Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                        Page 37
Table of

A Gathering of Ghosts

	We speak when the fireplace roars
dead toppled aspen trees on this mountain
			smoke billowing
caught between the room we sit in 
 	and the chimney heavy choking
   branches burning in the trees of night.
Old logs harvested eighty years ago
   encapsulating my wife's family
I am a willing guest and progenitor of ghosts
here in this cabin her father, grandfather,
		uncles and aunts built
in the wilderness of the grid
			oh! these mountains!
where the wind blows over their bones
   between these peaks where elk graze
	the mountain lions, bears
		otters in morning brooks
so light in the morning, but here we are
with the night outside and the these generations!
I have a scotch deep in this wilderness
	where I find peace
		and speak
to my wife as each read out separate books
like a cat coiling around our lungs
she listens to the little girl of magic
	she was and will
		always be
among these family members buried on this mountain
and answers among the ghost
	I find myself alone
		at peace
in this dowry you wife were bequeathed
What do you hear!  What do you hear!
	And what am I ghosting in this space?

  Jared Smith __

What We Are Going Through in This Time
		Whatever disturbs your pure flesh
	that grew from the pine forests and alpine lakes
    whatever disturbs your mind as it cares for the animals
as it strikes the chords of the eternal cosmos
	it is true is but a moment in passing life
but it wounds you and distorts you from the winds
that carry across our place in time and history
and because it disturbs your flesh it does your mind
as it does all of our minds in this awful time
	as our minds are born of flesh and spirit

we must rise beyond the flesh that weakens us
and beyond the mind that can be caged by fear or hate,
and we must understand in our flesh the power of words
and the arrows and hatred and fear they can bring
		and Death, that too,
and how to use them ourselves as shamans once did
or as phoenixes that flew above the fires of Homer
and rose from the ashes more powerful more horrible
	than what had sought their death

and so this is what I say to you, what I leave you
across every breakfast table in America every home
where a husband and wife are looking across time
and each of them are looking the same way each
     of them are looking across every breakfast table
as the sun is rising over the tired buildings they inhabit
the commercials playing on their radio and TVs
and the pages of the small town newspapers they turn
as they wait for the coffee to cool just a little more
are all saying the same thing but are still missing
what each one of them might say before the day begins
and must say before the sun goes down on our time,
and if they do then each one of them will change the world
and oh your pure flesh though scarred will be of all that is holy.
  Jared Smith__

The Wild Intangibles
	There is no art taught in the universities.
	There is no poetry, now no song
		but the wind rubbing grains of sand
and the sand's percussion against rock
and the tear of bits of stone against flesh.
	These are the music
unfettered and untold.
There are the mountains, their slow heaving
as they churn storm clouds above the valley.
The squirrels scratching outside my window
where shades are pulled back and sun dances
along the frozen spines of forgotten books.
Their pages turn and my sorrow reaches out.
There is no art taught in the universities.
	There is no poetry, no song,
		there are no children
among the workers laying roads and factories
building bridges from one capitol dome to another
there are no times for hyacinths blooming
	the wolf calling his mate
		the wild intangibles.
  Jared Smith__