Curtis Jerry's Poetry Page

08/09/2026

SUNDAY POETRY — “AGING”

My stallion days may be behind me, but apparently my sense of humor survived the trip.

Today’s poem, “Aging,” takes a slightly irreverent look at growing older—the memories, the changes, and the realization that June does eventually become December.

It is also the banner poem for my newest poetry page, “Life’s Long Afternoon,” a collection of poems about life, aging, memory, faith, mortality, love, and the occasional indignity that comes with accumulating birthdays.

If Aging gives you a smile, I hope you’ll stop by and explore Life’s Long Afternoon—and while you’re there, browse the rest of my poetry. There are poems about everything from family and nature to war, sports, humor, faith, and the strange business of being human.

All of my poetry can be found at: www.cjsmothers.com

Come for Aging. Stay awhile for the poems. And remember—afternoon is not evening yet.

Aging, By Curtis Jerry Smothers, Age 83.6

My stallion days
Are but a haze
Reflections of the flesh

Where women knew
My prowess grew
Rejuvenated, fresh

Alas, with age
Bereft, but sage
I cannot but remember

Those ladies think
With age I shrink
And June became December

My one-eyed pace
Is now replaced
With longing memory

Of days gone by
When pleasures, I
Pursued with energy

My sea-borne days
And racy ways
And women I did sport

Are memories now
My ship can’t prow
To life's once-youthful port

My l***y stallion
And sea-borne galleon
Now tethered to the dock

Time's rule obeyed
I'm now stayed
By the crowing of the clock

My stallion ways
Where I did graze
On youth’s fresh new good salad

I miss them now
With winkled brow
And this bittersweet old ballad

08/05/2026

I haven't figured out whether I'm really a poet, or just someone who writes silly, rhyming lines. So here goes this Wednesday, Augus6 6, 2026s entry:

Am I a Poet?

Writer of lines, smart versifier
Speaker of truth and sometimes a liar
Maker of rhymes, vector of verse
Language and words, my universe

Double entendre, confusing allusion
My message unclear, defies all diffusion
For if poetry's art, then art is elusive
To one it's all things, to another conclusive

Am I a poet? If so, what's my kind?
Romantic or rustic? Naturalistic inclined?
Do I wax sentimental, wane realistic?
Do I adore human nature? Am I just narcissistic?

I'm soley eclectic, and adhere to no kind
My verses flow freely from the songs in my mind
I am sentimental, realism's my muse
I worship God's Nature and have heretic views

Writer of verses, conjuring rhymes
I shout what I please at rough Nature's climes
If life's but a dream to you that would know it
Come bed down with me. I think I'm a poet

08/03/2026

Politics has always been rich in promises. Every generation has heard candidates pledge unity, prosperity, reform, or salvation. Some promises were kept, many were forgotten, and a few led to consequences no one imagined.

My latest poem, "Promises, Promises," takes a light historical stroll from the earliest days of the Republic through the Civil War and into the present, reflecting on the enduring relationship between campaign rhetoric and reality. As always, it's meant to encourage thought and discussion—not to endorse or condemn any particular party or candidate.

If you enjoy this poem, I invite you to visit my poetry collection at cjsmothers.com/poems where you'll find dozens of original poems on history, humor, sports, family, faith, and the human experience. I hope you'll stop by—and, as always, thank you for reading.


Promises, Promises

Federalist or Democrat
We need your vote and promise that
We'll be true to Washington
Who just now is dead and gone

Democrat, unhappy Whig
It fell apart, just got too big
The status quo was knavery
We needed votes for slavery

Old Calhoun and Henry Clay
They got our votes, we rued the day
With hopeful hearts and anxious eyes
We walked the road of compromise

From Texas to New England's hearth
They voted South and in the North
The North thought Abe would come to save us
But Rebels wanted Old Jeff Davis

Lincoln vowed we'd stay as one;
Davis said the break was done.
Promises became war cries;
Smoke filled up the nation's skies.

And in the end we lived to see
That promises bring misery
Dead voters lay at Old Bull Run
Promises became undone

Today it mostly is the same
They pretend to govern in our name
They promise lives of milk and honey
But mainly they just spend our money

07/29/2026

I grew up in an era when the neighborhood tavern was almost an extension of the workplace. Many good men—and the families who loved them—paid a heavy price for a habit that society often excused as "just blowing off steam."

This week's Wednesday poem is only partially autobiographical. I never struggled with alcohol myself, but I grew up close enough to alcoholism to understand the pain it can inflict on everyone it touches. It's written with empathy for those who battle the disease every day—and for the families who battle it alongside them.

One’s Too Many

One drink is one too many
A dozen not enough
To quell this constant craving
Of this awful poison stuff

I wish I had the power
Bill Wilson knows that it's true
Yet, I still must have it
This harmful, hateful brew

Without its sweet, calm numbing
Small holes become big cracks
The shakes begin their shaking
The cravings become attacks

To dampen this cruel craving
I drink this calming stew
It damns me to sweet numbness
And harms my loved ones, too

I lack determination
To fight off this bleak thirst
It pulls me with dry urgency
To drink that fateful first

And, yes, that first’s too many
It leads me down the hill
Where this craving it lurks always
Beyond my sad weak will

I admit that I lack power
And my life has come undone
Should I be a friend of Bill Wilson?
I’ve completed his Step One

The problem is I’m agnostic
But I believe the Higher Power
Is the friends who add encouragement
To avoid next happy hour

