Waiting for the Sunrise: The Collected Poems of Cathy Smith

By Cathy Smith

Enjoy the simple language used in this volume, and see the world as the author does with a poetic hand or eye that captures that one special moment & freeze-frames it to share with the reader.
Besides these award-winning poetry volumes, Cathy Smith has published a volume of seven short stories, "Hidden Treasures" which contains stories of serendipity, a bookstore cat, a magician and social justice.
Seen as a 'Book of Days', this poetry volume can be read one poem at a time like a calendar, a philosophical reminder of the soaring beauty that surrounds us from day to day. "Waiting for the Sunrise" is also available in paperback. Journey with the author in spirit through her words & images - see these poems through your eyes and mine ---

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cozy Publishing
• Release date: Jul 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370392308

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.

Book preview

Apple Cider Journal #1

(Photograph—n. Maine, my back yard)

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.

(Bank of the Charles River in Harvard Square, Cambridge, MA)

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.

(Green apples in the 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,

allspice,

hot

apple

cider.                           

(photograph—n. Maine, my back yard)

In the forest

NEAR

the

forest in a field

staring wide-eyed still

soundlessly

deer, sshhh.

I stand next to the river.

The water is a window. I can

see the fish

all the way to the

bottom of any of the streams

that run off down into

the hills. Throughout the

summer growing season

the Ginkgo, Oak, Elm, Spruce

and Cedar—Chestnuts and

Persimmon start to spread. And the

strange Sycamore trees.

Needles and leaves are scattered

upon the ground, thick as a

carpet.

There is the heavy smell of pine gum. 

The pine trees themselves touch

across the forest floor with a

turpentine,

fish bone, spiny-cone, clove-smelling

paint brush hand.

A green paint brush for a hand.

In the winter, the snow is

cut sharply by thirsty ice on

a knife-like bank. The edge of the

river slices against

my bare raw exposed ankles

trembling, moving quickly

in the cold running

pebble-bottomed brook.

Can’t forget to wear your

socks in the winter.

Like, I always try to get away

with it anyway. Better

than getting my socks

wet when I break

the ice with my feet like

I usually do. The cold

feels good though.

At least, at first, until I

get home into the warmth

and then my toes start to

sting. Better luck next

time. Next time the crack

from the crashing ice

won’t send the deer

running for the next county.

Near the forest in a field

staring wide-eyed, large

eared, white-tailed, the

color of wood and dry grass,

inside the sounds, underneath

the sounds I make with

my wide-track