Michael T. Smith


Westerplatte, Gdansk

Walked along a sea that never changes,
a sea that in the midst of the night
tells a lie to everyone who looks into it,
a sea whose harbor knows its shame.

The world was watching as this port
twisted the truth with a stoic lapping,
providing a misguided quote that
covered for a bomb that blew up the world.



A Christmas Poem
I felt as the grey fell upon me
the moroseness of the sky itself.
I found a bosom buddy
to toast with this egg nog —
the Gower to my Bailey if you will,
for all Christmas is a time of yearning
for the loved ones we rarely see,
for how time returns all gifts
into dust.  And so I float
up to this curious sky
with a sound of jingling bells
behind me,
into a sort of heeded reverie.
Tis the season,
as acted out every year.



Where do the regular people grow?
I want to pick one
like a petal from off a quatrefoil,
whose stem stretches back home,
in a field of malicious openness.

All this is foreign to me, who only strolls
into this field like a breeze.
The frowning of the sky at my gait,
a j’accuse of my unwelcome self,
is an adoption of a bygone tradition.

How to be a regular person, I know
not.  My stalk is but a mere
adaptation of sorrow.
I’ve lived my whole life in this land,
But still I’m only visiting.


Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses. He has published over 100 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 50 different journals. He loves to travel.


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