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Notebook I |
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Contents:
Crystal Moon Palace
Salute to the Future
Child Mirror
Silent Gossip
Little Girl
Flapper in Gethsemane
Imprisoned Womanhood
War Throb
New York
Eyes of Faith
Memory Jewels
Petrified Forest
Jericho
Where is God?
Song and Steel
Magician's Wand
Blood Money
Old Men of Poverty
Bruised Wings
Victorious Life of Love
Enough of Something
Blue Grotto of Capri
No Place for Jimmie
A Ziggin and a Zaggin
Jane Adams
Grand Canyon
Harp of Life
Woman
Guest of a King
Second Notebook
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Crystal Moon Palace |
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What fairy sprites of quivering silver,
Are flashing thir swords of moon ray beams,
In this Taj Mahal of marble glory?
They entangle my mind in a veil of dreams.
I stand a wraith in the magic stillness -
The silence trembles at failing shells;
While ghostly flowers stare from the needles
Of frosted pines that are weaving spells.
The moon is dripping stars and feathers
Upon my lashes - I cannot stir -
Like love she casts on me her magic,
I am caught in a web of gossamer.
Grace French Smith |
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We are riding on air with power and grace,
We are clasping hands over the sea
Shall we pierce the Ether in starry race,
To the man in the moon for tea?
Grace French Smith |
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A child you gave to me oh Lord,
A life to mould and plan
Such trust in me strikes deeper chord
Then all since life began.
Of imitative plastic mind,
He follows my every clue
My ways and words are here combined
In miniature so true.
Before that mirror I can halt
And see my traits compiled:
I'm startled when I see my faults
Reflected in my child
Grace French Smith |
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A lifted eyebrow, a shrug from behind,
Will wound the man who stands maligned;
And truth and love are undermined.
The gossip is true! But is it kind?
Grace French Smith |
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My little girl -
She touches earth with the tip of her toe,
My little Girl -
Each day to her is a fairy whorl
She scatters her grace on high and low
Her spirit has wings for the ebb and the flow -
My little girl.
Grace French Smith |
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We stood on the side of Mt. Olivet
A "flapper" was smoking her cigarette,
And tossing her head at the Arab guide,
"What can there be to see?" she cried.
Then slyly he glances at the crowd beyond,
As they with their hidden smiles respond,
"Two thousand years old is that olive tree
On the garden path of Gethsemane."
With a restless glance and a toss of her head,
"Just a knotted tree--what of that?" she said.
"Have you no Bible, miss?" he asked,
"I own a Koran,"--his smile was masked,
She laughed and kicked at the ancient root,
And crushed a violet under her boot.
When they found historic hissop bloom,
She flung it aside to blow smoke at gloom.
Grace French Smith |
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Through the lattice bars of a harem's pall;
Obeying all her lord's commands--
Tear drops fall.
Through the iron bars of customs' wall,
Abused and crushed in many lands--
Tear drops fall.
Through the ages she has swallowed gall,
And stumbled overdrifting sands.
Trumpet call!
At last she is finding justice hall,
And slowly breaking iron bands--
Trumpet call!
Grace French Smith |
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The measured beat of marching feet!
Trek on toward foul and flooded trench,
To roarng, shrieking guns, and stench
Of parts of men, and soaking mud,
As red as a looming poppy bud,
Alive on fields of death and heat.
The measured beat of marching feet!
The orphaned child and empty chair;
The bitter heartaches, blank despair,
As mothers labor in the heat,
That boys and girls may live and eat,
When hearts are breaking, hope a cheat.
The measured beat of marching feet!
And now return the wounded men:
She searches every load again--
No legs, no arms, --a vacant stare--
A mind shell-shocked for life--le guerre;
And sighs of breaking hearts repeat.
The measured beat of marching feet!
Our boys our youth are marching now.
With shadowed fear upon the brow,
She pours through columns--"missing, dead,"
She searches every line with dread;
And still that grim and measured beat.
