IMAGES

WORDS

archives: patty wren smith

After the Election

After the election
some of us thought that God
had smiled upon us-
had rewarded us for righteousness-
had promised to save us
and millions of sweet babies--
had shown allegiance
to the sacredness of marriage.

After the election

some of us thought that God

had become small

and mean spirited, like those

who like to make their gods

in their image.

Some of us thought

we could see them at the forge,

pounding out their chains from the veins

of gold in the human heart.

Some of us knew what they knew --

that even the shadows

can be sharpened into swords.

After the election some of us

talked about how simple it had been,

to extract those nuggets of goodness

and those ancient myths - fashioning them

towards a higher cause.

Manipulating the masses is easy

once you’ve found that core.

After the election some of us were

slain by words too small-

and bombs too dumb.

Some of us knew that morality

is larger than the body politics

of the bedroom and procreation.

Some of us believed in God’s whole house,

an ecology of relationships.

Some of us wanted that large God to come back

to occupy that house in us.

© Patty Wren Smith

When the World is Gone from Me

When the world is gone from me

either vanished in atomic rain

or simply slipped beyond the well-lit

mania of a septic room.

I shall miss the green fingers of daffodils

as they pull the sun down around them --

the way they clutch their parcels of amber and gold

the way they hold and tremble is some fullness.

I shall miss the way they open

each day a little more

until each lip and cup has gathered up

all shimmering perfect loveliness.

--some brimming like creatures of coral reefs

or distant stars.

I shall miss the way they

offer themselves as servants

to sunlight and bees

I shall miss my daily witness

of each bloom unfurling,

unfathomable

as Lazarus rising from the tomb

as they pull me

also towards the light.

© Patty Wren Smith

Catching a Fly

One should be able to grab a poem out of the sky,

The way my father grabbed a fly, years ago

when as a child, I watch in wonder as he leaped

straight up from the kitchen chair,

as if some springs were hidden there

beneath his legs; bent open to this opportunity

of a fly occupying the sky

between the ceiling and our suppertime.

It wasn't just the leaping

or the catching I recall -

but the gleeful hoop and holler I still hear

as he shook the buzzing mini-beast

in his fist beside my ear.

Then he put his hand to mouth, and feigned

(at least I think) a quick dispatch of winged snack.

He belched and smiled, as if frog proud,

Then Daddy sat down and took a drink.
© Patty Wren Smith

Patty Wren Smith is a naturalist in Bardstown, KY who enjoys teaching and writing about the natural world. (Not to be confused with Wren, the St. Augustine writer who frequently contributes to this publication and The Collective Press.)