Posts Tagged ‘love’

Blonde with Fingers: A New Free Kindle Book

January 20, 2019

Blonde with Fingers: Poems of Love and Joy with Art Photography of Original Necklaces is now available on Kindle. This new book presents sixteen short poems. They make me happy and I hope you will enjoy them.

The text is supported by art photographs of necklaces I made. These photographs present the necklaces as still lifes rather than as fashion accessories.

Like the other books I have published on Kindle, this new book is listed at the minimum price of 99¢.

If anyone is interested, Blonde with Fingers and my six previous books are all available free, Sunday & Monday, January 20 & 21.

You do not need a Kindle device. The book can be read on a PC, Mac or phone. This book can be reached by clicking on the image below or with my earlier books on

my Author Page: http://amazon.com/author/mikesmetzer

 

Blonde with Fingers cover - Mike Smetzer

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You Say You Love a Wife Beater Divorced Three Times

August 20, 2018

 

The saber still rises through the air
in the memory of his third wife
as he chases her from their house
and two blocks down the street.

There he collapsed and you found him,
crying and impotent,
a little boy with a thin wet beard.
So you took him home.

You hung his saber as a decoration
above your sofa.
Each night you rocked and sang
him to sleep.

But he has grown stronger
and he no longer cries and pleads.
He pushes you out of your bed.
Shouts summon you in the night.

One day you return to find
the saber vanished from the wall.
Out back you watch him practice
on the saplings in your yard.

Once a woman who had lost her child
found a baby wolf and brought it home.
She didn’t think of pain
until the teeth began to nurse.

  

First published in Kansas Quarterly.

 

Strangler Vine in Onset, MA. Family Photo from Vera Lisa Smetzer.

Strangler Vine in Onset, MA. Family Photo from Vera Lisa Smetzer.

Phil’s Funeral: A Short Story Set in South Portland, Maine

July 6, 2018

 

I asked for yesterday off at the grocery here in South Portland, Maine. I wanted to drive a small troupe of our associates up to a mid-morning funeral in a little community north of Portland. The deceased was one of our long-time grocery clerks, so the store was supportive. We took Methuselah, the Shoestring Chapel’s van. Some of our associates show up at the Chapel off and on, and I volunteer there, as sort of the lay minister and custodian. It’s a pretty informal place. You don’t have to believe anything in particular to come. You don’t have to believe anything to come.

Phil was only in his late fifties. He was a reliable worker, but tight assed and tight lipped. When he did say something, it wasn’t pretty. He’d tell you loud and clear if you screwed up or you were in his way.

“Movvve it!”

I only saw Phil smile once. Some new kid was standing on the end of an empty U-boat yacking. Phil pushed the boat from behind because it was in his way. The kid fell backwards onto the boat with a huge bang. He didn’t get hurt much and his friends had a big laugh.

We all knew Phil was in constant pain from his swollen legs. Suffering makes most people self-centered and angry. You have to cut them slack. A couple months ago his congestive heart disease turned really ugly, and so did his temper. It got harder to forgive Phil. God knows, he never said he was sorry. Phil took a medical leave from work. No one thought he would come back. No one wanted him back.

Seven of us associates made the trip to Phil’s funeral. Trudy, Wes, and me from center store. Three girls from the front end. And Bob from the deli. Bob had gone to high school with Phil. The girls didn’t know Phil well but wanted to escape the front end for a day. I was surprised Trudy wanted to go. Phil was especially caustic towards her. And she gave it right back.

“Trudy, this will be a good chance to make peace with Phil,” I told her.

“Peace hell! I just want to see the S.O.B. flat on his back with his lips sewn shut.”

“Trudy!”

“OK, Mike. I didn’t like him. I never liked him. But I’ll be polite and see him off on his way to wherever. God knows he’s been a presence in our lives.”

“Don’t kick his coffin, Trudy,” laughed Wes, “Sewn lips or not, he might sit up and rip you a new one.”

