Terrence SMITH


When will the wind brush my brow,
And not chill my bones?
When will birds sweet morning songs wake me,
Instead of the passing melee?
When will beauty find me staring,
And not divide me?
Rest and wake.
But life is lost in ideals,
As living is just what it is.
A flicker between good and bad,
And for all its studpidity,
I exist.
When will I have no complaints,
And have no worries to speak of?
When shall I cease to attaint,
And receive no blames to confess of?
But it's all so thoughtless and painful,
And dull, because I am just me,
Nothing greater, nothing else.


Sometimes bored, lonely and lost
I look through endless shop sales,
consumer-candy on screens,
swing through city filled streets, mind-
-ing my way through bags full of
next year’s discarded garbage,
joining the frenzied footsteps,
arms stiff as a cadaver,
switched-on, logged-in, null en void,
watching the gabble in despair.

I wonder broke past windows
full of precious Mayfair silk,
shiny Bond Street leather brogues,
a dress, hung up, glamorous.
I finger the garments, and
met with stern looks, from well spent
gym muscle, guarding doorways
to luminous boutique fronts,
and leave with an empty heart.
Not much else lights up a winters evening.