Waxing Crescent & Other Poetry by Meg Smith

July Online Open Mic

Take a load off this golden Sunday afternoon with the silky words of Meg Smith! Take a look at her poetry below!


Waxing Crescent

Always
the light calls us,
drawing us out
from embers of sleep.
Always the light
builds, wave upon wave,
and we dance,
its mirror of darkness.
We are waking,
trembling in its orbit.
In its gray world,
indifferent,
we shine.


The Coptic Cross

Philae, Upper Egypt, March 2006

I’m not brooding or praying
or singing.
The sand rises, funnels,
splits into clouds.
I don’t deserve this blue sky
or columns of letters —
a language, which keeps
a prayer within.
All I have given
to Mary, Isis and Sekhmet,
I keep within
my sphere of hope.
Someone is coming apart
from me.
Someone is losing his silence.
I pray for him
to speed the boat.
I pray for him
to mark the cross
of his good hands.


Falling Dragon

I draw my fire
from within,
my heart,
my womb unopened.
I draw my fire
from the sky;
black clouds part,
and nothing begins,
all in the shadow
of beating wings,
all in the shadow
of waking green,
and whole.


Author:

Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, Oriental dancer, and events producer, living in Lowell, Mass., U.S.A. Her publication credits include The Cafe Review, The Horror Zine, The Starlite Virtual Poetorium, and Atlantic Currents: Connecting Cork and Lowell.

Her most recent poetry books, Pretty Green Thorns, Night’s Island, This Scarlet Dancing and Dear Deepest Ghost are available on Amazon.

Follow:

megsmithwriter.com

She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com, and

Facebook — https://www.facebook.com/megsmithwriter/

Twitter — https://twitter.com/MegSmith_Writer

Meg Smith – Ponder Away

Forest of Exiles

A bonfire snaps,

and laughter leaps

amid the sparks.

Far from the clearing,

I lean into the dark,

trees in their bark

pressing me.

I could run

but I don’t run.

My belly carries

all the stolen

of night.

I could sing,

but I don’t sing,

I leave the truth

in my tracks.


Hulling

I remove the green —

fine, cutting.

I’m standing amid rows;

summer fruit, heavy;

bees swoon,

as if the air

has intoxicated them.

What do I cut, bleed,

knowing.

What is my deserted sun.

The earth yields,

still, whole.


Caves of Myrrh 


The first, stone, moved,

a fine powder — 

a last, ‘amen,’

a last feast,

of two, sitting

cross-legged,

at the entrance.

What next, 

in the curl of

sweet scent?

One must rise,

one must burn.

My words

will keep my fire,

and so too,

our breath.


Artist:

Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. Her poems have recently appeared in PoLarity, The Cafe Review, The Horror Zine, Raven Cage eZine, and more. Her most recent poetry books, Dear Deepest Ghost and This Scarlet Dancing, are available on Amazon.

Photo Credit: Derek Savoia