It seemed like a good time to shift topics. “OK, Phil wasn’t friendly at work,” I offered, “but he was human. Everyone has good points. Phil must have cared about someone. Bob, you knew Phil growing up. What do you remember good about him?”

Bob thought for a while. “Well, I was in classes with Phil, but I never met his family. He told me he had a dog he took care of, but it ran off to the neighbors.”

The front end girls were texting and giggling about their friends’ messages. I interrupted them. “What do you girls remember about Phil?”

One of the girls looked up. “I remember Phil only had two pairs of pants.”

Wes spoke up. “I remember Phil liked cretons spread on biscuits.”

“Was Phil French?” I asked.

“No. Don’t think so,” said Wes.

I couldn’t think of anything winning about Phil either. He did his work but he didn’t give anything extra. He never seemed to take any pleasure in what he accomplished. I’d tried to chat with Phil a few times to loosen him up and maybe lead him to have a little fellowship with the other associates at work, but all I got were one-word answers, or sometimes just a grunt.

Phil had gotten mean after he got sick, but he had never been friendly. I figured when we arrived at the viewing we could talk with Phil’s family and friends. They could tell us something about what he was really like. Away from work. Maybe his family would talk about things they remembered. Phil’s warmer moments and what he was like as a boy. I wanted to meet Phil’s old friends.

We had read online that there would be an hour visitation ahead of the funeral service, followed by the burial at a nearby cemetery. I drove up and parked Methuselah on the street in front of the funeral home.

“Hey!” said a funeral assistant. “Can you park that thing farther down the street?” I let the others out and moved the van onto the next block. The guy was still gesturing to go farther, so I parked all the way at the end of that block. The guy stared at me walking back. Well, I see his point. We custom painted Methuselah ourselves, and it does have a lot of upbeat messages and colorful artwork. Looks a little off next to a black limo. And Methuselah smokes quite a bit from a bad gasket. Smokes under the hood even after the engine is off.

The funeral parlor was a grand old building on Main Street. Pretty nicely kept up. Phil’s brother and sister were there along with Phil’s nieces and nephews and a bunch of their kids. I didn’t see any friends. Just Phil’s family and a few of those old ladies who go to all the funerals. The kids were either laughing together or busy on their phones. A few of the real little kids were running around and hiding behind the shrubbery.

The seven of us came up to Phil’s brother while he was checking out the tag on a newly delivered vase of flowers. I told him how sorry we were for his loss. “We all worked with your brother at the grocery store.”

“I am happy for you,” Phil’s brother said, and he turned away to check more tags.

Phil was lying there in the box. I expected him to look relaxed and peaceful, but he still looked pissed. His hands were folded over and the middle finger of his right hand was curled up a bit. Not exactly how I’d like to greet St. Peter.

The service was short. The family’s preacher had never actually met Phil, so he gave a standard spiel about God’s forgiveness and love. He worked in that Phil had always been hard working and responsible and how he had never done anything really wrong. He also mentioned what faithful church members Phil’s brother and sister were. A hint of salvation by association, I guess. He left Phil’s final judgment up to God, but I noticed his tone wasn’t hopeful.

None of the family spoke. From where we sat at the back, we could see that everyone ahead of us was working a mobile device, mostly cell phones but also notebooks, tablets, and even a couple laptops, even Phil’s sister in the front row was on a phone. All those thumbs going up and down in silent devotion was oddly like a congregation of contemplatives counting their beads. The only exception was Phil’s brother. He spent the time scowling out a window.  The three front-end girls who came with us had been the only ones there to shed any tears at the viewing, but they now had their phones out too.

After the memorial service Phil’s brother stood up. He announced that there would be a reception after the burial “for the family” in the basement of their church. He gave us a cold eye.

Once we left the service we had a huddle.

“It’s pretty obvious Phil’s family doesn’t need our emotional support,” said Wes.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “They seem to have already arrived at the stage of healing and acceptance.”

