Ruptured Canopies

A trapeze artist
preens
before mirrors,
her breasts scarred from falls
and steps mistaken.
The handsome magician,
drink in hand,
rummages through
life’s deceptions.
I juggle
cotton candy dreams
with
sugar waffle fantasies.

I am safe,
in a hatbox

among the elephants and the lions.

Confused,
by crowds hurrying to see
and those
rushing to leave.

There is suspicion between art and life,
which is more accurate?
Hugging the curb of want,
I have a razor’s edge
view of fate,

a tapestry of spreading shadows,
woven with brandished egos

and profound fear.

Time to move,

time to shake off the numbness of bad luck
and missed opportunities
against the dark of the world.
I look around me, not wide-eyed,

but cautiously
aware calamities
are paradoxes swelled
with inconveniences.

Paper plates, cups, and torn balloons
are strewn about.
Flies and other insects
swarm on the decaying food.
The heavy air
heats the remains of liquid in discarded bottles.
Mosquitoes swell,
while toads contemplate their next moves.
I notice wheels from broken strollers,
dirtied diapers,
and abandoned plastic products,
all scattered on the dry, dusty ground.
And everywhere that stench of trash,
of garbage,
of things sweet and sticky
tossed away.
Appetites crave more.
And more indicates
an unappeasable desire.

Thick ropes on large poles
are loosened,
tents collapse and
restlessness permeates,
reverberating through the animal cages.

There are no more illusions.
The high wires have disappeared.
The thrills have become thoughts
lost in the distance.
The mesmerization
of magic and mysteries
has faded.

Life is a hammer
pounding on an anvil,
and all the ruptured canopies
must be mended
before the next show.

I am a Consummate Gardener

I am a consummate gardener,
living without pretense.
I dig,
pull out clover,
pull out weeds,
but I let stones remain.
Stones, tell me how I have gardened.
They ask to be touched.
I rub them between my fingers,
feel the caked dirt,
and listen to their stories.
They lie, though.
They want to please
so they
complement desires.

My big brown dog, bright-eyed and unphased by dirty, muddy, or wet paws,
never travels far from me.
I unleash her,
and she never strays.
She is content to be my archangel,
while I do all the spading, weeding, transplanting, trenching, scraping,
with few tools and without a smile.
Every time I step into this garden,
like Sisyphus, my perpetual punishment continues.

Squirrels conspire with birds to distract me.
Occasionally, I uncover the small bones of their relatives.
Now and then, I find what they have buried.
But most times, I poke, plow, and think
about the absurdity of gardening
and the futility of being successful at it.

My neighbors scoff at me.
They have no spirited dog or dismissive cat.
Their trees are tall, and professionals tend full leafy bushes.
They are a distant couple who spend no time outside their thoughts,
self-absorbed with moral decay; they measure time by what is possessed.
It is better to harvest treasure with false conviviality
then dig and unearth shards of sharp objects that cut and disfigure.

Wasps and bees circle, dart, and linger.
If they are annoyed, they will sting.
Blister beetles, if ingested accidentally or incidentally, can cause death.
Orange and black monarch butterflies warn they are toxic and
toads never fail to startle me.
The larger animals, muskrats, moles, and raccoons
make their presence known
as the moon rises,
when I am dining, sinning, or reading about gardening.
No matter how pleasing,
there is no music,
that can be appreciated while your hands
are going deeper into the darkness.

It is no secret,
the earth’s blackness is an uncompromising foe,
indifferent
to all things living.

The sun sneers and the clouds darken,
winds race to find me, the moisture from the lake
picks up the dust and sprays my face.
I am an addict, single-minded
with one purpose.
I acknowledge that.
There are no distractions
just restless
absurdity.

I wear no knee pads,
no protective covering,
no gloves.
I dislike hats.
And I hate when I feel sweat and dirt
glide down my back.
I am never satisfied
with what I am accomplishing.
But that has little to do with gardening.

My dog
sniffs the exhumed soil,
and, as I twist my hands

to seize what is deeper,
I realize
I have underestimated the potential
of gardening,
like
I have underestimated
the potential
of my own
curiosity.

