Hardware Sparrows, poem by R.T. Smith

HARDWARE SPARROWS
by R. T. Smith

Out for a deadbolt, light bulbs 
and two-by-fours, I find a flock 
of sparrows safe from hawks

and weather under the roof 
of Lowe’s amazing discount 
store. They skitter from the racks

of stockpiled posts and hoses 
to a spill of winter birdseed 
on the concrete floor. How

they know to forage here, 
I can’t guess, but the automatic 
door is close enough,

and we’ve had a week 
of storms. They are, after all, 
ubiquitous, though poor,

their only song an irritating 
noise, and yet they soar 
to offer, amid hardware, rope

and handyman brochures, 
some relief, as if a flurry 
of notes from Mozart swirled

from seed to ceiling, entreating 
us to set aside our evening 
chores and take grace where

we find it, saying it is possible, 
even in this month of flood, 
blackout and frustration,

to float once more on sheer 
survival and the shadowy 
bliss we exist to explore. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: R.T. (Rod) Smith‘s collections of poetry include From the High Dive (1983), The Cardinal Heart (1991), Hunter-Gatherer (1996), Trespasser: Poems (1996), Split the Lark: Selected Poems (1999), Messenger (2001), Brightwood (2003), The Hollow Log Lounge (2003), and Outlaw Style: Poems (2008). He has received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Virginia Commission for the Arts and has won the Cohen Prize from Ploughshares and a Pushcart Prize.

Illustration: “Sparrow’s Nest” (mixed media) by Elena Ray, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

What Black Elk Said, poem by R.T. Smith

WHAT BLACK ELK SAID
by R.T. Smith

It was in the Moon When the Cherries Turn Black.
We cut birch saplings,
packed our tipis on travois
and followed the Bison Wind to the banks of the Rosebud.
But that was not a good year.
The Arapahoes we called Blue Clouds
attacked our hunting parties under the Bitten Moon,
and the leaves fled early.
In that hungry winter some say the snow reached
the ponies’ withers. The elk were hard
to find, and many of our people forgot
to slit bone masks and went snowblind.
Some of the bands got lost for a while. Some died.
I think it was that winter when a medicine man
named Creeping came among us, curing
the snowblinds. He packed snow across their eyes
and sang the song from his dream.
Then he would blow on the backs of their heads
and sing hey hey hey hey, and they would see.
It was about the dragonfly
whose wings wear eyes that he sang,
for that was where he claimed his power lay.
We also spoke to the snow of dragonflies,
and soon the deep patches melted
and the hunters brought us fresh meat.
Creeping left one night on a pony drag.
Some say he was a man of much craziness,
and I thought so too, but the next summer
I had my vision of giants slanting down like arrows
from clouds. They sang the song of the elk
speaking with the sacred voice.
The next year was the good year.
A song was singing me. 

###

“What Black Elk Said” is found in SPLIT THE LARK: Selected Poemsby R. T. Smith, available on Amazon.com.

 Image: “Dragonflies Moon” by Borealnz, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

What Black Elk Said, Poem by R.T. Smith

WHAT BLACK ELK SAID

by R.T. Smith

It was in the Moon When the Cherries Turn Black.

We cut birch saplings,

packed our tipis on travois

and followed the Bison Wind to the banks of the Rosebud.

But that was not a good year.

The Arapahoes we called Blue Clouds

attacked our hunting parties under the Bitten Moon,

and the leaves fled early.

In that hungry winter some say the snow reached

the ponies’ withers. The elk were hard

to find, and many of our people forgot

to slit bone masks and went snowblind.

Some of the bands got lost for a while. Some died.

I think it was that winter when a medicine man

named Creeping came among us, curing

the snowblinds. He packed snow across their eyes

and sang the song from his dream.

Then he would blow on the backs of their heads

and sing hey hey hey hey, and they would see.

It was about the dragonfly

whose wings wear eyes that he sang,

for that was where he claimed his power lay.

We also spoke to the snow of dragonflies,

and soon the deep patches melted

and the hunters brought us fresh meat.

Creeping left one night on a pony drag.

Some say he was a man of much craziness,

and I thought so too, but the next summer

I had my vision of giants slanting down like arrows

from clouds. They sang the song of the elk

speaking with the sacred voice.

The next year was the good year.

A song was singing me. 

###

“What Black Elk Said” is found in SPLIT THE LARK: Selected Poems by R. T. Smith, available on Amazon.com.

 Image: “Dragonflies Moon” by Borealnz, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Moth Aubade, Poem by R.T. Smith

MOTH AUBADE

by R.T. Smith

Downstairs early to mill
the morning coffee,
I find the kitchen wall

beside the lamp
is littered with moths
exhausted from a night

of circling the globe,
as if its light were
the source of joy.

As I approach in slippers
they hardly flutter
but hold their postures,

perhaps in their small
thoughts counting on me,
a frequent dreamer

still drowsy from reverie,
to show them mercy.
Pouring the beans, then

turning the worn handle
till the brass gears growl,
I study every wing

design—solid, striped
or mottled. To the Greeks
they were all psyche,

spirit drawn to flame,
but this August morning
I wish, before they perish,

to revive us all
with the scent of chicory
and conduct them out

the kitchen window
singing their luminous
individual names.

Photo: Ike Gomez, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Hardware Sparrows, Poem by R.T. Smith

HARDWARE SPARROWS

by R. T. Smith

Out for a deadbolt, light bulbs 
and two-by-fours, I find a flock 
of sparrows safe from hawks

and weather under the roof 
of Lowe’s amazing discount 
store. They skitter from the racks

of stockpiled posts and hoses 
to a spill of winter birdseed 
on the concrete floor. How

they know to forage here, 
I can’t guess, but the automatic 
door is close enough,

and we’ve had a week 
of storms. They are, after all, 
ubiquitous, though poor,

their only song an irritating 
noise, and yet they soar 
to offer, amid hardware, rope

and handyman brochures, 
some relief, as if a flurry 
of notes from Mozart swirled

from seed to ceiling, entreating 
us to set aside our evening 
chores and take grace where

we find it, saying it is possible, 
even in this month of flood, 
blackout and frustration,

to float once more on sheer 
survival and the shadowy 
bliss we exist to explore. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: R.T. (Rod) Smith‘s collections of poetry include From the High Dive (1983), The Cardinal Heart (1991),Hunter-Gatherer (1996), Trespasser: Poems (1996), Split the Lark: Selected Poems(1999), Messenger (2001), Brightwood (2003), The Hollow Log Lounge (2003), and Outlaw Style: Poems (2008). He has received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Virginia Commission for the Arts and has won the Cohen Prize from Ploughshares and a Pushcart Prize.

Illustration: “Sparrow’s Nest” (mixed media) by Elena Ray, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED