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Curtis Jerry's Poetry Page Retired Navy Officer, historian, and poet sharing original verse on military history, patriotism, sports, and life in beautiful Colorado.

Sunday's poem: YouthGeorge Bernard Shaw is often credited with saying that youth is wasted on the young. After observing...
10/11/2026

Sunday's poem: Youth

George Bernard Shaw is often credited with saying that youth is wasted on the young. After observing a few generations of young people who seem convinced they know everything, I can understand the sentiment. They have boundless energy, strong opinions, and an occasional reluctance to listen to anyone who has already made the mistakes they're about to make.

But then I remember that I was young once, too. And perhaps youth, with all its foolishness, enthusiasm, impatience, and idealism, is exactly where it belongs. This Sunday's poem, Youth, begins with a little gentle satire and ends with a reconsideration of Shaw's famous observation. After all, growing older may bring wisdom, but being young is how we earn it.

Visit my Poetry Collection at www.cjsmothers.com/poems.

Youth

Confused young minds�With thoughts a-rushing�Dispense their wisdom�Without much blushing

Their half- views�Of worldly things�Take flight like moths�On untried wings

They roil and fuss�And thrash about�Reject advice�And loudly shout

Convinced that age�Has lost its way�They know tomorrow�Better than today

They question rules�And challenge truth�The sacred privilege�Of restless youth

Their eager hearts�With passion burn�But seldom pause�To watch and learn

Their shining eyes�Begin to glisten�Their mouths fly open�Before they listen

Yet who among us�Can truly say�We knew much better�In our younger day?

For youth sees mountains�As hills to climb�And thinks forever�Is plenty of time

And age, though wise�From lessons learned�May envy fires�That once so brightly burned

So let them dream�And let them dare�For youthful folly�Has gifts to share

Some poet claimed,
And he was wrong,
And youth’s not wasted
On the young.

Wednesday Poem: Campaign PromisesElection season is upon us again, and with it comes that grand American tradition--camp...
10/07/2026

Wednesday Poem: Campaign Promises

Election season is upon us again, and with it comes that grand American tradition--campaign promises.

Politicians have been promising to save the Republic almost as long as we've had a Republic to save. Parties have risen and disappeared, issues have changed, and candidates have come and gone—but the promises remain remarkably familiar.

Fortunately, the Founders gave us something more dependable than political promises: a government deliberately divided against itself, with checks and balances intended to keep any one person, party, or branch from becoming too powerful.

With apologies to two centuries of politicians, here is my slightly cynical poetic journey through American politics:

Campaign 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

John Calhoun and Henry Clay
They got our votes, we rued the day
When with bated breath and jaundiced 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

Abe vowed to keep us all together
Davis worked to loose the tether
Politicians are the ties that bind
Altruist to the narrow mind

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

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

We send them off to Washington
To right the wrongs the last have done
They cross the aisle, then cross us too
And swear it’s what they had to do

The Founders knew what elections breed
When joined with vanity and greed
So check the checks and balance scales
And trust no politician’s tales

Through conflict, turmoil, peace and war
Two hundred fifty years and more
Though strained and tested, rest assured
Our Constitution has endured

And so we turn where we began
To Franklin and the Founders’ plan
“What have you given us?” came the plea
His response was plain to see:

“A Republic—if you can keep it.”

******
Visit my poetry collection at www.cjsmothers.com/poems

FireFor this Sunday’s poem, I decided to let fire speak for itself. We usually think of fire as something we create, con...
10/04/2026

Fire

For this Sunday’s poem, I decided to let fire speak for itself. We usually think of fire as something we create, control, warm ourselves by, and extinguish when we’re finished with it. But give it fuel, wind, and freedom, and suddenly it seems less like a tool and more like a living thing—with an appetite of its own.

“Fire” follows that creature from a sleeping ember to kindling, then across grasslands and into forests, where it races beyond human control. Eventually it dies for lack of fuel or beneath a rush of water—but perhaps it is only sleeping again, waiting in the embers for another chance to rise.

