These are Non-AI creative works. Words were selected and placed in order by a human.
B.J. Smith
New collection online now!
My new collection of rhyme and verse – “On The Path” – is now available in ebook format from my Amazon author page. The collection includes some of my previously published work in addition to new poems like “The last tuft of bluestem” below, which is one of my personal favorites despite the gloomy imagery of what could be.
One reviewer described “On The Path” as a profound poetic journey of introspection, an examination of life’s highs and lows and the discovery of one’s own personal resilience.
Another reviewer wrote: “B.J. Smith is a poet who has a sense of humor about life and writing. He skillfully negotiates through the up-and-downs of relationships, the joy of biking, the experience of desperation that elicits courage, and anger at the injustices of society. Ride along with him as he cycles through a tour of his emotional and outdoor landscapes. You will enjoy the ride.”
Enjoy the ride.
Stranger walks
A stranger walks these halls,
then sits and stares
at nothing in a dark room.
Belonging somewhere else,
he\she\it broods
and wonders where.
They scratch their scalp,
the same raw spot
that never heals.
It thinks about its days
as a child, a teen,
and on and on to now.
Fire and sorrow.
Ecstasy and darkness.
Lost and found and lost again.
The ache in the soul
masks the pain in the heart.
The hollow fills the void.
Settling
Some settle for more or less
than we deserve without knowing.
Some settle where we don't belong
and stay like unwanted guests.
Dust settles whether we are still ourselves
or pretending to be other than.
Too often we forget we will return,
at long last, to dust.
The last tuft of bluestem
The last tuft of bluestem
shrivels and bends
to a foul, hot wind
that scours hopeless faces
and starves bodies left
wheezing through dystopia
like choking smokers
in a wildfire.
What endures…
What persists...
What remains...
...is a wretched wreck spinning on by rote,
wasted motion unseen thru empty time,
a pointless habit for the cosmos to break
if it decides to care.
The Smith Compound 