Curt Smothers' poetry

Yes, I have dabbled in waxing poetical

Poetry is the only thing I write just to please myself. I don't get too analytical or self-indulgent about it, which, I suppose is one of the drawbacks of not having a feminine side. In any case, I'll drop a few of my favorites here in hopes someone other than myself likes them. This section has four pages. Scroll down and click or use dropdown menu in the My Poetry tab.

Springtime in the Rockies

Spring grabs my mountains

By the scruffs of their peaks

Snow's surly retreat

Guards its rear as it leaks

To high tops where warm air

Can't breathe its warm breath

But cold gushing streams

Shout one winter's death

The glens and the valleys

Once brown and off-white

Sudden with greenness

Deny winter's blight

My mountains grab springtime

By the grist of its sun

And rotate through warm summer

Until bright autumn is done

I Love Baseball

As football's fights bring winter's end

And roundball dribbles out

Spring brings beloved baseball

As good weather turns about

"Play ball!" the umpire bellows

"Cold beer!" the vendor yells

And we nosh those golden goobers

And toss their tawny shells

From bleacher steps to railings

To outfield's grassy green

Where fielders stare and focus

Intent on infield's scene

Where the batter and the pitcher

Each ponders what comes next

The un-hit strike or screaming hit

Determine who gets vexed

The bat that strikes the baseball

The ball that slaps the glove

The screaming of the happy crowd

Are baseball's sounds we love

But when, alas, the season's through

And autumn leaves turn red

The tarp blanket on green infield

Puts our game to bed

We turn thoughts back to football

And basketball's ballet

With patient sighs for winter's end

And baseball's coming day

Footprints

Tyrannosaurus, mastodon,

Your footprints are what we tread on.

Fossil fuels of giant truck

Our good commerce, their bad luck.

Rubber trees in jungles grow

Their feet give sap so we can go

O'er asphalt roads that stretch our sight

With Vulcan's work to commerce bright.

The diesel fumes are memories.

Blown tire shards were rubber trees.

The smells and sights of modern times

Were dinosaurs in jungle climes.

18-wheelers come and go.

They foot our goods so we can know

That tyrannosaurus, mastodon

Lived not in vain but now live on.

As Opec grins and we shell out

With aching feet and blistered snout

Brown hazes stain our pristine trees

We cough and hack that dirty breeze

Those dinosaurs in jungle climes

Cannot foot back to retro-times

As we regard the transport truck

Our bad commerce, their good luck

A Poem About Steam
We steam our ship on raw sea water
Born from fire, its hissing daughter
Our boilers roil, belch and scream
To run our course, an ocean's dream

We hold that fire confined inside
That stokes and churns our steam pipe's hide
And as that steam in pressure spews
It churns and turns the shafts and screws

But if that fire escapes its hold
With oily smoke to choke and scold
We rush and pump the fog foam's spew
And kill what would our steam undo

Fire

From ember's sleep I rise and stretch

To what is dry and prone to me

I hiss and lick the kindling's stick

And turn to char with evil glee

That which I consume will cease to be

All in my path my life's own fuel

I burn and roar with windy storm

Lascivious bent, unfeeling cruel

To those would stay my hungry tongue

I roar, defy, devour, renounce

Now alive I'm free, unbound

I jump, I spark, their efforts trounce

Till lack of fuel or water's spout

Kills me black and finds me dead

In ember's hide I peer without

Once more to rise and sweep ahead

Dead leaves that pass for autumn

Are reborn on birth-giving trees

Incubating their summer replacements

That sway in the new soft spring breeze

They nourished new grasses by mulching

That sprout on the green warming ground

Changing the earth-scaped spring colors

To green from the old dismal brown

Cold winter’s mean breath is away now

Replaced by spring’s soft caress

Sunflower-draped fields are a gold mine

In Spring’s dotted bright yellow dress

Spring brings the rosy pink garland

That adorns the once-skeletal trees

Waiting for spring’s pollination

Borne on the soft wind and the bees

Each person has a favorite season

And mine will always be spring

And though I get older and older

Spring brings its immortal old fling

I’m like those old dead leaves in autumn

And how can I measure my worth?

My soul’s destination is hidden

But my body will mulch back to the earth

I’ll nourish my children who follow

As they emerge from my daughters’ warm womb

I’ve left my sons as replacements

For sunflowers and bees on my tomb

Spring 2024

Next: Poems about our heroes