a travesty
foisted upon
you gentle
and
you sensitive
folk.

So you
get this
trashy piece
of poetry
from
my finger tips
to
your eyes and ears
and
you may
cry and cry
for years and years
about me
subjecting you
to cruel
and, yes,
unusual poetry
but
as for me
I do not care,
so there.

Thirsty?

Imbibible Poetry
By GC SMITH

Writing a poem about
quaffing cold beer
or sipping red wine
is just fine

Penning words
about cognac or bourbon
or even rye whiskey
gets one some readers

But never write lines
no matter the meter
no matter the rhymes
about Diet Pepsi

# 25

No Gettin' Away
by GC SMITH

The golf course is bankrupt
the club house shut down
there's no more goin'
there for respite

Respite from what?
From what cares a retreat?
Is it that life's difficult?
Is there really need to hide out?

Should I crank
up the motor,
go hide out on my boat
away from gathering crowd?

Scratchin' my head
I conclude there's no need
much more important is
comradeship's pleasures.

Boating with a few good ol' boys
some fish poles, a beer cooler
and a bunch of sub sandwiches
is the ticket for fine hide out fun

# 24

Presto Chango
By GC SMITH

Starin’ at a hunk of beef
to see what I can see,
perhaps a pot of soup

Sharpen up the kitchen knife
whack that beef to chunks,
sauté in a big cast iron pot

Add some fresh veggies and pasta
with red and white kidney beans
and strong beef broth plus spicy stuff

Pour in red wine, stir and cook a bit
soon savory aroma will take over --
presto chango --pasta fazoole

# 23

Down In The Void
By GC SMITH

Before we’re born,
while of the void,
it didn't matter
no, not a bit,
it’s simply what came later

We all pretend,
yet, no one can know
what’s out there
waiting for us,
what will be our fate

Some come up lucky,
born with a silver spoon,
other fortunates will
make their way
okay

Then there
are those born
into this world
without a bit
of luck

Those who
life will
tread upon;
those who
fortune will forget

Down in the void
we don’t yet know
if we will be born
to thank the stars
or curse our lot in life

# 22

A Craven Color
by GC SMITH

Preying on fears
of a stupid electorate
may be very smart, but it's yellow

Ducking the job
in the 'Bama Air Guard
seems to me a shade yellow

Lying to you and me
about WMD also
is a hue of yellow

Suited up with a sign
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED
for the TV cameras is yellow

Yellow calculations
that trade in fear
have brought forth horrid results

All of these things
are craven and yellow
but a soldiers' blood is crimson

# 21

Bob's My Man
By GC SMITH

I can call day or night
he’ll be there
to haul my ass
to safety

That same night call
will not do
when all I need
is a borrowed tool

Yep, he’s a friend
through and through
but no sucker
that’s for true

What of me
regarding him
I’ll stick with him
thick or thin

# 20

Tell Me
by GC SMITH

No one tells me
I do not know
life in the dark
is no way to go

Did he do it
or was it she
one thing's sure
it wasn't me

Truth or lie
I sure don't know
complete bull sh..
or flurried snow

I need to know
I hope I will
life in the dark
is a bitter pill

# 19

An old one.


HANDS
By GC SMITH

I hate my hands.

Stubby fingers:
sausages that can't
palm a basketball or
snap a smart smooth spiral
from a NFL's football's laces.

Fuckin' stinkin' little hands,
goddamn: I was born with brains,
and with reasonable coordination,
and drive to play the games men play,
but I'm cursed with these stinkin' little hands.

I've spent most of my life on mind things:
analyzing this and that and concluding sharply,
making pronouncements: profound, or at least payed for,
but I've been thinking that I would have lived a different life,
but for the curse of these dammed chubby, short fingered hands.





A new one:

Calloused Hands
by GC SMITH


Wrench turning
hands

Saw sliding
hands

Hammer
banging hands

Fixing engines,
building homes
is how I use
my hands

# 18

Beware
by GC SMITH

Beyond the edge of the woods
there's stuff to excite dire fear
it' ain't quite like our flat world edge
beyond which there may be dragons

What is it that we must fear?
Surely not the quivering rabbit
or possum, or perhaps the raccoon
No, be aware, fear the black bear

I know he seems harmless and cute
but, you know, he sh..s in the woods
and if you chance to venture in there
then where to step you must be aware

'cause it's sticky, it's much like glue
that bear sh.. will glom on to your shoe
then it's you good company will eschew,
for ever more they'll shun smelly you

# 17

Woe is …
By GC SMITH

Life sucks
it’s not fair
why me
that’s hurtful
he’s mean
you lie

It would
all be sad,
perhaps even tragic
if it wasn’t
so damn
funny

# 16 (over the hump)

Campin' On The Back Porch
by GC SMITH

The damn old air conditioner broke
on the hottest of hot August nights
so out to the porch with a blowup mattress
was our plan for getting some sleep

There was something odd about the arrangement
perhaps it was the matresses's strange humpback
at any rate comfort was definitely lacking
but, what the hell, I still tried for some sleep

Tossing and turning while thoroughly miserable
finally, after hours, yielded to a fitful sleep
that was 'til my sweetie rose to go to the john
and the mattress flipped over and dumped me out

It seems she had inflated it upside down
and when she got up it went topsy-turvy
I dragged weary bones back to the bedroom
where I sweated out the night with conditionless air

# 15

"Way Down Texas Way"
by GC SMITH

Billy Joe Shaver
sings about
wanderlust;
how a Gypsy
got a hold
on someone in
his family
long ago

Waylon and Willie
sing about a
good hearted
woman; hurtin'
'cause of
the antics
of her
good timin'
man

Davis Allen Coe
sings about
his love of
robbin' banks;
how he
always tells
the teller
thanks