“OK,” said Trudy, “we’ve seen the last of Phil. I don’t need to see them plant his box to know he’s not coming back.”

“And you don’t want to see where he’s buried,” Wes smirked, “in case you want to come visit him?”

“Visit him! Not unless I spit on his grave.”

“Trudy!” I interrupted, “Phil is on his way to God. He wasn’t outgoing but he wasn’t evil. He just became angry because he was sick. We have to forgive that anger and try to remember Phil with love.”

“Phil’s family grew up with him. You can sure see how much they miss him. If you want to believe Phil is on his way to God, Brother Mike, that’s good of you. But I think when they put Phil six feet down that will just be the first step before a much deeper descent.”

“Well,” said Bob, “I really wanted to meet his family. None of them ever came to our events at the school. His brother and sister graduated before we came in as freshmen. But none of his family will even look at me.”

“I think I want to go home,” wailed one of the girls, waving her phone.

“I hope this hasn’t upset you,” I said.

“No, Evan wants me to send him pics of me in my new bikini, and I don’t have it with me!”

So we skipped the burial. I put another quart of oil in Methuselah and we left for home.

I dropped my co-workers off and parked the van outside the Shoestring Chapel in Knightville. I felt pretty depressed. What kind of life had Phil lived that his death seemed to matter so little to his family? And what kind of judgment could he expect from God, if the judgment of those who knew him on earth was so cold?

It was a warm day for April in Maine and still early in the afternoon, so I decided to walk down Waterman Drive to Thomas Knight Park in order to clear my mind. Knight Park is a wedge of parkland jutting out into the Fore River, where the South Portland end of the old Million Dollar Bridge once stood. It now sits in the shadow of the Casco Bay Bridge. The park still has a bit of the old brick street with its trolley rails from the early 20th century, when the trolley cars ran over the old bridge between the lanes for autos. I like the feel of history there, plus the view of the harbor.

As I reached the park, I met Bernie Bastardo on his three-wheel bike. Bernie was out collecting cans for redemption and he had a huge bag of them strapped to the little cart he pulls behind his bike. Bernie has worked maintenance at our store off and on for years. He’s also a semi-regular at the Shoestring Chapel. Mostly he hangs out on the streets and in the city parks.

“That’s a good haul of cans you’ve got there, Bernie.”

“You haven’t seen the best part, Brother Mike.” Bernie dug out a fifth of watermelon flavored vodka, about a third full, from a side pouch on his bike. “Look, Mike, this was almost full when I found it!”

“Is that stuff really fit to drink?” I asked. “And, Bernie, the bottle’s been opened and left lying along the street.”

“Well, it’s nothing I’d ever buy. But it’s free! Some kids probably panicked and threw it out a car window last night. When they saw a cop car coming up behind.”

“And you enjoy it?”

“The vodka part is for real! The watermelon flavor tastes fake. Still it’s a blessing on my day.” Bernie did a little happy dance around his bike until he tripped over a loose piece of pavement. I helped him up and suggested we sit down on a bench nearby.

“I don’t think it’s a blessing from God, Bernie. More like a temptation from Satan.”

“But, Mike, it is a blessing! I don’t have to buy any hooch today, so now I can use my can money to buy food at McDonald’s.”

“Bernie, maybe you should come back to work at the store and see if you can live a regular life for a while.”

“No thanks, Brother Mike, I’m doing fine right now.”

We watched the traffic on the bridge for a while and caught glimpses of boats through the bushes as they moved along the river.

“Bernie, I went to Phil’s funeral this morning.”

“I heard he died.”

“None of Phil’s family seemed to care. It was like they had had been dragged into some pointless motivational meeting at the store and they were just waiting for it to be over so they move on to something important.”

“Well, Phil was OK to work next to, before he got sick, but he never was friendly or interested in anyone else.”

“But if you grew up with someone, wouldn’t you remember them with some warmth? Especially when they died. They must have shared some good times.”

