Wendy L. Schmidt

Poetry

 

 

 

The Creatures Who Wait (Outside the Gate)

 

Inside the circle nothing can touch her,

sea salt and water saves, incense smoke trails,

spirals of graceful, grey ghosts.

Colored votives mark each corner,

east, west, north and south.

Her safety is sealed with a willow wand,

solemn words and second sight.

 

Outside creatures gather,

attracted to the bright light.

They sense warmth and the halo,

glow of anointed candles.

They envy her young spirit, yearn to cross over.

The light forces them to remember,

a time long ago.

 

The world was new when God,

favored their kind, a breed apart from human.

Fragile forms equaled only by angels,

blessed with flight and ethereal beauty.

They choose to live on earth,

but refuse to learn all lessons,

this, the very reason for rebirth.

 

Repeating the same sins they fall away,

with no wings to save them,

no God to reclaim them,

they are shadows across a midnight sky,

in the place where trees grow thin,

in the place where birds grow weak,

in the place where love does not linger.

 

The girl, on the brink,

of womanhood, recites a prayer.

It gives the fallen ones comfort.

She senses, nearly sees,

and is moved by their longing.

They cannot enter the sacred trust of her circle,

powerful child, chosen vessel.

 

She knows someday the gate will open,

and she will travel between two worlds,

and the things that wait might storm this gate,

to possess a piece of heaven and earth.

She must be tolerant,

forgive their weakened state,

for they only seek a way out, a way in.

 

They do not understand,

without wings they may still fly,

without form they may still find,

without judgement, within reach,

the path is always there,

the gate eternally open.

For the souls that choose to learn, choose love.

 

 

Twin Laurel

 

Through the rotting wood,

comes the wanton rain.

White against red,

rust against ruin,

safe within the silence.

 

A Fairytale's Familiar,

in this house of fading years,

unnatural worlds awake,

through works of dying art,

a willful rose grows wild.

 

Every hollow wall,

every hidden door,

every ghost reflected in,

stained glass with silver backs,

black with age and wear.

 

She feels her other come,

through the thorny mourning place,

dusty books and broken roots,

may find a peaceful play,

and speak their native tongue.

 

Old treasures buried here.

reveal a matching pair;

two battered balls,

two soiled dolls,

two butterfly hairpins.

 

Underneath the ground,

is where she sleeps so sound.

yet Laurel feels her twin,

in faint sighs and empty cries,

and a rush of restless air.

 

The house welcomes wild,

ferrel cats, hungry rats,

feast on bread and seed

Birds make twiggy nests.

inside a nearby nook.

 

Matted fur and feathers,

serve to guard the girl,

they listen to a simple song,

which conjures magic thoughts,

and soothes a savage heart.

 

The nursery rhyme heard long ago,

recites her mother's myth.

She ran through garden gates,

in lace and silken slippers.

Save me please, she cried in vain.

 

But no one heard her call,

except a chestnut sparrow,

seeking solace in a tree.

The sky turned sullen grey,

and mother smiled fondly.

 

The best time to disappear,

is when the world is raining.

Rain today, run away,

and find another name,

and find a different pain.

 

Twisted trees stand sentry,

while narrow trails conceal,

Must never leave this place,

let the rain fall forever,

on the face of all we love.

 

 

Asylum Cemetery

 

We are the forgotten,

the shameful secret,

the wretched ones left wandering,

through unmarked graves with,

unknown dates.

 

Step inside this solemn place.

Sadness persists like a cold,

lingering mist, like the hours,

wasted staring at empty walls,

and barred windows.

 

What did we do to deserve such disdain?

How did we survive inside,

a tomb of intolerance,

unwelcome and unwept,

in this world's barren winter?

 

We refused to go away.

We refused to go willingly.

We wanted the chance to live,

like other people did with family,

to keep home fires burning.

 

See these crooked trees?

They weep fallen leaves,

their roots touch our souls,

and this gives us comfort,

while we wait for justice,

 

while we wait to be redeemed,

while wait to be recognized,

our names at last remembered,

in prayers for the passed,

souls of God's lost children.

 

 

Love Poem

 

I love thee more in dreams that haunt my head.

Thrice more than sleep inside my coffin bed.

Between the days because the nights are long,

I love thy shadow play and siren song.

A new world doth thy make, a separate breed.

I love thee more than blood and craving need.

Though many wonder of thy troubling way,

which death begat yet thou doth not decay.

Such strange accounts of thy demise include,

divine crusades and dire deeds ensued.

I love thy sharpened teeth stained crimson red,

when fiercest eyes stare rapt upon thy dead.

I love thee more than life's eternal rest,

tread softly now and lie upon my breast.

 

 

Flick Bit Prose Poem

 

He coils, long, lean torso extended, poised. A deft tongue flicks then slowly curls back savoring the sweet, slick pleasure as oil slides down his throat.  Darting eyes catch titled discs lined up in perfect rows waiting to be pounced on and played.

 

I crouch in my usual corner. The soft curve of pale cleavage peeks out of a skin tight tank top. A spit of cobra, stings my lower spine. He stares at the tat, hisses softly, pretty poison. But, I am fleeting prey until the final credits.

 

We watch, riveted, soaking up the sensual pleasure of sensory output. I crave warm blood and seize the moment. Our bodies jolt from the charge of electric energy. He tears my top until it frees flesh and draws a circle around the sting, playfully nips it's center.

 

We shed second skins and smell the musky scent of pheromones. Our limbs wind, writhe in a passionate serpentine rhythm. Afterwards I ask, more? He flashes sharp fangs, horror flick, your pick. Then recoils waiting for the first scene to strike.

 

 

 

Wendy Schmidt is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years.  The Four C's; cat, chocolate, coffee and computer are her chosen writing tools. Pieces have been published in Verse Wisconsin, Chicago Literati, City Lake Poets, Literary Hatchet, Moon Magazine and a number of other poetry and fiction anthologies.