Home Page of Phyllis Sterling Smith Dragon Page Fimo Page My Family My Poetry for dragons, as you can see by the pictures, poems and possibly (in the future) essays posted on my dragon page. I also collect dragon figurines, carvings, and toys. Beyond that, however, I hate to see anything living go extinct, as did, I suspect, the various dragon species celebrated in the traditions and folklore of many cultures. I believe in protection of all the species at present inhabiting our unique and beautiful planet, including ourselves, lest we too go extinct. I advocate that, for the survival of all species, we put an end to further global warming, with a hope that it is not already to late to reverse the process. I also think that it is high time that humans put an end to killing one another. I don't know what it will take to put an end to war, but I think an effective world government would be a good first step. Unless otherwise noted, all artwork is mine. My Poetry These poems are arranged in no particular order. They do not include poems on the dragon page. For a dragon poem, click on one of the following: Eve's Lament for Eden It's not the perfumed flowers that I miss, juice-heavy fruits on every tree. No, I miss Wolf, his head upon my knee and brush of wings as Sparrow pecked a kiss. Remember Lion beside us, purring bliss? Hyena on her back, paws waving free? The friendly bleats and growls surrounded me. For one forbidden sweet I lost all this. Even the sneaky snake would deign to speak. He lied, but then he didn't cut us dead -- a metaphor -- not as the beasts now do in bloody fact. Hoof-slash and rending beak they rip each other's flesh; their fangs drip red. I sinned; but, God, must they be banished too? Phyllis Sterling Smith CEREMONY On this, the longest night, they should sleep best, but something summons bears from den-snug slumber. Perhaps a wisp of carol disturbs their rest, wafts from a village far below. Bears lumber from earthy mouths of dens, and, stumbling, go with stifled yawns and heavy-lidded eyes to dent their paw-prints in the virgin snow. Frost nips each nose; stars glitter in the skies. This still clearing is hedged with sentinel pines roofed by the shining sweep of Milky Way. One by one they come, then wavering lines of dusky shapes--the black, the brown, the gray, the heavy gravid females, the born-last-spring still close beside their mothers, grumpy males crossly grumbling. They form a ragged ring. The murmurs fade; expectant hush prevails. The eldest clears her throat, proclaims this hour, then points to stars that trace the sacred sight-- The Great Bear—One who holds the only power to turn the sun back from its dreaded flight. The young ones gaze with wonder and the old with troubled reverence. In the ancient way they solemnly rise upright, move to hold their neighbors, paw-to-shoulder, start to sway. It's not the same light revelry that spurred their summer polkas. This is ritual turning and clapping paws to inward rhythms heard in ursine souls, mute music of their yearning. Bit by bit the dance grows swift. There springs an ecstacy of motion gripping all. They spiral, swirl and twirl in dizzy rings until, exhausted, panting, spent, they fall. An old bear, flecks of grey in once-dark fur, with faltering steps approaches each prone bear. He dips his stick into the gourd to stir the sacred honey, touches it to where each open mouth awaits. They're reassured that sunlight will return and days grow long and bushes lush with berries be their reward and salmon leap, bees buzz their honeyed song. Already languorous, bears rise to their feet, give one another ritual hugs, then go, eyes almost closed again, back to the sweet warm snugness of each den, secure from snow, to curl in their soft fur, nor need to rouse to plunge for leaping salmon that have chanced into their dreams. They wonder as they drowse if they have danced or only dreamed they danced. Phyllis Sterling Smith Brainstorm It’s 5 a.m. and words teem through that box that houses that which makes me me: my brain. They writhe and wriggle, maggot-like - insane progressions, disconnected. Each unlocks new channels for the next - a random chain, “defiance, excremental,” - each word knocks aside attempts to stem the ruthless rain of thoughts that have no meaning, no design, whose purpose seems to be denial of sleep, to squirm into my mind, make muscles tense. “receipt, defy” - I try whip in line my choice of words - the ones I choose to keep. It’s 6 a.m. At last they make some sense. Phyllis Sterling Smith Home