“I never saw any warmth in Phil. Never knew him to have any good times, either.”

“No, neither did I, Bernie. And that’s what worries me. How can anyone never do anything at least a little endearing?”

“I don’t know if everyone has a likeable side, Brother Mike.”

“Trudy insists Phil is headed for hell.”

“She would! I’ve heard them fight.”

“I can’t believe that Phil is condemned to hell, Bernie, but Jesus does say that we must love one another.”

“I don’t know that people always show love by being nice.”

“True. Some people feel love but hide it to protect themselves. Maybe Phil’s meanness wasn’t what he felt in his heart. Maybe he just hid himself behind a lot of attitude.”

“Never saw him give anyone a kind look.”

“I don’t know that you can be saved by a love that doesn’t show itself in kindly acts. If love really exists it must show itself in good works.”

“What if a man verbally abuses his family, Brother Mike, maybe even beats them at times, but he gives up his life trying to save them from a fire? Because he loves them.”

“Wow, Bernie! I guess his sacrifice might show the kind of love that could save him.”

“So what if the fire never happens? He still loves them inside.”

“Yes.”

“When Trudy looks at me she sees a useless drunk. I’m sure she thinks I’m going to hell. Well, Mike, Trudy doesn’t know me! She has no idea who I am inside. And you, Brother Mike, I bet you’re different inside from how people see you. You talk a lot about your life, but you’ve got feelings you’re protecting. You’re not comfortable showing people every thing that’s inside you.”

“Yes.… I failed someone in my life, Bernie.… She was a close friend, intelligent, energetic. She would do anything she could for those close to her. But she had used heroin earlier in her life. And it came back. I could have intervened. I could have taken the chance of putting myself between her and her returning addiction. But instead I distanced myself, Bernie. I didn’t make the effort that she needed.”

“But she didn’t want you to intervene.”

“I think she did, Bernie. Of course, she would have resisted an intervention. I would have had a real struggle with her. But I think she wanted someone to care enough to make that struggle. There was still time when I found out. Then she was dead.”

“You couldn’t change her if she didn’t want to change.”

“I should have tried, Bernie. We need to keep trying to help because at some moment, at some just-the-right moment people may want to change. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life, but my deepest regrets are all failures of omission.”

We watched five bicyclists come down Ocean Ave., round the curve by the park and shoot off up Waterman toward the Greenbelt Pathway.

“I wouldn’t have guessed this, Brother Mike.”

“No one here knew her and I don’t talk about it. But I live with it inside every day”

“No one knows who we are inside.”

“It could be Phil really was just the self-centered and short-tempered person he seemed to be. Or he could have been someone very different in his heart.”

“Phil might find a home in heaven, Brother Mike.”

“And Trudy just might meet him again when she gets up there. You know, Bernie, I think God may have room in heaven for grumpy angels.”

“Yes, so do I. But if God wants peace in paradise, I bet he’ll send those two to opposite corners.”

 

 
Copyright © 2018 by Michael B. Smetzer

 

St Thérèse of Lisieux statue at Calvary Cemetery in S. Portland, Maine. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

St Thérèse of Lisieux statue at Calvary Cemetery in S. Portland, Maine. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

The Best Friend You Can Find

June 18, 2018

 

Some years ago, in central Maine, a selectman and his wife lived at a little homestead called Duck Pond Farm, right along the eastern edge of Kanokolus Bog. The couple had one child, a pretty little eight-year-old daughter named Cindy. Pretty Cindy, with her mother’s guidance, kept two small flocks of tame ducks on the family’s farm.

Then, when Cindy turned nine, the selectman bought her an attractive pair of Saxony ducks and built her a new enclosure for them next to her mallards and Pekins. In the late spring Cindy and her mother let the new Saxony hen go broody to begin their new flock. Early every morning, Cindy came down to the enclosures to collect the mallard and Pekin eggs to sell. She would always check on the Saxony hen and count the eggs in the mother duck’s nest. Each day revealed another egg, but Cindy felt the laying was taking forever. Finally Cindy brought her mother down with her.

