Loading...
Menu

Waiting for the Sunrise: The Collected Poems of Cathy Smith

Waiting for the Sunrise

By

Cathy Smith

 

 

 

 

All text and photographs in Apple Cider & Wishes on the Edge of Time Copyright © 2016 Cathy Smith

 

 

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

 

As the purchaser/owner of this E-book, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable

right to access and read the text of this E-book on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

 

Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the author/publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Table of Contents

Contents

Apple Cider Journal #1 7

Green rain 8

Unspun wool 11

fresh green apples and blueberries sweet and tart 13

In the forest 18

Candy faces 21

My large window 24

And rainbows 25

The center of the earth 27

The green grass 29

Big yellow sunflowers 30

The wide blue sky 31

Green shoots 33

We drank tea from wooden cups covered in birch bark 34

The crown of a hat 35

The cat 36

It is towards evening 39

A grizzly bear day 41

The ground is thick with leaves 44

At the beach 45

I found a beach in France 47

Still asleep (still asleep in bed) 49

This same old fence 52

Constantly reminding me 53

Dried paint 54

The bathhouse 55

Every little grain of sand 56

The flowers in the dark 58

Shirayama (white mountain) 59

The ocean 62

We went sailing 63

The shadows on the beach 64

The flowers that were set on the table 65

A river: the story of the Buddha 66

Three wishes 74

Once I wondered 77

Right around the corner 79

Friends 80

Waiting for the afternoon 84

Dreamland 87

Two rooms 91

Visible underground 92

Springtime 93

A long cold night 94

It was a dry winter 95

Sweet corn 97

Laz-E-Girl 99

We have two plants in the house 100

There’s someone downstairs playing a guitar 101

India tea 102

I heard a blue jay call 103

WISHES ON THE EDGE OF TIME: Poetry Journal #2 104

PART ONE: Summer 105

In the summer 106

Lightning 107

The junction tree 108

The painted desert 109

Just enough 112

This summer 113

In the middle of summer 115

A poet’s day 116

The sound 117

Letter from a beachcomber 118

Santa Monica beach 119

Flowers 121

reflection 122

Southern California 123

Jones, Georgia 125

The rain 127

On the way to San Diego 128

Rain 130

PART TWO: Winter 131

it will be towards morning 132

Winter this year 133

One deep promise 137

Without doubt 138

It was too cold to remember 139

Leaves 141

Four miles to the grocery store 142

coming home 143

The place 144

Signs 146

May 147

Books 148

Purple lilacs 149

The train 152

PART THREE: My Travel Journal 1993-2015 153

The Beginning & The End 154

On the way from Boston: 155

The Florida Everglades 159

About a walk on the beach 163

Tecumseh, Missouri 165

More about Arizona 170

2000 Ketchikan, Alaska 176

About the Author 184

Other Books by This Author 185

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apple Cider Journal #1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Photograph -- n. Maine, my back yard)

Green rain

 

One raindrop at a time

began to fall on

a leaf bouncing it up

and down.

 

I was sitting underneath

the foliage in the rain

watching the rivulets

trace new streams down

through the moss and

small plants and

green ferns.

I shivered

from the cold rain.

The arms of the forest

 

formed a secret

umbrella dancing

like leafy

piano keys playing

simultaneously

and also

bowing singly

over my head.

 

With

wet, green fingers

the lush downfall became

invisible

in its connection with

the player piano

leaves, which

appeared above --

all at once -- high across

the upper boughs

of the waving branches

of a large pine tree.

 

Leaves fell in the wind

and stuck on

the tree trunk above me like

the little green

fingers

of a toad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Bank of the Charles River in Harvard Square, Cambridge, MA)

 

 

Unspun wool

 

After the rain

I wandered

from hill to

hill there was

no one there.

 

Every flower was

fresh, strong and

milky, as if the stems

were drinking from the moist

green earth.

 

The grass sprang up

behind my footsteps

undamaged by the

slight pressure of

my passage. I walked

until I could see

nothing but the cloudy,

stretching, bathed,

naked and blue

sky.

The clouds had

wrung themselves

dry

of moisture

and were

gathered

together into

silky spools as if they

had just been spun

on a spinning

wheel.

The stretching azure

was vast and empty

except

for some sparsely scattered

unspun bunches of vapor --

soon being wheeled

across the wild air

into thin, wispy

thread.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Green apples in the Central Square Food Co-op, Cambridge, MA)

 

fresh green apples and blueberries sweet and tart

(Or What to Do with Too Many Apples & Blueberries)

Fresh green apples and blueberries,

sweet and tart --

 

My gingerbread

recipe:

 

Any kind of wild

berry,

 

(especially wild raspberries,

sweet and tart) combined with

whole wheat and ginger.

 

Also consider adding:

blueberries,

sweet and tart, and

tart green apples

 

for pies

with criss-crossed crust,

too bubbly,

stickily bubbly

 

when they are hot …

 

cooking in the oven.