With no Destination
The crowded elevator
travels up, up,
up,

emptying those preoccupied with purpose.
A small boy with soft brown eyes
is the last to exit.
I am alone,

continuing to ascend.

The door rattles open,
icy winds and swirling snow
greets me.
I sense rather than see.
The storm is overwhelming.
Resignation creeps upon me
as the elevator disappears,
leaving no trace of its existence.

With no destination,
uncertain
and without direction
I step.
With each move
I sink deeper into the snow.
Sky and horizon
blend into a shapeless,
white screen.

A distantly
remembered voice
interrupts the blindness.
An image
just out of reach.
A handsome young man,
imagined but true,
comes my way.

Every

chaotic white moment
becomes another.
The aimless snow whirls
about us,
without form or regard,
restless yet sublime.

I trudge further
into
cold uncertainty,
and from
the icy opaqueness,
my weary brown eyes
indelicately surrender
to the
bleakness
of my
unforgiving dreams.

Philip received his M.A. in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Two novels, Caught Between (Which is a 24-episode Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/)  and Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript. His novel, an erotic thriller, Far From Here, will be out in the Winter of 2023. One play, The Apparition. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.

Once I was

Once I was

A super starry

The tension

Before

A boat made out of

Cracking sticks

And sturdy twine

Hit the water of a kiddie pool

A sun

About to (ex)(im)plode

Warping like a

Lupine Blooming

Living in another ripple

Behind my pale blue eyes

The time it lived

Irrelevant to the not;

Yet it is infinite and rapid

A reflection upon the rushing river below me

Seen in my eyes

Through my eyes

A boy

Trying to be

Blind and all knowing

Now a ——

Unknowing and changed

Now I am a curiosity

Unknowing and changed.

I Should Do Work Now

I should do work now.

But I don’t want to do work.

I should do work now.

I should do work now.

But I don’t want to do work.

Checking social media feels like work.

I should do work now.

Checking social media feels like work.

I should do work now.

Eating is something you need to do.

Eating is something you need to do.

Eating is something you need to do.

I should do work now.

I should do work.

I should.

I should.

I should.

Checking social media feels like work.

Checking social media feels like work.

It feels like work.

Like work.

Like work.

If I write a poem that is sort of work.

Sometimes you can get paid for writing a poem.

Sometimes you can get paid.

Sometimes.

Sometimes you can get paid.

I should do work now.

Work now.

I should always do work.

I should do work now.

I should do work now.

Checking social media feels like work.

I should do work now.

Checking social media feels like work.

Checking social media feels like work.

I should do work now.

I should do work now.

I should do work now.

I should do work now.

A peaceful river

Through the chaos of my mind

Calms mind and body.

Shirley Smothers is an amateur poet, writer, and artist.

She mostly writes short stories. Some of her short stories can be viewed at storystar.com and she can be reached at boopr6@hotmail.com.

A Nation With Crippling Economy

How can it grow?

A nation where truth suffers

Social justice buried

Injustice prevails

Fragrance of truth, very difficult to smell

Concoction of corruption, cooked and shared, to kill proper conduct

Many among the led cheat

In their spheres of influence 

But always blame their leaders, for their woes

Really, vast majority contribute

To the economic mess

Including a worker, who pilfers at their workplace 

Tell a nation with crippling economy

To revamp its value system

Winds of change blow

Only through the positive moves of upright citizens

Walking out into a late Spring Day                                  

SO =   Jan was lucky to have walked out into a late spring day. They had been pushing and pushing and + but + no, no. The steps had been taken, and. That was all over. There came time for lines in the sand et centratoonlia, but, the important things were there to be taken. The yard. The grass of the yard’s so green. And, the day. Dew glistened across right left up and over and. S telephone pole stretched there pointing from between the square yards pres’t the houses uck’dde neighboring, and/und, a line could be drawn down the pole cross the grass to the sidewalk clear out to the street, if one were so inclined to desire. “Can’t Stand This [gorilla]” and.

And.

And.