“Make that stupid duck sit on her eggs! I want the Saxony ducklings to hatch out NOW!”

“Cindy,” her mother said, “you must be patient! Mother duck will not start to brood until she lays a couple more eggs, and then she will have to incubate them for almost a month.”

“No! I want Saxony ducklings to show my friends now! Why can’t we put her eggs in an incubator like we did the Pekins’?”

“I’m sorry, Cindy. This duck was always a good mother before she came to us. She deserves to keep her ducklings. You will just have to wait.”

Cindy was not about to wait. She went out the gate and marched along the edge of the bog. There she found a nest with one large blue-green egg. “This will do very well,” she said with glee and she ran off with it in her pocket. “I’ll get another one like this.”

Sadly, she could not find any more nests with eggs. Then she spied a nest in the weeds just above the water. Grumbling she waded out and found one small pale brown egg. “Is this all I get!?” She grabbed the little egg in disgust and knocked the nest down into the water with a stick.

Pretty Cindy brought the two eggs back to the tame duck’s nest and tucked them in with the others. She scowled at how they looked among the uniform white eggs. “Wrong colors! Wrong sizes! But the stupid duck won’t notice.”

Mother duck did a lot of quacking, but after she laid her next egg, she sat down to brood. When the ducklings hatched, two of them were different. One was big with gray down. It later developed mottled gray-brown and white feathers. The other was small and drab to begin with. It later grew weird long legs and brown and buff feathers.

This second duckling caused the entire duck family great frustration. While the big one was ugly, it did waddle out with the other ducklings to swim in the pond. The little one was helpless and had to be fed slugs, snails, and insects for weeks in the nest. Then when it left the nest, it had little interest in grubbing through the grass. It could swim, but it did not swim gracefully, no matter how much preen oil mother duck applied. And it retreated to the cattails after a couple minutes. It was small like a mallard but it would not upend like a mallard to grab food below the surface. It preferred to wade around in the cattails and stand still in the shallows waiting for its food to swim by. Lazy, stupid, ugly duckling!

Cindy screamed with exasperation the moment she saw the ugly ducklings in the nest. “I can’t show YOU to my friends!” She shooed them away from the food she put out for the other ducks and threatened to feed them to the barn cat that eyed the ducklings from outside the pond fence. Before Cindy’s friends came to visit, she shut the ugly ducklings in an old outhouse. The normal ducklings soon learned to watch the ugly ducklings coldly, and they would not nest with them, but at least the ugly ducklings had each other. And mother duck foraged up enough food to keep them alive until they could feed themselves.

The little ugly duckling blamed himself for being so backward and making life harder for his big nest mate. It is very sad, he thought, but I can endure Cindy’s cruelty and the other ducklings’ contempt, and I will learn from it because I have a friend. I have already learned the comfort of love.

Then the day came when three of Cindy’s girlfriends arrived unexpectedly and went down to see the Saxony ducklings. They laughed uncontrollably at the ugly ducklings and called Cindy “Ugly Ducks’ Mama.” Cindy turned red with rage, and after her friends left she opened the back gate and threw stones at the ugly ducklings to drive them away from the pond. “If you come back, I’ll mix you into the slop for the pigs!”

The ugly ducklings had never been outside Duck Pond Farm. They felt fear but also excitement as they set off to explore the pools in the bog. Big Duckling swam and Little Duckling waded along beside her. They missed mother duck but they still had each other.

“We will learn together how to survive in this big world,” said little duckling. “Maybe someday we will be as wise as the owl.”

The third pool they visited was home to a flock of wild mallards. The ugly ducklings rushed over to greet them.

“Can we join your flock?”

The mallards tightened their circle and snapped at them when they tried to come inside. But if they stayed along the edges of the flock, they were simply ignored.

“They don’t want us!” said Big Duckling.

