The Eyes of a Child

Photo of infant courtesy of Rebloggy.

©2017 E. R. Smith

Eyes of an infant,  ponder aged faces and smile

Eyes of an infant, see beyond put ons and style

These orbs recently sent from heaven see keenly

Screaming wails when passed to those unseemly

Neonate vision, a blessing that’s spoiled

Groomers readjust oculars God oiled

Vision captured by glitz, fool’s gold

Leaves child open to dangerous control

Tanka: A Sense of Summer

©2017 E. R. Smith

beasts abound landscapes

stretch tendons showcase trained brawn

animals sensing

recess, leisure, no cabins

sunshine hoist mood scads higher

 

Turn Down The Noise

©2017 E. R. Smith

Turn down the noise seeking focus

I can’t play night owl

Volume shakes the floor beneath

I just can’t allow

Commotion crowds my soul,

with dimensions of bulletins unequal

I just can’t snatch my goal,

life can be a sequel

Assaulting my pillow, dominating space

Elbow, flip, lie on my belly

Note, to, self:   to keep self ace

Turn off the damn telly

 

Star Dancer Blooms

Dancer Maddie Ziegler of the series Dance Moms

©2017 E. R. Smith

espy spirit lift

efflorescence fed limelight

star blooms best in show

 

Lil Mary Cooks

Girls with Barbies:  courtesy of photographer Camilo Jose Vergara

©2017 E. R. Smith

Cooking is so much fun when you don’t have much food in your home. It’s like Christmas every time, ’cause it doesn’t happen every day.  Today we are gonna make baked potatoes with cheese, salad, and barbecue chicken thighs.  Mr. Martinez, the butcher, winked at mom, this is why we’ll have enough chicken ’til tomorrow.  This is a once a month feast, at least mom calls it that.  The first of the month is when she buys all of the food, she always tries to get a bit extra for feast day.  The rest of the month she reminds of the weeks ahead, so we won’t gobble everything up.  Feeding four kids is hard, especially by yourself.  I see mom holding her head in her room sometimes.  Mom’s at the laundromat right now, so I’ll help with the cooking.

Mommy taught me to cook rice when I was ten, I’ve watched her mix mysteries in all of our pots since then.  Now Mary and Dalia want me to show them.  Since I did promise. These guys are so excited. Mary turns on the oven. Joey just watches from the living room with a Superman comic in his hands.  I’m just waiting to eat, his monthly comment.  He loves cooking though, just not with the kids; only with mom. The kitchen’s noisy like the chickens are alive, gosh my sisters squeal a lot!  We finished choppin’ salad.  Dalia and Mary peeled potatoes.  I had to touch the meat ’cause I’m oldest; and no one else would.  I put on the herbs and spices like mom showed me after cleaning it with vinegar.  Vinegar is one strong smell.  All ready to put in the oven. I walk over to pack the salad in the fridge.  I see Mary with the box of matches, Dalia marching close behind her.  Putting away the salad bowl, I remind them to be careful with the oven.  It’s ok I already turned it on, Mary says.

You know those times you hear things from a distance but don’t really listen.  Happens a lot when I’m with my sisters all day.  I come back to the kitchen to find Mary’s bottom in the air as she reaches with a lit match into the oven. Dalia’s by the sink stubbornly holding the pan of thighs; waiting her turn.  Time did that thing where you want it to move backward, so it purposely moves faster.  Pop!…, hot air and smoke whooshed over us,  I fell/grabbed Mary by her feet out of the oven.  Tears in my eyes, Dalia’s mouth is screaming but I can’t hear her.  Joey is behind me.  Please don’t be dead, my mind yells as I peek down at Mary’s face.  She looks odd, quiet, but she’s breathing.  Joey had already jumped over me and turned off the stove and opened the window.  Dalia’s trying to hand me a wash cloth.  I take it and wipe Mary’s face, praying at the same time to the Virgen Mary.  Wow, Joeys says amazed, look at her face!  Mary’s face looked kinda new, then I realized her eye brows were gone;  and her hair was singed away on the sides.  Dalia tells Mary about her eyebrows, then Mary finally cries.  I am just glad she’s breathing.  What happened? She turned on the oven too soon, Joey explains shaking his head like an old man.  You could’ve killed us, luckily you just killed your face hair.  Thanks Joe, great!  Mary’s crying harder, so I take her to the bathroom and leave him in charge of the kitchen.  Trust, no one besides mom will get past him into that kitchen.  I explain to Mary her hair will grow back soon,  you’re still pretty and you don’t have scars.

I hear the key turn in the lock, want to run somewhere and hold my head.  Can’t though, I’m eldest.  Guess I’ll show mom Mary’s cooked face and then start explaining from there.

 

Wings to Somewhere New #Write Photo

©2017 E. R. Smith

Mom never has much money, but she sure knows how to find fun for free.  Today was Central Park picnic day. Mommy fried a boatload of chicken,  packed apples, and other stuff; time to eat under the sky she always says. Joey and I excited; little sister Mary starts whining about the walking…she’s four with short legs.   I promise to carry her on my back to cheer her up.  Now Migdalia’s looking at me with death eyes cause I really can’t carry her anymore.  Six is way heavier than four. Joey tells her they will run all the way to the fountain then jump in.  Mom would murder us, never will that happen.  Six believes more than twelve knows, Migdalia’s death eyes turn sunny.

We here at the park, mom’s looking for shade.  She let us dip our feet in the fountain since no one was looking. She told Migdalia she was too pretty to drown. Dalia’s happy; pretty staring at her wet sandals. Kids crack me up, so little makes ’em happy.  Fourteen is harder.  I stare at the sky, I love watching clouds change shape.  I watch the birds, wondering where they’re going in such a big group.  I keep my thoughts to myself mostly.  Mom already has too much whining and worry going on. Sometimes I wish I could come here alone with mom. Lay on the blanket look up at the sky and wonder, like when Joe and I were little.  Before Dalia and Mary were born. Now I’m kinda mom’s helper, Joey helps me. I stare at the birds wishing for wings to lift me to an exciting place I’ve never seen before.  I want to be at the tip of the  “V” shape they make, so I can decide where we go. I wanna have lunch in a tree, under shady leaves, with my bird friends.  Listen to them brag about all the places they’ve traveled to. Like Denise does whenever her family comes back from visiting Puerto Rico.  I’ve never been in a plane.  I look up again and ask God to give me wings someday; not like the ones Denise pinned to her shirt from riding a plane.  I want real wings, like St. Michael the Arch Angel.  He’s real.  I told Joey Superman isn’t. Like St. Michael, I’d like to fly, and work for God.  I figure God will send me everywhere. Then when I have vacation time; I can take mom and us somewhere new.