 

Apple syrup with crisped

apple peel edges.

 

Burning my fingers

right through

the thick patterned

mitten-shaped pot holders

in my full-length

ruffled apron with the pocket.

 

Served up hot

 

on the kitchen table

 

with the smooth white

linen table cloth ironed into

exactly eight

sharp-creased squares:

 

four on one

side four on

the other.

 

Fresh milk with

apple cookies,

 

apple sauce,

wild cranberry sauce,

blackberry jam,

 

apple butter,

 

baked green apples and

apple pancakes.

 

Dried apples carved

into wooden faces,

 

strings of cranberry necklaces,

(pearly cranberry necklaces) with berries like

 

red diver’s pearls tied

with cotton string ties

for springtime, fall and

summer time gatherings hidden in

flowering tree groves,

 

in blueberry patches,

 

in mossy bogs --

looking for

the empty shells of robin’s eggs --

 

blue speckled

robin’s eggs -- we put whatever

broken shards we find

(and sometimes

whole empty shells)

 

on the windowsill.

 

Next to a candle is

a falcon’s feather

and carved wrinkled

apples with

scrap-cloth dresses and

gingerbread-style faces,

spiced apple faces with

raisin-button eyes,

raisin-button smiles,

paper hats,

 

painted noses

and homemade dimples.

 

Apple

dumplings tonight. The

dried apple dolls keep

on smiling with their

honey drop eyes,

yarn hair and

peppermint red

dresses:

 

zig-zag

gum-wrapper arms

outstretched

for a big baby-hug,

with big fake red

lips puckered up

saying “kiss me”.

That night ‘round nine or

nine-thirty we ate

juicy slices of dumpling with

our fingers, sucking

out the boiling juice

when it cooled,

wearing cranberry necklaces

and showing them

off -- using every single

cotton ruffled apron

that we had.

(Fresh green apples),

 

porcelain-enameled metal tables

and checked

table clothes filled with

 

four hot apple and blueberry pies --

three big ones

 

and a smaller one

thick covered wide-brimmed

crust and toothpick marks.

 

“A” for apple.

“B” for blueberry. I like my slice

 

a la mode with heavy

whipped cream. Making my

own whipped cream while I cook,

I slide it along the side of

a heavy crock bowl,

taking lazy peeks

into the oven.

 

Too soon.

Just in time,

before it got burnt.

 

Burnt my fingers again. The

lazy whipped cream peaks

as I am dreaming about

marshmallow clouds over the

minty lemon sunshine.

 

The whipped cream

should not be allowed

to turn into butter.

 

Ginger,

cinnamon,

allspice,

 

hot

apple

cider.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[_ (photograph -- n. Maine, my back yard) _]

 

In the forest

 

Near

the

forest in a field

staring wide-eyed still

soundlessly

deer, sshhh.

 

I stand next to the river.

 

The water is a window. I can

see the fish

all the way to the

bottom of any of the streams

that run off down into

the hills. Throughout the

summer growing season

the Ginkgo, Oak, Elm, Spruce

and Cedar -- Chestnuts and

Persimmon start to spread. And the

strange Sycamore trees.

 

Needles and leaves are scattered

upon the ground, thick as a

carpet.

 

There is the heavy smell of pine gum.

 

The pine trees themselves touch

across the forest floor with a

turpentine,

fish bone, spiny-cone, clove-smelling

paint brush hand.

 

A green paint brush for a hand.

 

In the winter, the snow is

cut sharply by thirsty ice on

a knife-like bank. The edge of the

river slices against

my bare raw exposed ankles

trembling, moving quickly

in the cold running

pebble-bottomed brook.

 

Can’t forget to wear your

socks in the winter.

 

Like, I always try to get away

with it anyway. Better

than getting my socks

wet when I break

the ice with my feet like

I usually do. The cold

feels good though.

At least, at first, until I

get home into the warmth

and then my toes start to

sting. Better luck next

time. Next time the crack

from the crashing ice

won’t send the deer

running for the next county.

 

Near the forest in a field

staring wide-eyed, large

eared, white-tailed, the

color of wood and dry grass,

inside the sounds, underneath

the sounds I make with

my wide-track feet are

the deer again, sshhh. A bird

I hadn’t heard before

sings under the whisper of a

deer’s breath. Sounds a lot

closer than I thought.

I turn slowly and back down

in my mind, you know. Deer

can kick. They aren’t really

that small when you are

practically standing right

next to them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Bench near the Charles River, Harvard Square, Cambridge, MA)

 

 

Candy faces

 

The grass

 

was as soft

as

a

bed.

 

The

pillow

was

crushed

flowers.

 

A

white

and

yellow

clover

necklace.

 

A

white

and

yellow

candy

necklace.