“No,” said Little Duckling, “but we can learn how to survive in the wild by watching them, and staying next to them will give us some protection. And we still have each other’s love.”

And so they spent the summer and early autumn with the mallard flock as neighbors, and they learned many shrewd lessons about living in the bog. But one morning when the nights had turned cold, the mallard flock flew off into the sky and that evening they did not return.

Once ice covered the water, the ugly ducklings could not survive at the pool. They did not dare go back to Duck Pond Farm. They had no one to teach them to migrate. So they set off flying awkwardly in circles around the bog searching for some place they could winter.

That was how they came to fly in over the fence and land in Lester Ludington’s turkey yard. The ugly ducklings walked into a turkey house and tried to blend in. There was plenty to eat. And they would hide in a dark corner when Mr. Ludington came around. The inmates mostly just walked around befuddled and hardly seemed to notice.

After a few days, one of the turkeys started to watch them. Then he led over a small group of turkeys to examine them.

“What are you two?” asked Tom Turkey.

“We’re abandoned ducklings from Duck Pond Farm.”

“Oh, so you’re ducks,” nodded Tom. “You don’t look like ducks.”

“If they quack like a duck,” noted one of the hens, “they must be ducks.”

“But they don’t quack,” said Tom.

“Well, the big one eats grain like a duck,” said another hen. “And it has webbed feet.”

“But the other don’t,” said Tom. “And it eats roaches and beetles and worms, but it leaves the grain.”

“Yesterday,” said a third hen, “I saw it swallow a mouse.”

“Let’s chuck ‘em both out in the snow!” said Tom.

“No,” said the second hen, “let ‘em be. We have plenty of room since Thanksgiving. And I want to see how they turn out. The big one could be a genetically modified goose.”

“And the little one?” asked Tom.

“A genetically modified chicken.”

“Could be,” said the first hen.

“Boy,” said Tom, “that experiment sure went sour!”

And the turkeys all went back to walking around befuddled.

“Well,” said Little Duckling, “we have the shelter of a house and plenty to eat. We can survive. This is an important lesson on making do.”

“Can’t say much for the company,” said Big Duckling.

“But at least we have each other’s love,” said Little Duckling.

And so the ugly ducklings survived the winter hiding among the turkeys and growing bigger and more knowledgeable about the world. With spring the ice melted on the bog and the two ugly ducklings flew out of the turkey farm and returned to the bog. Spring is a happy time when insects and little fishes and crayfish and frogs come back out into the world, and the tender sprouts come up, and there is plenty to eat. And with the spring the wild mallards returned to the pool.

But things were not as they had been last fall for Big Duckling. This year when Big Duckling approached the flock, they did not try to bite but instead fled from her presence, watching her with fear. When they found she was not attacking, they formed a retinue around her. Big Duckling looked down at her image in the water and cried out, “Oh! I am big and beautiful! I am not a duckling at all. I am a white swan!”

A white swan! thought Little Duckling. My nest mate changed so slowly in front of me that I never saw it. This is a wonderful lesson for us!

Little Duckling was filled with joy at Big Duckling’s good fortune. “You have learned who you are!” he cried. But when he waded towards her, the mallards snapped at him with their bills. Little Duckling retreated, hiding among the cattails along the bank, but Swan never noticed.

That night, for the first night since he had hatched, Little Duckling slept alone. In truth, Little Duckling slept very little that night. The next morning, when Swan and the mallards left the shore, Little Duckling waded over and called out to Swan. What came out was not his usual ugly duckling call but a loud booming cry he had never made before. In desperation he called again, repeating the deep pumping booms. All the mallards stopped, looking at him. “He’s a bittern!” shouted all the mallards.

“A bittern?” asked Little Duckling.

“A squat, drab, dumpy loud-mouthed little wading bird. A bittern!”

“A Thunder Pumper!” laughed one mallard.

“A Stake Driver!” mocked another.

“A Water Belcher!” shouted a third.

