Wednesday, January 1, 2020
Smoke Signals by Jedediah Smith
A field of Turkey is on fire
cupped in the palm of my hand.
My briar pipe with birdseye
woodgrain burns without burning,
latakia sends slow scented curls
and clouds around my head
as I write, shutting me
from your view, allowing
me to make magic words
in a fine and private place.
I'm a shaman - watch my smoke.
Jedediah Smith teaches literature, mythology, and whatever he can get away with at City College of San Francisco. His poetry has been published in California Quarterly, Ekphrastic Review, Mojave River Review, and The American Journal of Poetry. He also edited Parlando: Collected Poems of Ray Clark Dickson.
All the mumbo-jumbo has spelled the heart into a trance-like state bent backwards Intractable— no amount of love allows for entry The bac...
A brand new love affair is such a beautiful thing.. . With hair the color & texture of grackle feathers the woman at the table beside mi...
a red pen stalks us. we write, wearing camouflage. i hope words can still find us. shrapnel rescues a poem, where we tear words out of our ...
My father was past 80 when he finally began to tell us about the war. It was his first war, when he was only 20. He served during three con...