Fire
From ember’s sleep I rise and stretch
To what is dry and prone to me
I hiss and lick the kindling’s stick
And turn to char with evil glee

That which I consume will cease to be
All in my path, my life’s own fuel
I burn and roar with windy storm
Voracious bent, unfeeling, cruel

To those who’d stay my hungry tongue
I roar, defy, devour, renounce
Now alive, I’m free, unbound
I jump, I spark, their efforts trounce

Across the grass I race and leap
On prairie wind I spread my reign
Through brittle brush and timber deep
I leave behind a blackened plain

Through forest crowns I climb and fly
From tree to tree my sparks are hurled
I stain with smoke the summer sky
And make a furnace of the world

Till lack of fuel or water’s spout
Kills me black and finds me dead
In ember’s hide I peer without
Once more to rise and sweep ahead

See my portfolio collection of poetry at www.cjsmothers.com/poems

Today marks the beginning of another Colorado Avalanche hockey season, so my Wednesday poem seems particularly timely.I ...
09/30/2026

Today marks the beginning of another Colorado Avalanche hockey season, so my Wednesday poem seems particularly timely.

I have to confess that hockey was never really part of my sporting upbringing. Growing up in St. Louis, I was weaned on baseball and basketball long before the Blues arrived in town. To me, hockey has always looked a little like a wonderfully rowdy game of soccer played on skates—except that half the time I can’t find the puck.

Still, I have to admire the speed, skill, and sheer nerve of the players. And I’ll admit there is something satisfying about a teeth-rattling body check that makes the rink enclosure shake.

So, with all due respect to Avalanche fans—and with considerably more enthusiasm for the poem than for the sport—here is this week’s Wednesday poem.

A Hockey Game Broke Out

Zamboni's brush paints frozen ice
As the hallowed rink is healed
A path for iron-shod warriors
On hockey's ice-glazed field

The shushing of the skate-scraped ice
Puck slapped by hardwood sticks
Launched by skating giants
In high excitement's pitch

The ice-crazed crowd oohs and ahs
The puck quicker than the eye
Slides towards the grim masked goalie
To the net where all hopes lie

Three rounds, two intermissions
To quaff the beered-up crowd
As helmets leak testosterone
Where brawling is allowed

Zambonis sail on hockey's seams
Red ice is at their prow
They navigate through players' blood
That stripe-ed refs allow

And with unmet expectations
Buzzed fans just scream and shout
They came to see an icy brawl
But a hockey game broke out

“Time is the fire we all burn in.”This Sunday’s weekly poem, “Burning in Time,” takes that thought rather literally. We ...
09/27/2026

“Time is the fire we all burn in.”

This Sunday’s weekly poem, “Burning in Time,” takes that thought rather literally. We are all changing, minute by minute and year by year, even when we hardly notice the heat.

At my age, there are plenty of yesterdays to look back on. Some brought good decisions, some brought mistakes, and some left scars. But all of them helped make me the person I am today. We cannot go back and change the choices we made—or recover the opportunities we missed. We can only recognize that the marks left by time are part of who we have become.

Perhaps growing older isn't simply a matter of being consumed by time. Perhaps, like something slowly tempered by fire, we acquire a certain glow from having passed through it.

Here is this Sunday’s poem, “Burning in Time.”

