jotters, writers, blogging pages

It is the orphan’s wish to wake up in a company other than his own,
be blessed, be loved and be drenched by a breath other than his own
and if luck permits, cherish the rest of his day like a treasure trove
bristling through a life, more so with a love to know and to behold.

But here I am nudging bottles and pondering your absence,
your giggling embrace and most of all your hearty correspondence…

Well, dearest one, pardon me if my lines seem stunted a bit,
it is because the city of Manhattan, is short on stationery,
pen, ink, papers…

books by this author Laurel-Smith, Abbey are available at your local bookstore including Barnes & Noble, Borders Music Cafe, Amazon and Waldenbooks.

Ash Wednesday 21st of February 2007, a raining day I was told,
nonetheless I went ahead with the surgery,
the first on my hand and I hope my last.
I came to – a new life from a deep sleep,
then the doctor said, “on you go young man
go out and fulfill your dreams”…

So out I went – a new hand with retributions.
The first was the wife, but that was expected,
the second, a girlfriend - at regular intervals,
the third, an errant girl - a victim after a night out,
the fourth, somebody’s wife on an intoxicated night.

Now, of what use will a hand be to a man,
if it cannot be used to perform a simple task
like undressing the other man’s daughter
is a question relegated to a past...

books by this author Laurel-Smith, Abbey are available at your local bookstore including Barnes & Noble, Borders Music Cafe, Amazon and Waldenbooks.

Oh! Winter, ah! Snow, listen good fellows,
This is Smithie writing again, this time
Chinese style, with no chopsticks but a smile,
Right here in Johnson, Vermont

Same year we autographed Howard
Our Governor, to try and score for a President
But then the winter and the snow
Comes to clean up our little village

Even our place in between the seven hills
Could not save us from the snow
The rusty parts of our buildings, our garbage cans
Are all covered up with snow and frost

Now the cars on our streets and everywhere
Have all been covered up and made so white
That even our cat is afraid of going out
And our hen no longer clucks

...
...

books by this author Laurel-Smith, Abbey are available at your local bookstore including Barnes & Noble, Borders Music Cafe, Amazon and Waldenbooks.

That a child
has no name of its own
is enough
but to be denied a way
from finding one -
its own,
in life
is a crime.

Parents, selfish.
Sons and Daughters, dovish.
Listen kids,
Why not
cut up your parents
this Christmas
and serve them as meat
to the homeless?

….
….
….
….

books by this author Laurel-Smith, Abbey could be seen at your local bookstore, Barnes & Noble, Borders and Waldenbooks

I see the woman you were born to be
and pretended the other one
you were painted to be,
never for one moment existed.

I see the woman in you… struggling for light
and you like a fresh plant
trying not to be crushed
in a manly world

where the beauty in you was degraded
and the life you were to live
was deprived of richness by the other
that circumstances placed on you
though many will not believe you
and many still prefer to pretend to hate you
whilst they secretly harbor what it means
to be covertly Clintonized

and in a land where all realities
were once but dreams…

taken from the book "let me be your absent friend" written by Laurel-Smith, Abbey and published by Authorhouse 2003. All books by the author are available at your local store including Barnes & Noble, Borders and Waldenbooks

When up on the banks of Babylon
we clambered and our rifle clamored,
then and there we shall
for always and ever remember this -
a payback for the sons of Zion
and for those daughters of Zion
who refused to sing the Lord’s song
on a land made so strange

that their harp refused a twiddle
when for once
they’ve had to hang them
rather than be singing captives
and neither were the willows,
upon which branches they wept
rather than weave osiers
for a love for basketry

on a land that was to be
a land of satyrs,
and one that was to be
a land full of wild beasts,
...
...
...

reader: this is an impromptu verse (as written un-edited)

I fell upon a dream like a tiger
roughly denied of her cubs
her breast I patted wide, tore open
and devour like a wild beast.

My head, I lifted up from her breast
to accept that which is God’s
and wished from then onwards
that oil, be cheaper in Jewish hands.

"that oil, be cheaper in Jewish hands!"
the ghost called out after me...

This is part of a yet to be published poem I wrote a couple of years ago, under the title " a ghost called out to me," but now dedicated to all those bloggers and the readers of my blog especially those that are busy burning gas to and from work for their livelihood all over the world.
Thank you for being a committed reader and please do not hesitate to pass this 'round to your friends and also to the Bush/Blair circle of friends if you know how to reach them.

Cheers, A.

I am tired of this heaven
as many are, this life.
I am tired of being under this sky
as I am, a new lane.

Why not ask for another heaven?
As most do another life.
Why not ask for another sky?
As most do a new land...

...about the potato and the hot gravy.

I remember sweat(s) breaking out on her face
And I could still recall what I thought was
The color of her agitation tilting more and more
Towards a surprise from a bigger frustration
Then, as if released from a ball of fire
She said “u know I have mixed emotions”

“Mixed emotions! Yeah, about what!” I replied,
Then she said it…her worries were about
“A stubborn potato that refused to be cooked
Even after being promised more fire
And more water to hasten its transformation
With options –

being mashed or chopped afterwards”