Poetry by Jonathan Smith

Poetry
by Jonathan Smith
with an Introduction by Jana Foster Jones
January - February 1998 Issue, Adoption Triad Forum

These poems were written by Jonathan Smith, about 29, who is married, has a young son and lives in Idaho. Earlier this year, he went to Lubbock, Texas, to meet his birth father, Lemuel Baker, for the very first time, and he also met one of his half-sisters, Joy, whom I had gone to high school with but did not know her name back then. Jonathan had asked me to help him find his birth father and siblings. After two months I found him. This was after about seven years of his searching with a professional searcher, too! I was thrilled to be able to help Jonathan. He wrote these from inspirations about his trip to Lubbock and his families.

Hunting For COURAGE.

Saying you are searching for
medical reasons, you may be dishonest
to yourself.
Genetic Necessity may exist, however
few adoptees could live
with that knowledge
alone.
It is a need to meet the origin. To
re-attach the conceptual umbilical cord
that remains and haunts with the
recognition of being adopted.
A search for self only after gaining
a sense of self.
Anger cannot play a role in uncovering
pasts, because
strangers are weak saviors justified
with selfish motives.
Ask yourself these questions.
Do I really want to find, to see
something I might not like?
Do I really want to find, to see what
might have been?
Do I really want to find, to escape
an unfair life?
Do I really want to find, to meet
the rest of who I am?

Road To Lubbock.

If I had lived in an eight by ten
trailer I would have never survived
inside of a week.
But, my birth father lived there
for fifteen years.
Enough time for his thoughts to
congeal like old milk, and dreams
and promises to curdle.
His clothes are the same today as
last Tuesday.
His tobacco strong.
The smell of Bugler cigarettes
Turkish, and blended.
He has a son who hates him, a brother.
A man so eaten with bitterness
he won't live, an existence crumbled.
Yes, his father is partly responsible.
But, only so far till my brother could
reach, and take his reins.
This old man has been consumed, by
alcohol, money, cockfights, gambling,
bingo, and the horse races at Ruidoso.
He has left plenty in the dust, but it
was his choice.
I flew one thousand two hundred, and
twenty one miles to meet the sperm donor,
to shake his hand, and I was satisfied.
He's not my dad, and he's not my father,
however I am terrified that we are alike.
I can become his person.
My mother told me that my dad didn't
communicate well, maybe it is a confession
before her death, a message.
He had some dear things he kept secret
close to his heart. Good things

he couldn't share.
He was my hero, so my image of him
wasn't blemished.
I have learned I am a composite
of him, and the man I met at the end
of my road to Lubbock.

Dignity, and Broken

When I was nineteen, I went
with my dad to a pay to fish pond.
He was the oldest one there.
Kids were using cheap rigs bought
at K-Mart. My dad had his fly pole
and a lawn chair, he was loving it.

But, he was not at home, just as close
as age and disease would let him.

Lemuel Baker was old and frail, and
I learned when I met him in Texas, he
had no qualms about picking cigarette
butts off the ground cutting filters in
two, and rolling them. It seemed a
quiet act to save money he didn't need to.

My dad I am, and want to be, but my birth
father is my mirror.

Two fathers who were never young when I
was. Neither could have thrown me a ball.
But, both have shown me what I've longed
for, dignity and subtlety, even in mistakes.
And, mistakes they've made. One forgiven
through love, the other from not knowing.

When life is over I have to understand
who I'm passing to my son.

I searched for my birth father out of need
to touch the physical. I have searched
for my father ever since his death. The
puzzle stretching from Idaho to Texas is
how nicely these two fit. Respect. And,
a few regrets.

Jan-Feb 1998

Last updated October 22, 1999