Burning in Time

I am not who I was
Just a minute ago
I'm baking in time
But the burning is slow

I am not so burnt
That I really don't know
That what I am now
Is something to show

And what I now show
Is a yearning to know
What I shall be
As my yesterdays grow

My yesterdays flew
With spring's melting frost
No time for regrets
For opportunities lost

I am not what I was
Five decades past
When arrogant youth
Assumed it would last

At last now I know
That time's a slow burning
Wherein we all baste
And mistake it for yearning

We wallow in time
And soon come to know
That what we've become
Is just yesterday's glow

The cause and effect
Are decisions we make
So life is a gamble
Not a mistake

I am not a mistake
Just the sum of my acts
The choices I made
Are unchangeable facts

The facts I can't change
Make me what I've become
Imperfect but human
But better than some

I am not who I was
Just a lifetime ago
The scars of my burning
Are what give me that glow

🍂 Wednesday Poetry: “Winter’s Coming”Golden aspens make one last brilliant stand beneath the snow-covered Rockies as col...
09/23/2026

🍂 Wednesday Poetry: “Winter’s Coming”

Golden aspens make one last brilliant stand beneath the snow-covered Rockies as cold winds slip down from Wyoming. This Wednesday’s poem follows autumn’s farewell and winter’s slow arrival—a season of yellow leaves, lengthening shadows, and white mountain ridges.

“If mountains' winters are a chasm
That lead to Spring's new melting spasm
Autumn makes the leafy bridges”

Join me for “Winter’s Coming,” a reflection on the beauty of that leafy bridge.

Winter’s Coming

Fall colors fade in windy nights
Festoon the Rocky Mountain heights
As autumn spirals from Wyoming

Jealous pine trees, prickly green
And once shy Aspens show new sheen
That give the Rockies yellow combing

Where autumn leaves have come to die
They make a wild and raucous cry
Hues and colors, gold erosion

Aspens that were once but hidden
By thick pines emerge unbidden
To one last yellow wild explosion

Now we mourn fair weather's days
Enfolding warmth and suns would graze
On skies that sparkled from new dawn

Then creeping down from cold Wyoming
Slides a white and frigid gloaming
Of snowdrifts born from blizzard's spawn

Now frigid nights with faint fall tints
Will give the mountains subtle hints
Of winter's wending wild white ridges

If mountains' winters are a chasm
That lead to Spring's new melting spasm
Autumn makes the leafy bridges

Cool windless nights and fall's faint hues
Bid mountain creatures hear the news
Of coming cold and aspen's trance

And soon the yellow fades away
Replaced by naked branches sway
To time and nature's frigid dance
---------
Visit my portfolio poetry page at cjsmothers.com/poems

Wednesday's poem: My Chat With a ShamanThis Wednesday’s poem takes us up a mountain for a conversation with a shaman—a l...
09/16/2026

Wednesday's poem: My Chat With a Shaman

This Wednesday’s poem takes us up a mountain for a conversation with a shaman—a little humor, a little wisdom, and a question many of us ask as we grow older: What makes a life matter?

Sometimes the answer is as close as a grandchild’s hand in ours. I hope you enjoy the climb.

My Chat With a Shaman, By Curtis Jerry Smothers

I hiked up the mountain
To talk with the shaman.
I was delighted to learn
We had things in common.

His robe was threadbare,
His bearing ascetic.
His eyes danced with humor,
His smile was magnetic.

“What makes a life matter?”
I asked him that day.
“And how do you know
When you’ve lost your way?”

“My advice to you, sir,”
He said with a smile,
“Is take life by inches.
Don’t measure the mile.”

“But if life is a journey,
How far have I traveled?
My stamina’s failing.
My health has unraveled.

“I’m searching for purpose.
I’m marching in place.
I feel like a spare part
That’s taking up space.”

“Do you have any children?”
He asked quietely
“Yes, grandchildren, too.
With them, I’m just me.”

“And what do they ask for
When they come to stay?”
“A story. A pancake.
To watch while they play.”

“And what will you leave them
At your life’s end?”
“My love and affection.
Some money to spend.”

He chuckled. “And stories
They’ll tell in their turn.
The way you made pancakes.
What you helped them learn.

“You call yourself useless,
Yet look what you do:
You give them a past
They can carry from you.

“You’re not a spare part.
You connect to the future.
Where life has torn open,
You’re the thread and the suture.”

I thought of small fingers
Curled into my hand,
And all of the questions
I could understand.

