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    Waiting for the Sunrise: Poetry Journal, #1
    Waiting for the Sunrise: Poetry Journal, #1
    Waiting for the Sunrise: Poetry Journal, #1
    Ebook260 pages1 hour

    Waiting for the Sunrise: Poetry Journal, #1

    By Cathy Smith

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    About this ebook

    Waiting for the Sunrise is the collected poetry and memoir of award-winning nature poet Cathy Smith. It contains many full color illustrative photos chronicling her coast to coast journeys in the United States, Mexico and Canada. Written in free verse, the poems are easy to read and the book makes a lovely 'Book of Days' - a fine way to start your day, reading one poem at a time. This is a Zen-like collection of observations about our relationship to natural phenomenon.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCathy Smith
    Release dateSep 16, 2017
    ISBN9781386456926
    Waiting for the Sunrise: Poetry Journal, #1
    Author

    Cathy Smith

    Cathy Smith is a Mohawk writer who lives on a Status Reservation on the Canadian Side of the Border on Turtle Island (North America). She is proud of her people’s heritage and also has an interest in the myths and legends of other peoples and cultures, and modern fantasy and science fiction, which is often derived from past myths and often acts as myths for modern times.

    Read more from Cathy Smith

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      Book preview

      Waiting for the Sunrise - Cathy Smith

      Introduction

      ––––––––

      There is a little biographical information which would paint this poetry with a brush that I really think would be interesting to my readers. Green Rain was written in one of my many favorite places, Harvard Yard. The fingers of a baby toad were viewed in Kent’s Store, Virginia. Baby toads used to crawl inside my wash water bucket at a campground I was staying at there.

      I have lived near many beautiful forests and even owned two small ones. A word about the beauty of Harvard Yard: the trees there are the largest I have ever seen throughout the entire country (excluding the Redwoods). Some of the trees, it is said, are over 300 years old. I really fell in love with them, sitting underneath them frequently in the light rain to relax after work – and to wait for the city bus. The bus stop was nearby, in front of George Washington’s yellow house (his regional headquarters during the Revolutionary War) which is now a Harvard administration building.

      Other favorite places include the Florida Everglades, the Mojave Desert in California and the Pacific Ocean near Santa Monica and, of course, Venice Beach. To this I would add Provincetown on Cape Cod – and, also, two communes that I lived on in Virginia and Tecumseh, Missouri – Twin Oaks and East Wind. There are poems written about each of these places in my work. This volume includes both my first chapbook, Apple Cider and my second chapbook, Wishes on the Edge of Time, which are very personal views of my cross-country travels.

      And know, there is a little Zen Haiku in this book as well.

      I look at this volume as a ‘Book of Days’ – like a calendar. It was my journal and my diary. Yes, even the photos. So, it was meant to be read aloud to one’s self or to someone else – one poem at a time, like sampling a good pastry. Enjoy a taste here...

      Apple Cider Journal #1

      Green rain

      One raindrop at a time

      began to fall on

      a leaf bouncing it up

      and down.

      I was sitting underneath

      the foliage in the rain

      watching the rivulets

      trace new streams down

      through the moss and

      small plants and

      green ferns.

      I shivered

      from the cold rain.

      The arms of the forest

      formed a secret

      umbrella dancing

      like leafy

      piano keys playing

      simultaneously

      and also

      bowing singly

      over my head.

      With

      wet, green fingers

      the lush downfall became

      invisible

      in its connection with

      the player piano

      leaves, which

      appeared above—

      all at once—high across

      the upper boughs

      of the waving branches

      of a large pine tree.

      Leaves fell in the wind

      and stuck on

      the tree trunk above me like

      the little green

      fingers

      of a toad.

      Unspun wool

      After the rain

      I wandered

      from hill to

      hill there was

      no one there.

      Every flower was

      fresh, strong and

      milky, as if the stems

      were drinking from the moist

      green earth.

