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Literature
Our Table
Our Table
The kitchen window casts
framed light across our table,
its lacquer shinning golden
beneath April air. My eyes
see every blemish.
The table, pock-marked—
once smooth, now undone
with age, mirrors my face.
It too is golden in the sun
and taken for granted
as being sturdy, perpetual.
It has known hands
which trace its lines and leave
stains behind. "It's not so bad,"
you say, "Just used."
We drape cloth over it
when the guests arrive.
- Tara Smith
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Literature
Music Shuffle Cento
Music Shuffle Cento
I packed up and headed to the city of lights
cause I have other things to fill my time.
Getting our feet to move, always the hardest part,
they travel to the dark side of the new moon
and I don't have the heart to say goodbye.
We're running with blood on our knees
to the place where I belong,
but everything looks perfect from far away.
Where I follow, you'll go—
I will be chasing a starlight until the end of my life.
If you feel a little left behind
it doesn't mean I love you any less,
even if you cannot hear my voice I'll be right beside you.
Everybody's gotta learn sometime—
as long as they gaze on Waterloo Sunset,
they are in paradise.
-Tara Smith
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Literature
Firefly
Firefly
You, firefly, one
who lightens and darkens night
in rhythms like heartbeats,
bring muted life to my Junes
and do not belong on the peach wall
of my bedroom.
Outside you moved,
swaying with the wind
through meadows like waves
on the sea—the moonlight broken
and scattered across the surface.
It too shimmered like all of you
in your ocean of grass.
Now it is September
and there is nothing left of trees
but leaved gutters on empty
suburban streets. Brown flakes
that billow in the wake of cars.
You should be gone,
not dim and blinking alone,
solitary—all that is left
of your light-chorus.
- Tara Smith
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Literature
Vampires Defanged
Vampires Defanged
Or Why Edward Isn't Really a Vampire
If vampires exist, they would not sparkle
in the sunlight—unless you count
when they burst into flame
and cinders, ashes that glimmer
as they settle into grass.
Dawn would mean dust
for any creature of the night
unlucky enough to be outside.
If vampires exist, they cannot eat
animals and call themselves
vegetarians. To be damned
means they live with the faces
of their food for as long as they exist—
people, weeping. Moving, Necks exposed.
They have sharp fangs that pierce skin
and veins of pulsing blood to absorb
the life energies flowing inside
because that is their curse,
not their choice.
If vampires exist, they should not fall
in love with people because vampires are not
perfect specimens of human appearance.
They are inhuman. Alien. Ancient beings
that should only stare too long
when a pulse is quickened with surprise,
heartbeat audible to their sharpened senses.
If Edward is none of these things,
he is
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Literature
To the Moon
To the Moon
I have seen a full moon drive a man
crazy as only a woman can, so you must
be a woman with thick red hair.
The Greeks call you Selene—
brightness, moon-faced woman,
curved, voluptuous night figure.
My body swells as you do, waxes
to fullness each month
until we are emptied and new.
You must be a woman who knows
how dark the world can be
on a moonless night—
I have watched men crying
for the moon in alleyways
at two in the morning.
- Tara Smith
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Literature
Dream Catchers
Dream Catchers
I hang dream catchers from twine
around my daughter's bedroom.
They sway in the breeze like tree branches,
bare from winter. I want to tell her stories—
how her great grandmother built them
from willow twigs and falcon feathers
as a little girl. She gave them to me,
handmade heirlooms, to pass on.
Now they are dry and brittle
with age and the weight of decades
of nightmares. They will not last
long enough for her to remember
how they watched her sleep, casting
webbed shadows on her wall.
- Tara Smith
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Mature content
To the Gardner :icongodlovestara:godlovestara 0 0
Literature
Parkersburg
Parkersburg
May 25, 2008
"When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath"
- Emily Dickinson
Five minutes, they said, after
the sky darkened Mother Nature
held her breath. Five minutes
before she exhaled with such force
trees, the sturdy beams of houses,
fences, people huddled in their basements,
bowed before her. All that she touched
she took with her, hoarded
in the form of a grey vortex
that swirled along the countryside
leaving a wound in its wake.
An EF5 tornado is the Finger of God
because God pushes His fingertips
through space, moist mists of clouds,
and touches earth—smudges it as an artist
who scans a canvas for imperfections,
blends lines together to create
chaos.
