Time…

December 17, 2006

From: Children

Artist: Steven Gelberg

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Soon, I will be a daughter for 9 days in person. I was a cave child, I found earthen places in which to create worlds in. Behind the big bushes I cooked and built worlds.

So, I am leaving on Wednesday to be with my clan.I get to be an Aunt to some young ‘uns.

And a daughter, in the flesh.

My Dad spoils me, and I need that! (I sense he does too.)

We all cook and argue about who will cook what meal and when.

I did something I have never done. I put together 20 or so poems, played with the font a little, printed them on nice paper and a neighbor who works in a bindery loves to make books.

I am having a book of my poetry made for my father. At first I thought to myself: Nice. He has asked and now he will have his own book. After making the cover sheet, I started to feel things far deeper than how nice. I noticed the erotic poems did not make the cut. That was too much for me. Then I realized I would have to make sure there were tissues near by after I did the front page:

The Poetry of Kim Smith

For Guy Smith,

My Father,

Christmas 2006

Suddenly, after I printed this page, I realized I was documenting heritage, story, family and that I was part of a lineage of women writers. I learned this in 1997 at a family reunion. There were hand made books, Common Books, collages, poetry~~all stunning.

I had now put myself into the hands of future generations barring flood, fires or someone loosing the book.

Oh my.

And, I am doing this.

A real book, with a beautiful discarded binding my neighbor saved from the scrap heap at work.

A book

Holy Shit

My neighbor just stopped by to show me the book progress. I got tingles. There is just a leather binding to add.

Did I write: A book!

Kim

To My Father:

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Photo by Pat Smith

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I’m The Only One

September 24, 2006


 

 

 

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Please baby can’t you
see

My mind’s a burnin’ hell
I got razors a rippin’ and tearin’ and strippin’
My heart apart as well
Tonight you told me
That you ache for something new
And some other woman is lookin’ like somethingThat might be good for you

 

Go on and hold her till the screaming is gone
Go on believe her when she tells you
nothing’s wrong
But I’m the only one
Who’ll walk across the fire for you
I’m the only one
Who’ll drown in my desire for you
It’s only fear that makes you run
The demons that you’re hiding from
When all your promises are gone
I’m the only one

 

 

Please baby can’t you see
I’m trying to explain
I’ve been here before and I’m locking the door
And I’m not going back again
Her eyes and arms and skin won’t make
it go away
You’ll wake up tomorrow and wrestle the sorrow

That holds you down today

 

Go on and hold her till the screaming is gone
Go on believe her when she tells you
nothing’s wrong
But I’m the only one
Who’ll walk across the fire for you
I’m the only one
Who’ll drown in my desire for you
It’s only fear that makes you run
The demons that you’re hiding from
When all your promises are gone
I’m the only one

 

 

 

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Some days are like this. Some months last in this moment.

I just wonder.

My sense and my intuition tell me that this song is where I am living in this moment. Then I ask myself: Are you sure? Maybe it’s just your pain speaking?

Do you ever wonder if any of it was real? You know what it is.

Do you ever wonder if you were blind the entire time?

Do you ever wonder about balancing love with what we want and need?

Has anyone ever said to you: This is what you think you need from me?

Has anyone ever said to you: You are making it sound like it’s all my fault? When maybe you were, unintentionally? But, all you wanted was communication?

Why do we have a mythology/reality of love lasting?

Of love in action lasting?

Where do we find love, the noun, and love, the verb, entwined together?

What are we afraid of?

Me? I hate the bone soul wailing. It scares me when I am in it, even though I know it is the moment not the rest of my life.

Why do we use each other as drugs? Smoke-screens?

Protectors from ourselves, without asking persmission from the other?

Why do we tell the other they made us feel something?

How did we loose sight that we are discrete beings that come as we are and that everything we feel reflects ourselves back to us?

Why do we speak in smoke and mirrors?

I do not expect answers. I think the questions are enough.

What are you questions to the answers?

 

 

Top Painting: Love is A Many Splendored Thing

Artist: Amy Blue

Bottom Photograph: Photos Senza Titolo

Artist: Francesca Dotta

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