I’d come for an answer
Some sage might impart.
I pictured those children
And found where to start.
---------------------------
Visit my poetry collection at cjsmothers.com/poems

Autumn is arriving early here in the Rockies, and I’m welcoming my favorite season with open arms. As the leaves turn, t...
09/13/2026

Autumn is arriving early here in the Rockies, and I’m welcoming my favorite season with open arms. As the leaves turn, their technicolor celebration marks the end of our hot, high mountain desert summer.

This week’s featured poem is “Autumn Is King.” I invite you to linger in the season with me and explore my collection of Colorado Autumn poems at www.cjsmothers.com/autumn-poems .

Autumn is King

The promise of Summer
Is Winter’s cold dream
Awakened by Springtime
And warm weather’s gleam

But the promise of Winter
Was more like an oath
Fields that lay fallow
Give birth to new growth

That growth is what feeds us
Dug up by the plow
We eat what we earn
By the sweat of our brow

Before Winter’s return
Autumn must reap
While farmers sow promise
The earth knows to keep

Fulfilling the promise
Of Winter’s retreat
And Springtime’s awakening
Of all that we eat

Our lives have their seasons
We’re born and we die
Between those two milestones
Their meanings must lie

Discontent is our Winter
Hope is our Spring
Fulfillment is Summer
But Autumn is king

It asks a new question:
Have we harvested well?
And trust that beyond us
Green fields also dwell?

09/09/2026

Want a little help with Spanish or your Mac? Let’s spend half an hour together—on me.

I’m offering a free, no-obligation, 30-minute online tutoring session in Spanish or Mac applications. Bring a question, practise your Spanish, or get help with something on your Mac that’s been puzzling you.

To request a session:

Visit cjsmothers.com.

Scroll to the “Let me know what you think…” form at the bottom of the Home page.

Enter your first name and email address. In the message box, write: “I’d like a free tutoring session in [Spanish or the Mac application you want help with].”

I’ll reply by email so we can arrange a time.

And while you’re there, feel free to have a look around my portfolio!

For this Wednesday’s poem, I’ve wandered into the world of a Bizarro Aesop’s fable: an envious ant, a rather snooty gnat...
09/09/2026

For this Wednesday’s poem, I’ve wandered into the world of a Bizarro Aesop’s fable: an envious ant, a rather snooty gnat, and a spider who’s delighted to bring them together.

There’s a little ambition, a little vanity, and a moral dangling at the end. 🐜🕸️

Come read the poem and explore more of my poetry at www.cjsmothers.com. Look for the Poetry page, and let me know what you think!

All That Glitters is a Web

An ant sat on a mushroom
On a clear and starry night
Envious of flying things
That flew into the light

Hairy moths and fireflies
Were beyond his aspiration
But he’d like to be a flying gnat
Which was his inspiration

A gnat flew down beside the ant
A slender, fragile flyer
The ant stared with his jealous eye
He could not but admire

“I see that by your lack of wings
You’re not of royal blood”
The gnat said, “You must spend your days
Among the roots and mud.”

“I do,” replied the little ant,
“But gladly would I try
To leave the earth a little while
And see what’s in the sky.”

“Then follow me,” the gnat replied,
“Along this bending stem.
There’s silver strung between the leaves—
We’ll reach the stars from them.”

The ant climbed up the slender stalk;
The gnat flew on ahead.
He landed on a silver strand
And found he could not tread.

“Come lend a hand!” he called below.
The ant rushed to his side,
But every strand he seized held fast,
However hard he tried.

A spider stirred above their heads
And felt the trembling thread.
“Two dinner guests!” her happy cry,
“And neither one has fled.”

The gnat tugged at his wafer wings;
The ant pulled with all his might.
The spider wrapped them side by side
Beneath the stars that night.

The moral of this fable is:
When chasing lofty dreams,
Suspect that silver linings—
Are never what they seem.

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9118 Woodland Drive
Highlands Ranch, CO
80126

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