short story

Torching Daisies [I/II]

  He caught sight of her from a distance. As she lay there in the summer grass something silver glinted in her hand. It had been four years since he had last seen her face.

 She will be almost thirty, he thought as he hesitantly made his way towards her. We might have been happily married by now. We might have had kids eventwo little girls— just like they had talked about. The lingering pain of much regret was only half-soothed by this new image of her lounging on the clifftop.

* * *

  The soft pad of footsteps in the grass alerted her to someone drawing near, and, in an instant, hearts fell into stomachs as they caught each other’s scent on the air: white peony and geranium exchanged for musk and warm spices. He cleared his throat as he sat down beside her. Continue reading “Torching Daisies [I/II]”

death, poetry

The Emptiness of Self

Flashes behind the eyes
—at the back of the mind—
images of her sallow face,
or the haunting c r a c k
of four aspirin against glass… Continue reading “The Emptiness of Self”

love poetry, poetry

A Love’s Labours

In the distance
b e t w e e n
lingers a love’s labours
lost to time and silence, Continue reading “A Love’s Labours”

poetry, visual poetry

Venus & Aries entwined

In her bones she knows love
to be an ancient, celestial thing;
her love language was the first
language: a purity before sin.
With an affectionate touch
she may crown you king
if only
you can win the war
within her:
there’s exquisite beauty
in pleasure and pain,
but not every man
is fit to be king.

©2022, H. M. Smith, all rights reserved.


And Still, There Is No Peace

Forever etched into the mind
is the image of that hellish-red sky;
war has ruined the beauty of night
and still, there is no peace.
As psychopathic males
play their empire games,
of a country at war
bury their sons’ remains. Continue reading “And Still, There Is No Peace”

English Renaissance Poetry, poetry

Dead Poets

I poison myself on the words
of dead poets for pleasure:
sickened on their spurned
advances, second chances
and lost loves. With limerence
in a look Continue reading “Dead Poets”


                      Tiny Envelope

Pressed in a tiny
envelope, a lone petal
bears the weight
of all my love:
lost in the post,
carried from coast
to coast in search
of you, address:

©2022 H. M. Smith, all rights reserved.


The Double

“You’re the double of ya Da’
ya know?!” As she’s commonly
been told; protests always
get stuck in her throat,
at war with being polite.
“Aye, ya must be proud!” They
urge, and he agrees. Continue reading “The Double”