They are
as American
as jazz
those
Texas Troubadours
singing their
down home
shit kickin'
good old boy
ballads

Me,
I try
singing
in the shower;
my sweetie inquires
as to whether or not
I may be choking
on something
I ate for breakfast
or if I'm
having a heart attack

# 14

The Tax Man Cometh
By GC SMITH

This Saturday I took a hit
damn near had a hissy fit
in the mailbox was IRS sh..
demanding extra folding cash

Taxman changed total due
he wants $600 additional
he ain’t getting that from me
he’s wrong, I’m right you see

So I’ll write a letter right away
in that forceful missive I will say
no, no more $ from me to thee
go borrow cash to send to me

I’m all for economic stimulus
my Grandbaby can pay the bill
or we can change the game in time
printing more species will be fine

We can make average Joe pay
for Uncle Sam’s errant way
meantime Sam can save the day
by getting off my back, I say

# 13

Carpe Diem
by GC SMITH

Who could bitch
this day
away, it's nearing
eighty
sky is blue

Go ahead,
do it,
grumble,if you will:
me, I'd rather
carpe deim

I've pulled
my boat for it's
Spring tune up
that's why I'm a late
Sunday poet

So you may bitch
you may grumble,
may curse the fates,
I'll take a pass;
life's to short to bitch

# 12

TWO
by GC SMITH

Grandbaby Emmett
has waited all week
for candy and ice cream and stuff

He's been led
to believe there'll be a big cake
festooned with candles on top

He was up very early
laughing, smiling, shouting
HOORAY I'M TWO

I used to be 1
that was good FUN
but nothing quite like being 2

# 11

Huntin' For Love
by GC SMITH

My bow
always
at the ready;
my quiver
packed
with arrows

I am
the Archer',
it is written
in the stars;
of that
there
is no
doubt

So when
December
rolled around
I was
on the
hunt,
my arrows
turquoise
tipped

Though
not exactly
Cupid
I hunted
for her
heart;
shot me a
bullseye,
my arrow
found its
mark

# 10

On Poetry Prompts
By GC SMITH

Our task
mistress
wants me
to find
a failed poem
that has
a line
as fine
as a rare
Cabernet wine

From that
I’m tasked
to build a poem
that passes muster
with readers
who would deign
to judge
my dross

That,
of course,
I cannot do:
it’s up to you,
dear reader,
to figure out
if my words
are tarnished
or if they
shine

Myself,
I think
all my poems
are like pure gold
or flawless gems,
but then again
I am
delusional

# 9

The Thinker, err St...
by GC SMITH

I think I know
where thought
begins;
it percolates
while sitting
on the john

Nascent
thoughts
that I conjure
are never
formed
completely

I have
thoughts
but much
like gas
they
dissipate

Thoughts
take on
amorphous shape
then disappear
--poof--
GONE!

April 8

Forty Five Years and Counting
by GC SMITH

I kissed her
she responded
next thing we knew
we had us a family

April 7

On the Street Where ...
by GC SMITH



Salt marsh
laps
near my
back door
it's lovely now
I don't know about
tomorrow

Global warming
it seems exacerbated
by stupid humans
(myself included)
may render
staying here
impossible

If I had me
half a brain
I'd sell to
a Yankee baby boomer,
but I don't,
so I'll remain
in place

'cause
I love
the street
where I live
and tidal waters
reaching toward
my back door.

# 6

Past Ain't Prolouge
by GC SMITH

Beach music
dancin' the shag
wild trashy women
exciting fist fights
in a seashore parkin' lots

Burning rubber
gray exhaust smoke
black leather jacket
hair combed Duck's ass,
slicked back with pomade goo

Stale beer
rotted food
filthy dishes
fast food detritus
evokes a misspent youth

Things differ now
time and tide
have taken toll,
warped memories
remain

APRIL 5

A Poem a Day keeps … *
By GC SMITH

April, the crulest month,
would drag thirty poems
from we pathetic poets

Make a clean break,
not from the poet's art,
but with cool enjambment

Write sterling strophes
to elucidate poetic
thought and imagery

The beat goes on
if and when you find
meter’s imperative

So, do it Poets,
use your tools
imaginisticly

April 4 poem

Never Imagined
By GC SMITH

Coastal Carolina estuaries,
gently flow as rise and ebb
in familiar circular constancy
until thunderheads gallop
like a herd of wild horses,
to roil tranquility
with frothing waves
that strike fear
in the hearts
of fishers
in small
unstable
boats.

Sometimes,
too often,
the morning
newspaper
chronicles
tidal treachery
where fishers
have struggle
and, yes, died
merely for
trusting nature’s
mendacic
ways

April is poetry month. Write a poem a day. Here's my first three.

A minimalist's
considered, heartfelt, immediate
and everlasting message of advice to
someone who has not the sense
to know when he or she
is not wanted
or needed
by GC SMITH

Go away
now
stay gone

THE NEAT FREAK
By GC SMITH

She’s tried tossing it out
during several cleaning frenzies,
it's been trash canned more than twice;
my old grease coated jacket

Then there’s my shoes
paint splattered old sneakers
rescued from the trash can
on several occasions

I don’t care about the tee shirts
or the holey old blue jeans
there’s always more of those
but the other stuff’s precious

So keep your house as you will
I won’t laugh at your neatness
but stay out of my garage
leave my work clothes alone


Day One
By GC SMITH

He suffered jokes year round
Him, a nerd, nebbish, a clown
But then on one April the one
They found themselves undone

Plotting was his sharpest tool
Revenge why he went to school
He knew that it would be most cool
To see them squirm was his golden rule

He planned, and plotted to be cruel
He’d be just as stubborn as a mule
Tease them to think they’d find a jewel
Then he’d shout out: APRIL FOOL!