One step out. Grass. Look ‘round. Look over. Step {turn} grass. Neato-rupt’ out to the pole. Lean. Down. Lean. Down. Yes; there’s something about it, yes. It does smell. :what do we smell, snark: smells like just one’s another type II weedy-rotting log but upon second glance smells much more likewhich a utility Experimental Heemio pole-trilliac pole, in some circles which may or may not exist in past or future days (does it make a sound?) all’s which-so mee’ b’ known as a rott’d heeliog of’f a trilliac’d down Experimental, Mat’ema’tic’alle, ‘sso Wagner’s gas station of great big nose acne’d, raise the lift so we can see the bottom of this Ford, quite long t’phone pole—and stepping back-Jan. While was stepping/step’t back Jan. One instant of loneliness. Struck from un’ ‘nder someplace in the press to the grass o’er bottomsides that pole, Hishteennea, think ‘m ‘h ‘e ‘ressed it’ll :get: when those three are on it down the road but no no no do not want to be lonely ‘til the three will step up off and over to get the slope down ‘cross the fat Main street : of which Jan’ll no ono never’ll be positioned to merely know of it let alone to experience it, SO, turn to the left onto the grasse long armflick’d lift od a walk’d dog who not yet existed/exists yet, moreover,  thwack-stain, thwack–stain, thwack-stain, thwack-stain, thwack-lillian’s astckly great bit dead “stain”, which rub can not get, nor Sunday to Saturday, oh so many times, as—Jan musedly walked toward a suddenly handy next thing to see, t’ ‘e <> lump in the lawn, but wide like a pile, some dirt’d been dump’d here, for some purpose or other, known only to one single person most likely, and Jan, you ought to have seen it; this mound-hill grassed-over nine-ten o’ yards ‘umferenenced roundy ‘bout why, oh why, oh, why have I never once wondered why this is here, yes why like the pole there whose being I’ve never questioned, why we’d never off’d Lucifer to know the damn thing, eh why is that there eh why do you need to know that Gimi, why d’ down’d dirt d’ya need to know that now, after all it’d been there all your limited allotted days Gimi, and it was never important to you ‘til now, when you are lonely and need somebody Gimi, why is is only when you’re lonely or need something all of a sudden what’s under this here moun’’s so equally important Gimi oh why o why Gimi, oh Gimi, why oh why, Gimi oh why and oh why and oh why Gimi Gimi stuck down on it’s platter it did become tiresome, where’s the switch there’s the switch they made it big and red to be easy to hit in the inevitable emergency life and/or limbed seven-legged emergency, which when pushed shines strong light in the room where the creature’s come [ so hot to the touch and to the touch only ] threatening, which said light make a dash n’ scurry ‘way gone of at least this problem but remember there will always be more many more yes lots more Gimi Gimi see here ha Gimi, there’s always been and always will be plenty more of me slithering in Gimi, so aw dump the scamper don’t pull that trick this time, we know you so well and sir turn-kneenevtable gas, frustration frustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustration but {[ why on earth when they saw the need for an emergency stop button did they not simultaneously see that meant they felt the effort to perfect the machine was incomplete? Like, y’know,  we fear it may be deadly we fear we fear we fear et-schrectoolia,? Why’d ‘ot go ditch the red button go just design better and harder out to perfection which is actually attainable but for their inherent [don’t go there can’t go there said not to and never because you just might find HORN HORN that phrase intentionally blanked down to nonexistence]]}  ten hots for ten Hoovers lack of the simple everyday ability to see past the God-damned you-know-whats’ tip?         Bland lo Schledney     c r a n k  we get frustrated we get frustrated we get lots and lots of frustrated                                                                          oh hell of course its fine you can’t yet see. We are after all only 839 and a half pages in, and counting                                                                              drag                               block                               tackle drag    block and  tackle                                       drag block and tackle                                   God damn let us in as you rig up your damned block and tackle need power to LIFT this why the hell’d they construct this so ASS to require block-tackle and more liniment o’er the burning part to bring this big question mark of a simple gragoon-simple instance of a COMMON race RAZOR to HEEL!                                        ‘kay why’se guy why dontcha?                                         Gimme gimme here gimmi gimmi gimmi-hech’ BUT  Jan stepped toes-up to the mystery mound in the grass-lawn {back the usually most shady spot most of every hot summer} and toed a light kick into its base. Hard, they though. Now we ought-could have dug into this. To find out what’s inside, you know?   But it was not important at the time. Like always these are; when the tools commonalities and the actual object of interest (ya ya what’s its history what’s it’s [we get lots and lots of letters] history)   no more Art Linkletter ever again Gimi please promise me that Gimi please promise me o-o—o-o please promise me no more Art Linkletter ever again, Gimi   are available, the interest in knowing what’s inside is not, “whereas”, when when the tools commonalities and the actual object of interest (yrotsih ]srettel fo stol dna stol teg ew[ s’ti s’tahw yrotsih sti s’tahw ay ay ya ya) jamais d’Art Linkletter Gimi, s’il te plaît, promets-moi que Gimi, s’il te plaît, promets-moi o-o—o-o s’il te plaît, promets-moi de ne plus jamais avoir d’Art Linkletter, Gimi   are no longer available, the interest in knowing what’s inside is not, and ye yat brains    as Jan stood there musing all this out,           wow wow WOW                 a voice    bark, said the startled dog               