Grace French Smith |
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New York, you are holding me fast
with a band of steel,
Born deep within your stony heart,
Grown strong hurring about among
your canyons,
Your granite canyon walls,
I can feel the throb and thrill of
your restless power,
Of your vast ever moving human throngs;
Good natured throngs, moving a thousand
ways--
busy--absorbed--
Intent upon ten thousand schemes,
Oblivious to your noise--
Endless grinding noise.
New York, my giant mother of steel
and stone
You sent me forth, but you kept my heart
pinioned among your glorious towers.
Grace French Smith |
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Dead earth -
All life seems gone.
Man breaks the frozen ground,
He cannot see approaching Spring -
Faith can.
Dark world -
Night's curtain falls.
Why think that day will come?
Man cannot guarantee the sun -
Faith can.
Grace French Smith |
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I cannot see the hand that carves the mind
With vaults for holding jewels every day--
Where treasured beauty cannot fade away,
For memory vaults are deep and interlined.
The hand creating memory gems is kind:
The gold of noon, the dawn of silver-gray,
Black velvet night aglow with diamond ray;
A chalice holding joy and tears combined.
As metals glow in seams of hidden rocks,
So jewels form in seams of hidden thought;
The pearl of love, and sparkling fellowships,
A book, a journey's thrill. A dream unlocks
The vault, and lovely color rays are caught;
From opal's heart of fire--a poem chips.
Grace French Smith |
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Dame Nature has many a treasure locked away
Within the heart of Arizona Land,
A drama of Ages--a thousand years is a day,
One scene--these agate trees upon the sand.
Four hundred thousand acres of crystal trees,
But a hint of the genius of God, whose art is profound;
The sun draws out their color harmonies--
A rainbow forest prone upon the ground.
Grace French Smith |
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A hill of ashes, dust and ashes here:
An ancient people hid from passer-by,
Beneath this mound of earth, in silence lie,
Their art and implements of work are near,
Their wealth and shame are dead to joy or fear.
The city noises hushed, and all the fun,
And love is buried, pride and envy done--
The smile, the frown lie deep within this bier.
Why are we troubled over little things,
And fret and fume to build us wealth awhile?
It does not matter a hundred years from now,
For through the ages but the soul has wings
To rise above a shapeless crumbling pile--
The spirit lives, all else to dust must bow.
Grace French Smith |
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Is God out of sight in the noise and the crush
Of years that are passing to our dismay?
Are we blind to His presence in worldly rush?
The wonders of God are all pointing His way--
The rainbows that dip in the silver bay.
The poem of color in sunset sky.
Are we deaf to His voice as we kneel and pray?
Just a veil is between our God and the eye.
The rose of silk with a velvet blush,
The fruit of the treees in gorgeous array,
The liquid notes of the woodland thrush,
The wonders of God are all pointing His way--
The stars of the universe all betray
A Creator of power. Yet he hears the sigh,
And the longing of man as he wanders astray,
Just a veil is between our God and the eye.
The lawn that is trampled revives like plush.
The tree that is injured repairs decay,
And Helen Keller can hear through the hush;
The wonders of God are all pointing His way.
The mind of man He has carved out of clay,
It can break up an atom, and soar on high,
Approaching eternity--crown of his day--
Just a veil is between our God and the eye.
Oh God, do forgive us our doubts that slay,
The wonders of God are all pointing His way.
Endow us with sight that can magnify--
Just a veil is between our God and the eye.
Grace French Smith |
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Poems reverberate--
In a grinding age of steel,
Hitting an iron gate,
And rebound from a driving wheel.
Poems are buried in sound
In a shrieking age of steel,
Striking a burying ground,
They are lost in a thunder peal.
Grace French Smith |
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I cannot see the Magician's hand
That shakes His wand with silent command
As there comes from a seed a living tree,
And silken petals blowing free.
I cannot comprehend the mind
That formed the sun all color lined,
As there comes from the dark a shining day,
And growing power from dark decay.
I sometimes feel the Creator near
As He shakes His wand for life to appear,
And there comes from a cell a living child:
So life and death are reconciled.