The main thing I depend on
When the craving gets too rough
I remember that one’s too many
And a dozen’s not enough

07/26/2026

I smoked cigarattes from age 14 until, with the encouragement (and nagging) of my family, I was able to stop good. It's been 40 years since I had myl last cigarette. Here's my memorial to that nasty habit:

The Altar of the Snake

I reach for it each morning
Light a fire to its brown end
It kickstarts all the rest of them
My cravings, treats and friends

They hide beneath my coffee
Disguised as relaxation
And after each and every meal
They're another celebration

They reach for me with craving
Until the morning's break
We smokers gather like pariahs
At the altar of the snake

That venom that flows through us
Is nicotine's cruel brood
It courses through our being
We need it more than food

We ignore the Surgeon General
Ten bucks a pack we pay
No one lives forever
I'll smoke for one more day

And just before I go to bed
I have an outside smoke
But I know I'm not addicted
It's just a habit (and a joke)

I can stop this harmful smoking
I'm awaiting calmer climes
I know that I can do it
I've done it many times

Note: If you're in the mood for poetry that ranges from thoughtful to humorous, nostalgic to patriotic, I'd be honored if you'd visit my Poetry page at cjsmothers.wixsite.com/portfolio/poems .

The collection reflects a lifetime of observations—about family, military service, sports, history, aging, love, faith, and the odd little moments that make us smile. Some poems are lighthearted, some reflective, and a few carry a gentle satirical bite, but all are written from the heart.

I hope you'll find a few favorites among them.

07/22/2026

Here is a love poem to my family. (Don't worry, though. I'm still quite healthy.)

My Last Will

To my daughter:

When I come to die
Don't bury me
But throw my ash to the ocean sea

Where the wind blows waves
And the sea birds screech
And both greetings fall on some far-off beach

Where my daughter sails
As the white surf churns
From the Gulf Stream flow to where the monsoon turns

As the ships burn by
To where she wants to be
And their dark ash throws to the ocean sea

Where my daughter looks
That's where I'll be
Waving up to her from the ocean sea

To my son:

When my life is through
And I go to die
Spread my ash from the mountain sky

Where the eagle soars
And the snow melts down
And the water's flow heads to lower ground

As the streams rush by
Up where he loves to be
And the thin wind blows from the mountains free

There my son climbs up
With his rugged jeep
His children live in my memory's keep

As he looks up
That's where I'll be
Smiling down on him from that craggy lee

To my wife and best friend:

When I am gone
And you three remain
Just think of me when the warm springs rain

As the ocean laps
To the waiting shore
Where the mountains rise and the big birds soar

As our daughter sails
And our son climbs high
It's a part of life to have to die

I'm part of you
And you're where I'll be
As the mountains stay and the sea flows free

Remember this:
I loved you best
We four are one. I am truly blessed

07/22/2026

My daughter Katherine Michele runs this business. Her mother and I are super proud of the life she has built in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Ask about her vacation rentals atop a glorious view of the Caribbean sea.

Want to get married on the number one beach in the world? Reach out today!

https://www.virginislandsdailynews.com/island_life/trunk-bay-ranked-no-1-in-worlds-best-beaches/article_9f651f76-e23a-426c-8388-ad4822bf5d0d.html

07/21/2026

Fresh Look. Fresh Ideas. Brand-New Content!
I've just completed a major update to my Essays on Writing page on my website, with improved organization, easier navigation, and several refreshed articles for writers, readers, and anyone interested in the craft of writing.

New this week:
🆕 "Confessions of an AI-Assisted Writer (AI Is My Co-Pilot, Not My Ghostwriter)"

The article explores a question every writer faces today: Can AI be used ethically without surrendering authorship? Rather than replacing the writer, I argue that AI can serve as a research assistant, brainstorming partner, editor, and organizational tool—while the imagination, judgment, and voice remain entirely human.

Whether you're a seasoned writer, an aspiring author, or simply curious about where AI fits into the creative process, I hope you'll stop by and take a look.

You'll find it here:
Essays on Writing
https://cjsmothers.wixsite.com/portfolio/essays-on-writing

As always, I welcome your comments, questions, and friendly discussion. Happy reading!

A short compendium of my essays on writing.

07/19/2026

I made a few bad decisions when I was young. Some were life-changing mistakes. However, none of them were fatal. I'm still here, reflecting, but not overly regretting. In fact, the second chance life brings is simply old age.

Here's my Sunday offering. It won't perk up your day, but it might provide some insight as you get older.

Shadow of Myself

Like Punxsutawney Phil
My shadow it hangs still
As I stare into the winter of my life

The young man that I was
Has left me; is it because
He’s looking for a fresher start in life?

Each morning as I stare
I can only squint and glare
At the remnants and the wreckage of my past

The mirror does not lie
Time and youth they fly
While I walk, and realize at last

That my life was like a sun
For me to bask and run
In a universe that seemed limitless and wide

But that universe imploded
As relentless time exploded
And left me sagging, regretting many things

That could have been done right
With unselfish wisdom’s light
Instead of callow and careless youthful flings

But there are no second starts
No rewinding of our hearts,
No turning back to the paths, those trails of tears

We weather what time brings
Though it steals so many things
We survive, though none of us escapes the years.

07/17/2026

Just now added a poem about tennis to my portfolio's sports poetry page. Come on over and and let me know what you think.

On courts of hardwood, bathed in light Sneakers squeak a running fight The ball arcs high through open air As athletes rise with timing rare