      The grass sprang up

      behind my footsteps

      undamaged by the

      slight pressure of

      my passage. I walked

      until I could see

      nothing but the cloudy,

      stretching, bathed,

      naked and blue

      sky.

      The clouds had

      wrung themselves

      dry

      of moisture

      and were

      gathered

      together into

      silky spools as if they

      had just been spun

      on a spinning

      wheel.

      The stretching azure

      was vast and empty

      except

      for some sparsely scattered

      unspun bunches of vapor—

      soon being wheeled

      across the wild air

      into thin, wispy

      thread.

      (Photo above: Bank of the Charles river, Harvard Square, Ma.)

      (Central Square Food Co-op, Cambridge, MA)

      fresh green apples

      (Or What to Do with Too Many Apples & Blueberries)

      Fresh green apples and blueberries,

      sweet and tart—

      My gingerbread

      recipe:

      Any kind of wild

      berry,

      (especially wild raspberries,

      sweet and tart) combined with

      whole wheat and ginger.

      Also consider adding:

      blueberries,

      sweet and tart, and

      tart green apples

      for pies

      with crisscrossed crust,

      too bubbly,

      stickily bubbly

      when they are hot ...

      cooking in the oven.

      Apple syrup with crisped

      apple peel edges.

      Burning my fingers

      right through

      the thick patterned

      mitten-shaped potholders

      in my full-length

      ruffled apron with the pocket. 

      Served up hot

      on the kitchen table

      with the smooth white

      linen tablecloth ironed into

      exactly eight

      sharp-creased squares:

      four on one

      side four on

      the other.

      Fresh milk with

      apple cookies,

      apple sauce,

      wild cranberry sauce,

      blackberry jam,

      apple butter,

      baked green apples and

      apple pancakes.

      Dried apples carved

      into wooden faces,

      strings of cranberry necklaces,

      (pearly cranberry necklaces) with berries like

      red diver’s pearls tied

      with cotton string ties

      for springtime, fall and

      summertime gatherings hidden in

      flowering tree groves, 

      in blueberry patches,

      in mossy bogs—

      looking for

      the empty shells of robin’s eggs—

      blue speckled

      robin’s eggs—we put whatever

      broken shards we find

      (and sometimes

      whole empty shells)

      on the windowsill.      

      Next to a candle is

      a falcon’s feather

      and carved wrinkled

      apples with

      scrap-cloth dresses and

      gingerbread-style faces,

      spiced apple faces with

      raisin-button eyes,

      raisin-button smiles,

      paper hats,

      painted noses

      and homemade dimples.

      Apple

      dumplings tonight. The

      dried apple dolls keep

      on smiling with their

      honey drop eyes,

      yarn hair and

      peppermint red

      dresses:

      zig-zag

      gum-wrapper arms

      outstretched

      for a big baby-hug,

      with big fake red

      lips puckered up

      saying kiss me.

      That night ‘round nine or

      nine-thirty we ate

      juicy slices of dumpling with

      our fingers, sucking

      out the boiling juice

      when it cooled,

      wearing cranberry necklaces

      and showing them

      off—using every single

      cotton ruffled apron

      that we had.

      (Fresh green apples),

      porcelain-enameled metal tables

      and checked

      table clothes filled with

      four hot apple and blueberry pies—

      three big ones

      and a smaller one

      thick covered wide-brimmed

      crust and toothpick marks.

      A for apple.

      B for blueberry. I like my slice

      a la mode with heavy

      whipped cream. Making my

      own whipped cream while I cook,

      I slide it along the side of

      a heavy crock bowl,

      taking lazy peeks

      into the oven.

      Too soon.

      Just in time,

      before it got burnt.

      Burnt my fingers again. The

      lazy whipped cream peaks

      as I am dreaming about

      marshmallow clouds over the

      minty lemon sunshine.

      The whipped cream

      should not be allowed

      to turn into butter.

      Ginger,

      cinnamon,

      Enjoying the preview?
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