Hey. I’ve got this game here. Want to play it?

: turns :

What?

I said hey. I’ve got this game here. Want to play it?

Hook = Playing it alone vs. playing it with people     colorforms    piano for people unlike other people

Am tired of playing it alone. You know?

Am tired of playing this game alone.

EVENING’S TIDE

The broad beach has disappeared
	beneath the rising tide
Faint rose tints the scattering
	clouds of this sunset

& as blackness settles
	with the song of some
		night bird, frogs & a gecko
the fiercer waves climb the steps
	of the long-gone promenade
		leaping, splashing
against that rubble
	white rip currents pulling
		into the high ocean

& the lights of distant villages
	speckle the far horizon



 
LEAVING BEHIND

I leave behind
	mothers bathing their
	naked daughters
in a growing tidal pool

& follow a narrowing path
	through mangrove brambles
	escaping far from people

I sit on this deserted beach
	the porpoise-colored sea
	rolling its rising tide
	against the black rock …

shaking off troubling thoughts
	to be captured
	by this surf,
	washed far, far away

& my Spirit takes wing
	like that piquero
	soaring over the waters
	swooping & diving …

to be like that sea
	lion pup, playfully
	plunging beneath, bobbing
	with each roll of this sea



 
TOWARDS THE RIVER PLATE
(Montevideo)
 
Paper & leaves scuttle down cavernous Saturday streets, 
few souls out in these depths.
A woman holds the reins of a horse-drawn cart,
her children staring into the closing morn.
Limp bags of cardboard & bottles hang off the sides.
 
Along Sarandi Street, artisan stalls of puppets,
stones & carved gourds, honey & fruit preserves 
in the cool shade of worn buildings.
A silver-haired man plays violin, 
his sightless eyes closed.
Case open at his feet, scattered with coins.
 
Suddenly the rhythm of drums echoes up this way
from the Plaza Constitución.
Three boys with blue & yellow tambores,
a friend with hat in hand, 
followed by a policeman herding them away
from the antique sellers beneath trees,
away from the couples dancing folklore, 
gaucho & tango in front of the cabildo,
away from the diners in sidewalk cafés.
 
Up the calle along the Central Market & Mundo Afro,
beats of a comparsa resonate       resonate.
Dark hands caress the skins while the other
grips a stick rapping       rapping, 
painted stars bobbing on the red & black drums.
 
Beyond, the River Plate flows,
bands of muddy brown, dull green, 
tarnished blue in the past-noon sun.
Down along the Rambla,
men sit sipping mate, 
thermos tucked under arm.
Families swim along the sparse-sand beach, 
bask upon wave-smooth rocks.
 
Up on the Cubo del Sur,
children pose upon a rusted cannon 
for papá's photo.
A man slits the silvered belly of a fish.
Long black rod in hand,
white cap shading his eyes & balding head, 
he baits his line.
 
& far on the horizon,
in the haze of sun & sea,
slow ships steam to other ports.

Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.