Poem by Paul Smith

 

Spit

Don’t bury me
high on a hill
in a cemetery
a landlocked place
behind a cross and a gate
where parishioners come
with charity, hope and faith
bury me
overlooking the sea
where my ghost can spit
in the ocean
so it can sail
around the world
to a foreign shore
Madagascar or Singapore
where the natives dance
the wild beasts roar
where Barnacle Bill
and Peckerhead Kate
take turns spitting
through the Pearly Gates
I want to hear the deckhands call
the ships that moan
the hulls that creak
the dolphins whistle
the sirens sing
the foghorns wail
at the boats that sail
bury me in an open place
where my ghost can roam
till kingdom come

 

Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has traveled all over the place and met lots of people. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. His poetry and fiction have been published in Convergence, Packingtown Review, Literary Orphans and other lit mags.

Edward S. Gault is a poet and fine art photographer. He lives at Mosaic Commons, a co-housing community in Berlin, Ma. He has a wife Karen, and daughter.

 

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