“I’m your nest mate,” cried Little Duckling to Swan. Speechless, Swan turned away and swam into the deepest part of the pool. The ducks followed her, but Bittern was afraid to swim into deep and open water.

After another night alone, Bittern walked over to Swan before she and her retinue had entered the water.

“Remember me? We hatched together. We lived with the turkeys together.”

The mallards looked at Swan with surprise.

“I don’t live with turkeys,” she hissed. “I am a swan. And swans don’t nest with bitterns.” Then she grabbed a bill full of Bittern’s feathers and the mallards joined in the attack. Only Bittern’s long legs saved him from being plucked bare.

Bruised and alone, Bittern hid in the weeds and built a nest in the cattails where he could watch Swan and her mallards swim by. “This is harder than being driven out of Duck Pond Farm,” Bittern reflected. “Cindy always hated me, but I thought Swan loved me. It is a bitter lesson on trusting love.” During the dark nights, a coldness entered Bittern’s soul, a coldness he could only partly expel with his pumping calls in the morning.

Desperately alone, Bittern walked away from the pond one morning on his stick-like legs. Deep in the woods above the bog he met a black bear. Bear had pushed down a bee tree and gorged himself on honey.

“Come have some honey,” Bear offered. “There is still plenty left.”

“Thank you, friend,” said Bittern, approaching warily. “Are you sure you are quite full?”

“Can’t eat another bite,” said Bear.

Bittern delighted in the feast of honey and bees. “Good night, feast mate,” Bittern said as they parted company.

The next day Bittern again met Bear in the woods. Bear had just grubbed up a rotten stump and filled himself with sowbugs and worms.

“Come, Bittern,” said Bear. “Come join me in these excellent grubs.”

“Are you sure you have had enough?”

“Quite full,” said Bear.

They both relaxed, full and lazy from their feast.

“Look, Bittern, my feast mate, why don’t you come join me for dinner tomorrow? I can bring hundreds of fish home to my den.”

“How can you catch so many fish?”

“Easy,” said Bear, “dead grass over a collapsing fence has formed a natural weir across Bacon Brook. The water level in the brook is falling from the lack of rain. So the fish are trapped behind the weir.”

“Of course I will come,” said Bittern, but looking about at the sky he became quiet and thoughtful. As he left, Bittern asked, “May I bring a friend?”

“Sure!” said Bear.

At the pool, Bittern met the beautiful Swan coming to shore for the night. He told her of the wonderful feasts Bear had shared. “Come with me tomorrow and share in our feast of fish.”

“Fresh fish! I will come,” said Swan, “but don’t come get me. I’ll slip away and join you in the woods. If this feast is as good as you say, Bittern, you may wade along behind me, at a distance, and join the mallards in enjoying my beauty.”

That night it rained.

When Bittern and Swan arrived at Bear’s den, Bear was in an ugly mood. The rain had raised the water level in the creek and freed most of the fish from the weir. He was hungry but had only found six minnows for their dinner. Looking up Bear saw the beautiful Swan standing next to the drab Bittern. “Delicious!” Bear cried, and he grabbed Swan and devoured her, feathers and all. Fully fed his mood softened.

“Ummmph,” said Bear, blowing out some feathers. “Now I am full. Come Bittern, why don’t you eat these minnows?”

“Are you sure you can’t eat more?”

“No more today. Ummmph.”

“Thank you, Bear,” said Bittern. And as Bittern finished the minnows, he reflected, “This dinner is small but it has been the most satisfying I have ever had. I have learned now the comfort of revenge.”

As they parted company for the day, Bear again invited Bittern to dinner. “I know a clearing in the woods full of tame raspberry bushes that escaped from Duck Pond Farm. They must be big and juicy after the rain and fit for a princess.”

“I have never eaten tame raspberries,” said Bittern cautiously, “but I will try them.” Maybe, he thought, they will be filled with tasty little bugs. Then Bittern became quiet and thought some more.