 

 

Yellow

and white

candy

necklaces.

 

Yellow

and

white

pearls,

little

blossoms

strung

on a string

with

a

needle.

 

One

clover

flower.

 

One

clover

flower

with

sweet

candy-filled

petals.

 

Candy

hearts,

 

candy faces

and

candy lips.

 

Sandy beaches,

 

park benches,

enameled green

wrought iron

legs.

 

Hot sun-warmed sand.

The tongues of the ocean

forming white maps,

teary inches

where I might have

been before.

 

I walked

as deeply as I could

up to my chin,

disappearing

 

underneath the

water.

There were rushing

shells swimming

back to shore,

 

candy hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[_ (Photograph -- n. Maine, my living room window) _]

 

 

My large window

 

My large window

overlooks a meadow,

looking out over

a field of sheep

and nine little lambs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And rainbows

 

and rainbows

and rainbows

and rainbows

and diamonds

and rainbows

and pearls

and butterflies

and diamonds

and diamonds

and butterflies

and rainbows

 

strings of pearls

and gold and silver

the teardrops

of the morning on

the edges of flowers

rose petals

daisies

 

the golden sun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[_ (Photograph -- Florida Everglades on the Tamiami Trail) _]

 

The center of the earth

 

The center of the earth

was a steamy veil

with muffled voices

behind it.

 

The trees

(with some of

their roots

exposed

hundreds of years

ago) dug deep into

different strata

of clay;

underneath

the water tables

and rock tables --

reaching

to the liquid fire

at the center

of the earth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The green grass

 

The green grass

sticking to my leg

leaves

long-stemmed

prints of four fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Big yellow sunflowers

 

Big

yellow

sunflowers

with lazy brown eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Southern Canada on the Yellow Hair Highway, near Skeena River.)

 

The wide blue sky

 

After the rain

the earth was fresh and green.

The swallows came up to me with

their small beaks and ate the bread

from my hand.

 

The soft tall stalks of grains in the fields

(barley,

groats,

millet)

 

waved back and forth together

at the same time, moved by the wind,

like flowing hair made of wheat.

I always lay down here,

my bare toes stuck between

the stalks --

staring up at the wide blue sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Green shoots

 

The dull backsides

of knee-high grass sit in

 

the valley, which is filled with

plain brown earth.

 

Once in a while, the

stalks of the

grass stems dry out and

edge the fields with a tan

color.

 

I usually peel the grass back and

chew on the green shoots.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We drank tea from wooden cups covered in birch bark

 

 

 

I made a pillow

from cut grass,

a blanket from the

peeled-smooth branches of

the willow tree, pounding

the naked willow wands

into fabric.

 

I made

a river from small

stones,

 

and tiny chairs from twigs.

A line of ants

were my guests.

 

We drank lake water tea

from wooden cups that I carved

myself and covered with birch

bark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(n. Maine, my back yard. Summer is an explosion of many different kinds of daisies.)

 

 

The crown of a hat

 

Wildflowers,

a straw hat with

a cloth band. --

 

I plucked

one yellow daisy and

stuck it in

the band of the hat.

 

 

 

(Photograph – a cat in Brighton, MA. This cat sat on this stoop every day, just about.)

The cat

 

The cat that decided to chase the

raindrops splattering underneath

the porch

leaped about like she

was scattering the threads

of tangled puddles -- scary

mirrors. Toweling

herself dry, the cat

smoothed her velvet fur

with a scratchy

small-tongued comb.

 

The other cat ran

underneath the house, as well,

and was

quiet, watching

the rain, sitting and

lying in the curly shell

of an old cushion inside

of a woven straw basket

we use to pick strawberries with --

***

Visit: http://www.Shakespir.com/books/view/739096 to purchase this book to continue reading. Show the author you appreciate their work!


Waiting for the Sunrise: The Collected Poems of Cathy Smith

This volume is the collected poems of Cathy Smith. The book contains two Poetry-Photo Journals that span twenty years and many cross-country journeys across the USA and into Canada and Mexico, as well. This is a sort of poetic diary done in free verse (no rhyme) and augmented with many full color digital photographs of memorable places the author has visited. Enjoy the simple language used and see the world as she does with a poetic hand or eye in that moment. Besides these award-winning poetry volumes, Cathy Smith is publishing a collection of literary fiction short stories: "Beautiful Dreamer" (to be released some time later). Seen as a 'Book of Days', this volume can be read one poem at a time like a calendar, a philosophical reminder of the soaring beauty that is actually surrounding us from day to day. "Waiting for the Sunrise" is also available in paperback. Journey with the author...

  • ISBN: 9781370392308
  • Author: Cozy Publishing
  • Published: 2017-07-29 19:35:19
  • Words: 20363
Waiting for the Sunrise: The Collected Poems of Cathy Smith Waiting for the Sunrise: The Collected Poems of Cathy Smith