You Know My Mom? She Was a Lucky Lady

©2017 E. R. Smith

You know my mom?  She was a lucky lady

Raised in 1930’s foster care

Our fathers abandoned us to her care

None left their last names behind

You know my mom?  She was a lucky lady

Raised four children on her own

Struggled to keep house and home

Very few treated her kind

You know my mom?  She was a lucky lady

Stretched resources like five loaves and two fish

Gave thanks for every received wish

We were all so sure of her love

My mom,  she sure was a lucky lady!

Called Jesus’ blessings like a preacher

Couldn’t read well, but raised a teacher

She now watches us from above

You know, I hope I’m lucky like that lady.

Loved and revered by children and grands

At her funeral most could only stand

I so love and miss my lady.

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©2017 E. R. Smith All Rights Reserved

There for you to hold your hand

Wipe your tears, and understand

Above and beyond in relation to you

Now I need, but who?

Always being my brother’s keeper

Selfless, never looking deeper

Above and beyond in relation to you

Now I need, but who?

Lying silent still on hospital sheets

Devastated, staring at texts and tweets

Above and beyond in relation to you

Now I need, but who?

None emanating sympathy

None gives time for empathy

Holding my head like Jesus

Knowing goodness holds no guarantee for us

Above and beyond in relation to you

Now I need, but who?


Deep #WritePhoto

©2017 E. R. Smith All Rights Reserve

Deep within cavities

is where I search to see

Exploring the mysterious

caves housing my lovers treasury

Learning unspoken

sealed feelings awoken

Finally owning clarity

on our destiny

Waking from my reverie

with glee



Am I Wicked?

A piece I wrote for, had to share it at home site as well. Enjoy

Check out Nina Mariah spoken word poetry

The Blogging Meetup


Am I Wicked?

-E. R. Smith

Standing before my opinionated mirror, conversing,

“You are sowicked”, Mirror announces

Cutting eyes, I warn my accessory I will not hesitate to shatter him

“You are a wicked queen”,  Mirror reminds

I ponder,

Yes, I have wicked symmetry to my face

Wicked curves cut my breasts, hips, thighs causing upsets

My tummy is only a bit naughty, four out of six packs

“How wicked am I?”,  I ask, fishing

“Well, I watched you engineer a coup on that young man,”

“He became minion, following an impish grin”,

“Let out fiendish wails as you assaulted him”

“Wayward strands of hair tangled his speech”

“He is enslaved.”

Parting full lips, showing even teeth, a devilish smile

“Yes”,  I admit, “I am a bit vicious”

“But, that young man would concur, my wicked is good.”

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Who is Sensitive?


©2017 E. R. Smith All Rights Reserved

Who is Sensitive?

Who is sensitive,

raw naked harsh media

build caustic nature?



©2017 E. R. Smith All Rights Reserved


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A flame jumped out from the pyre

and ignited a passion in my soul

Blue flame shot out to inspire

lofty goals

Ablaze am I as passions unrequited burn away

Moving fire, my hand is a torch bringing on a new day

The keeper of the flame has moved on and left a legacy

Boiling, churning, molten in the core of me


The Memory of Home

©2017 E. R. Smith All Rights Reserved

1214 Boston Road


Hundreds of steps leading to the fifth floor,

can’t wait to get to my door,


Cracked need painting walls,

with matching floors,


Smells of marvelous coming from the kitchen,

breakfast, lunch, and supper,


Downy on the sheets in perfect folded piles,

an every week routine,


Questions about school, tests, mates,

daily check-in,


Home where memories are made,

life lessons are taught,


                                           By:  E. R. Smith