In darkness, those who still had homes,
were herded from them through debris
by light of police cars and fire trucks,
while sirens and roaring winds
like a jet engine, echoed in their ears.
The rain continued, drenched all that was left
and delayed their digging
until sunrise while their
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Literature
After the Cold
After the Cold
We stay at the cabin for the fall—
the ambers and reds of turning
leaves—then we return to the city
with its ticketed windshields
in metered parking lots surrounding
towers instead of valleys
that surround trees.
A month from now this place,
these rolling hills, will be crusted
with snow. Shelled in cold
which will seep into the dirt,
down to the bones of long buried
fauna. We will leave the sheep
to find their way home.
-Tara Smith
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Mature content
Before the Cold :icongodlovestara:godlovestara 0 0
Literature
Spiders
We Spiders Live a Life of Tragedy
At night we spin our webs,
skilled patterns made
from our own bodies.
By day, they are dismantled
and we are squished by fleshy
palms, tissues, rubber soles
of shoes, the spine of a book.
You may hate us,
but we are not so different,
both living to rid the world
of bugs and pests. We kill
and gorge ourselves
on the life forces of others.
You should thank us
for your fly-free counters
and absence of box elders.
Tonight we must start over,
higher this time. Out of sight
among ceilings and light boxes—
at the corner where walls meet
where you cannot reach
with your two arms.
- Tara Smith
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Mature content
To an Unborn Child :icongodlovestara:godlovestara 0 0
Literature
Seasonal Haikus
Seasonal Haikus
I adore you, just
as the spring adores the sun-
rays that kiss blossoms
Summer is lawn chairs,
sunglasses, and country time
lemonade at noon.
Fall is a disease.
Branches shed tears as brown leaves
fall along the wind.
Winter, a barren
January, paints life white.
Hides inspiration
-Tara Smith
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Literature
The One Night Stand
The One Night Stand
I slip quietly from beneath
silk sheets, the fabric sliding across
my naked legs with a ruffled whisper.
It is still black beyond this strange
bedroom window, no hint of a paling
horizon. Barely morning. My mouth
tastes of stale liquor, sour as I run
my tongue along teeth and gums.
Floorboards groan as I swing my ripped
stockinged feet over the bed to gather
dress and shoes and panties from
scattered positions on the floral patterned rug.
Behind me on the bed, someone sleeps.
Their deep breaths give way to the rise
and fall of a down comforter. I cannot
recall a face for this man. Just blurs
of flashing light and bare skin. We simply
sought each other in the darkness
and desperation of a seedy bar.
I never want to see this man again,
to be reminded of my human weakness
and my constant need for touch.
There is always an awkward moment
on mornings like this, but I close the door
behind me, careful not to leave a phone
number. Or name. Or address.
Or apol
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Literature
A Meta Poem
A Meta Poem</b>
This page is blank.
Or it was,
moments ago.
Until the wrinkled faces of my fingertips
met the grey square tops
of each awaiting key
with a steady clicking
like the ticking of a wall clock
in an empty room.
On this page I am writing
a masterpiece, the next great
American poem of my time.
One that will be discovered
by accident in a review.
Or found hidden in my bedside
table by my sister when I die.
Published without permission.
I am a poet. A composer
of words, she who strings together
syllables and drags readers
gracefully from line to line.
Letter to letter. Stopping on the way
as if to say, “Here is my soul.
Here are broken pieces of my
life, cut and pasted into a collage
of words. Here are my epiphanies.
Here are my failures. Tread lightly.”
- Tara Smith
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Mature content
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Tara
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I'm Tara. I'm 23 and I'm from Iowa. I have a Bachelor's Degree in English Literature with an emphasis in Poetry Writing from the University of Northern Iowa. Someday I want to get my MFA in Poetry Writing and an MA in Library Science. I love Penguins and Dinosaurs because they're so damn awesome. I wanted to be a paleontologist for about 15 years of my life, yet some how I ended up in the English department. I spend all of my free time reading, writing, cooking, listening to music, playing video games, and taking care of my daughter. Her name is Emaline and she's 3 years old. I also believe the zombie apocalypse will happen, it's only a matter of time...
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:iconaliastweedledoom:
AliasTweedledoom Featured By Owner Apr 17, 2009
Hey you! You should add me =)

-Callie
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:iconsilenthamish:
SilentHamish Featured By Owner May 13, 2008  Hobbyist General Artist
hey there!
whats up?

just pased by and thought I'd say hey!
Reply