Grace French Smith |
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Schneider, Krupp, Zakaroff are millionaires
By blowing to pieces the finest youth of the world.
By selling their engines of death and inventing snares,
As they shake the banner of war that greed has unfurled.
These men do not shoot their own guns in a reeking trench,
Nor live with death, that their cannon in enemy hands,
Will hurl upon them in a shrieking and fiery drench;
But they live at home and smile as business expands.
Guns and powder are offered at scandalous cost
To many a nation all panting to stand prepared;
And many a valuable secret is sold or lost
For nations that pay when the teeth of war are bared.
Millions in gold will keep a DuPont, it is said
Contentedly shaping engines to crush out life.
And greed is the king that is grinning above the dead,
As he pockets the gold, he sharpens another knife.
Grace French Smith |
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Without a family, home or friend,
Without a saving on which to depend,
Outliving their strength, they seem to be hurled
On the ruthless machine of a heartless world.
The years toil have brought no rest,
Nor ease that should come, as love's bequest:
The years of care for a family's wants
Have left them nothing but loveless taunts.
Their worldly goods on a weary backs,
They haunt the forest, the town, the tracks;
They bravely swallow all burning tears,
Their only crime - advancing years.
Grace French Smith |
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Some poets but flutter upon the ground,
In trembling measures;
And some are fluting from tiny mound
Their broken treasures.
Some poets will singe their wings on the stars,
In zest of flying;
And some will break all prison bars
In prophesying.
All poets are bruised in an age of steel,
So contradictory;
But some are soaring with trumpet peal
And sounding victory!
Grace French Smith |
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The life upon a cross, not crowning fame,
The Christ forsaken even by a friend,
Superb in death - few seem to comprehend
His gift of love upon that wooden frame;
To teach unselfish love had been His aim;
In leading man to God, He would transcend
All greed and hate - His life the dividend -
The power of love became a vital flame.
Not gold amassed on aching backs of men,
Nor power enslaving men at any price;
Not carven marble held in velvet moss,
Nor snatching fame from life by sword or pen.
The life of victory blown in sacrifice
When love and service flood the daily cross.
Grace French Smith |
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A lonely figure upon the shore,
A boy has wandered away from the crowd
He has tattered clothes and a hungry ache,
But his eyes are shining, his head is proud.
He watches the vast and plunging sea
As it pounds upon unending shores,
And reflects the light of the infinite blue -
The depth of heaven echoes and soars.
He has come from a crowded tenement
With little to wear and less to eat,
He knows the pinch and cramp of the poor,
And the struggle for coins in a crowded street.
He is craving light and starving for space -
He finds on the shore amazing supply;
"Enough of something!" he shouts with joy
To the infinite reaches of ocean and sky.
"Enough of something!" he shouts - inspired,
As the breakers are silver fans on the shore,
And the white-caps are gleaming gems in the sun,
"Enouth of something, Oh God, and more!"
Grace French Smith |
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Blue Grotto--
You are blue, and I,
But when I dive in your lake,
I become a quivering silver fish.
Above are blue velvet walls,
Under water--mercury.
Wierd cavern!
Grace French Smith |
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It seems that nobody wanted Jimmie,
But anyhow the boy was born;
They say that nobody wanted the baby,
"He came" when life was tragic and torn.
At a time when his mother was sick with worry;
There were seven of them and they "lived on relief",
And nobody wanted tiny Jimmie,
For five a week is nothing but grief.
He died of pneumonia, suffering, crying--
In just a few months--the house was cold--
But nobody mentions the death of Jimmie,
His suffering over, the mother consoled.
Has not a child a right to be wanted?
A child does not choose the time to be born.
He should be the acme of love and longing,
But Jimmie's life was only a thorn.
Grace French Smith |
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Black Joe was paralyzed by fear,
As hellish war reached his ear.
His knees could scarcely hold him up,
He could not speak, nor hold his cup.
He knew a charge was soon to be made
Toward a German trench and ambuscade.