“May I bring a friend?”

“Sure!” said Bear.

On the way back to his solitary nest, Bittern went round by Duck Pond Farm. In the farmyard he saw pretty Cindy dropping kittens one by one into a water trough. “One of you must swim long enough to impress my friends!”

“Excuse me, Miss Cindy,” said Bittern. “I want to apologize for being such a disappointment to you last summer.”

“I should think so.”

“I would be honored if you would join me at a feast of raspberries a friend of mine is giving tomorrow in the woods.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Cindy. “Our tame raspberries aren’t ripe yet and I can’t wait.”

As Bittern settled down for the night, he thought judiciously about his new feast mate and the newest lesson life had taught him: “Bittern,” he told himself, “Bear is the best friend you can find in life. When he invites you to dinner, he intends to be a generous host. Even so, you are always wise to bring along a more delectable companion.”

 

Copyright © 2018 by Michael B. Smetzer

 

Leaves on a Pond. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

Leaves on a Pond. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

Hungry Love: Passion & Desire at the Chinese Buffet

February 8, 2018

 

I watch
you
eating
twice cooked
duck 

Your fingers
buckle
its skin 

Your
tongue
curls
a-
way
the thin,
dark
flesh 

returns
to the pile
on the tray
to kiss
the juices 

giving
each
fragile
bone 

its gentle
final
suck 

My hungry love
  

First published in George & Mertie’s Place.

 

"Stream through an Autumn Woods," photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer

“Stream through an Autumn Woods,” photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer

Shadows: A Poem of Lost Love

February 5, 2018

 

Go into the snow
Let the snow drift about your ears
and listen to the stillness at night
Go when the snow is soft and silent
and the stars are behind the clouds
Walk in the silent dark
Feel the cold
the vagueness under foot
the blackness above and beside you
Know you are alone
with my shadow in the dark
as I am alone now
with your shadow
in my heart

 

First published in Kansas Quarterly.

 

Outbuildings of our house in Scarborough - photo by Mike Smetzer

Outbuildings of our house in Scarborough, Maine – photo by Mike Smetzer

Sibyl: A Love Poem in Winter

January 22, 2018

 

Look down from your mountain air.
Come home again
on eastward blowing winds.

Winter’s high thin cold
has only paled your skin,
not flushed your blood as I would.

Sibyl, you could be a swan and I
a hot spring in winter’s air,
my mouth around your thighs,

my love, a steam against the cold.

 

First published in Innisfree Poetry Journal.

 

Colorado Mountains in Winter - photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer

Colorado Mountains in Winter – photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer

After You Left: Lost Love in Winter

January 17, 2018

 

Two days of freezing rain. 

The car glazed fast to the clay.
The snow hardened, gray as the sky. 

But today a fat cabbie
flies a kite in the park.

It dips in the Kansas wind
like his chins.

 

First published in Wind.

 

Sky above Land's End, Maine - photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer

Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer

A Love Poem

July 12, 2017

 

As serious as a colony of bees
to do the Queen’s bidding,
we gather berries wild and fresh.
You won’t let the dog out
of the car for fear she will pee
where we might pick, you want
nothing to spoil your dreams
of dessert tonight.
It is tonight I think of,
under this inhospitable sun
offering myself as a feast
for Maine black flies.
After supper, you’ll add
Alizarin Crimson to your
watercolor painting.
I’ll write a strawberry poem.
We’ll walk the dog and race her
home to the front door.
Later as moonlight shares
our bed, I’ll know you
enjoyed your strawberries,
know this day has made you happy.
I’ll touch you gently as you sleep,
close my eyes and sigh.

 

First published in Echoes Magazine.

Vera Lisa Smetzer on Steps

Vera Lisa Smetzer on Steps

Strange New Alchemy

June 26, 2017

 

Strange New Alchemy by Vera Lisa Smetzer

 

Copyright 2017 by Alvera Lisa Smetzer