here and gone and
here again the most
peculiar fleeing friend
you stay you go you
tell me so i know
it's sure it's what you name
it's all in how you play the game
but oh i wait here for your kiss
there's something that you should not miss:
cry wolf my
dear
and see what shows
the wolf
will
come
and i
will go.
douglas brent smith
Pie Out-Moded - sketch by douglas brent smith, from journal #10 cry Wolf (1977)
Note:
Another silly cartoon, drawn with a flair pen in a spiral bound notebook. That is a lot of ice cream.
come to me
as the person you know as
the one who will go
softly in silence from you
slowly and close
feel the most we can offer
all of this flesh thru the mess of our parting
there. you see? the magic the warmth
still willingly there
all we have shared
has formed a bond
not to tie us or hold us captive
but to wrap our walk
thru this passage
peacefully gentle
compassionately free.
douglas brent smith
Note:
This is at least the third version of this poem. I'll never get it exactly right, just as I never figured out how to get breaking up exactly right. Much has changed since 1977 when the first bits of this poem appeared, and yet...much remains a mystery -- like the mystery of how does someone fall out of love?
To me it feels the same as if you said you'd decided to stop breathing. How do you do that?
Little Known Scientific Fallacies - from journal #10 cry Wolf (1977)
the only fire that inflames me now
crackles constantly your name
white hot and furious over the ashes
of your unwritten melody
and my unwanted soul
the only air flowing thru me now
tastes bitter and smoky
colored in resins i've never learned
in pigments past understanding
you say i may not see you now
though i still hear you when you sigh
you declare there's no love there
but ashes swept aside.
douglas brent smith
i guess the postal service died
no other cause will do
it's been more than a month
since i've heard a word from you
the phone company has gone on strike
or else my phone is broken
it's been too long a time it seems
since your sweet voice has spoken
it could not be dark apathy
or mystery ignoring me
that would not do it's not like you
to leave me so neglected
and somehow soon it must be true
you'll treat me as expected
to sit alone by my dumb phone
reveals a hope gone rotten
and it's much worse to live the curse
of someone who's forgotten.
douglas brent smith
dorinda likes to doodle
daringly on napkins
unseen unnoticed by
the scramblers eating eggs
or sipping bitter coffee
sometimes she pops out a song
or sketches a summer scene
from somewhere no one's been
now here i am in Chicago
frozen to the bone
doodling on a napkin
and wishing i was home
but, lacking that i
send a pre-doodled napkin
to someone who appreciates
napkins and things.
douglas brent smith
I was not much of a cartoonist, but that didn't stop me from occasionally trying. The joke here is basic and obvious and probably just came out of idle doodling.
what Jane needs to paint
fuel from foolish adventures
folly from feeling
alive
swirling her flashy flesh filled shape
as metaphors
a warm blanket
around her naked frame
what Jane needs lately to feel
hip in her new age
is company, coolness shared
some touchable one
who cares what she paints
more than about
what's under her blanket.
douglas brent smith
Sketch: A Slightly Sinister Creature - from journal #10 cry Wolf (1977).
Once an angel
fell
from her warm but insecure
perch in an artificial sky
damaged and breathless
afraid and in tears
i ran to her soft side
more than anxious to
help her to heal her
and hear her words of love
mending her wings and
sealing her strength
hoping she'd fly over worlds
that were also mine
and love me for something
that angels don't have
but...once healed
on the wing
she took flight from my sight
not willing to waste
her freedom on fools
so i wait with tears streaming
waiting and dreaming
and hoping that when
that angel falls again
she remembers these steady hands.
douglas brent smith
Five Sketches in Search of a Hat - from journal #10: cry wolf (1977)
i left my typewriter in new jersey
as if some bloodied murder weapon
trying to hide the crimes
or forget the posturing
of the scene of all my passion
and pathos
for these seven quite odd years
where manhood came
and with it the twisting
torture of passion's pain
distressed and then daring
darling and then distressing
messing with alternatives
though the people traded places
sliding parade-like suddenly
my massive wooden desk i
called the aircraft carrier (covered
with unfinished scripts, snatches of poems,
and doctors' bills)
half my soul (it seems) was
spilled poured and splattered
into these gold, black, red walls
onto the dusty floor filled with
cat hair, beard hair, auburn hair
too precious to sweep away
no, it was not a castle
or a page from Architecture Digest
but it gave me all I ever needed
to become an artist
they say we become completely new
every seven years
we'll see i suppose we will see
i left my typewriter in new jersey
i guess i'll need to return for it.
douglas brent smith