An officer who saw his plight
Would give advice to Joe that night,
"A shell shoots straight and does not lag,
So just be sure to run zig-zag,
Just zig, then zag and you'll escape,
I vow, all shells of every shape."
This officer was wandering through
A hospital of boys he knew,
And there was Joe with an injured jaw,
All bandaged tight without a flaw,
"Why Joe," he said, "What brought you here?
You did not run zig-zag, I fear."
And Joe looked up with a rueful smile,
And touched his injured head awhile,
"Yes Mas'er, your advice I took,
I ran zig-zag till my legs just shook
I must a ben a ziggin though,
When I should a ben a zaggin slow."
Grace French Smith |
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Living her life with trembling wisps of humanity,
Children born in the muddy "sloughs of despond".
Lavishing love where poverty causes insanity,
Tenderly lifting the poor from narrow bond.
Grace French Smith |
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Grand Canyon--titanic gorge--
Sublime among all sculpture!
Carved out of sandstone
By the silent hammers of the ages.
Here are humdreds of gorges within a gorge,
And mountains rising from the depths.
A sunken world veiled in eloquent silence.
All pettiness hides in shame
Before the sculptors--Time and Erosion--
Carving--carving endlessly.
Our donkeys cling to your walls,
We are ants lost in a universe;
But the human spirit soars over your chasms,
And responds to your majesty and power,
Sings and prays through your corridors--
Oh masterpiece of the ages--
And worships your divine Builder,
Whose moments are the sweep of the centuries
While man's are but the ticking of a clock.
Grace French Smith |
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Some lives are only tuned to pleasure,
And shift the dial to seek the fun;
They trip through life to a fantastic measure,
Insist each day shall form a pun.
Some lives are blind to all of beauty,
Are responsive only to gleams of gold,
They feel amassing of wealth their duty,
Insist each day be bought or sold.
Lome lives are tuned to so much of glory,
Their harps respond to a butterfly wing,
They feel the tear in a neighbor's story,
And harmony draws out every sting.
Grace French Smith |
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An Arab lounges upon a donkey back,--
"His woman" walks behind, all draped in black,
A child at her skirts as she plods the dusty road,
On her shoulder a baby rests, on her head a load;
She sees the world through a narrow slit-- a slave
As she drags her weary life to an early grave.
The East is echoing now with her helpless groan;
A beast of burden is Europe's monotone.
In much of Europe, woman is merely a source
Of cannon fodder for war's relentless course--
She's born a slave and sorrow's counterpart.
But fire will flash from an opal's burning heart--
She is slowly lifting her talents from clanking chain
Be kind--as her spirit's life is born of pain.
Grace French Smith |
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Far from confusion--the city's roar,
Hurry and fretting and scheming galore -
Hid in the woods by the river's brink,
Lying quietly--now we can think,
Time to be idle-- from bondage--release,
Far from the crowds on an island of peace.
Here we lie building our castles of hope,
Waters are fluting to heliotrope,
Dancing with sunbeams that sparkle and tease;
Soughing winds make harps of the trees;
Twittering bird-notes now join in the song;
Wood music drives out of mind all the throng.
Lacy the clouds deceiving the eye--
Bridal veils floating from stars hid in sky;
All of this beauty was formed by God's hand,
All bandaged tight without a flaw,
Peace in my soul-- I'm a guest in His land.
Grace French Smith |
First Notebook
Crystal Moon Palace
Salute to the Future
Child Mirror
Silent Gossip
Little Girl
Flapper in Gethsemane
Imprisoned Womanhood
War Throb
New York
Eyes of Faith
Memory Jewels
Petrified Forest
Jericho
Where is God?
Song and Steel
Magician's Wand
Blood Money
Old Men of Poverty
Bruised Wings
Victorious Life of Love
Enough of Something
Blue Grotto of Capri
No Place for Jimmie
A Ziggin and a Zaggin
Jane Adams
Grand Canyon
Harp of Life
Woman
Guest of a King
Second Notebook
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