Poetry Diary

8th June 2021 Projects

Rewind (September 2021)

You sit tight and still
And drown your face in wine.
From time to time you shake and mutter:
It was all too great.
It was all mine.
Like an ancient king’s your reign was golden
And so was your pride.
Your price was never even spoken
And the stakes were swindling high.
You shake your dusty coat
Your wounds still moist and shiny
You raise your head
Madness turning eye to eye
You dance all night
You die
You wake
You drown your face in wine.

Rewind © Sylvia Schmidt December 2018


In Mid-Air (August 2021)

 Marla held the door open
She didn’t like to wait
After three children and a best-forgotten husband
One can’t afford the patience.
Emmi huddled through the frame,
Coat half on, half dragging
With thirteen worries of her own
And just one waiting far in that new home.
Nonetheless, the two were one,
Never chosen, never spoken,
The height of sister shading sister,
A word of truth hung in mid-air.
Without a need to say
A pact was sworn that very morning,
One last attempt on freedom's way.
Odd to think, but luck came calling,
She got away,
They never met again.

In Mid-Air © Sylvia Schmidt 04/04/21


Sorry Soul She Is (July 2021)

Cobbled paths and grey asphalt,
Green-lined lanes aimed to please.
As the steps slouch with shoulders deep as thought,
Ought to know the way, but don’t.

Decay of life eating,
Slow beating walk,
Sunglasses tinted,
Bitter talk of disappear,
Right now, right here.
I weave present - past into dark despair,
No use, to wear a happy face.
Delays of darkness,
Arches, arches
And my cat cries.

Limbs dangling from the joint,
No point in even trying,
Crying all the way,
A day like yesterday, like yesterday.

Away with you! Please sleep,
Give peace and sweet relief!
And deep I go into the hole,
Tomorrow is the only goal.
Tomorrow, so I hope, will pay the bail.
I wail like an old maid.
Too late for her to be saved.
Sorry soul she is.
Tryin’ so hard.
Oh dear!

Sorry Soul She Is © Sylvia Schmidt 25/05/20


Pass On The Black (June 2021)

 Pass on the black,
 The lack of communication,
 A wealth of deprivation,
 Trickled down to haunt your days.
 Redefine the deck.
 Ignore the one that’s dealt.
 Just melt your past’s contamination
 Until the bones grin bare. 
 Perhaps, it’s time for a good clear-out,
 Handing back those dried-up branches
 That served their cause just fine back then.
 Perhaps, a thorough compostation of their baggage will clear sky.
 No, I won’t deny the crooked folds in which my mind exists.
 But do I have to key that worn-out message into the current cloth?
 Throw back the black they offered, silently within their own cruel

Pass On The Black © Sylvia Schmidt 04/05/21

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