Mimic

He copies everything I do now.

From my workings in the kitchen,

He will make me a cake of Cheerios and Wheat Chex.

From my wrapping of gifts,

He throws his blanket over my vacuum cleaner,

And says "Mommy, I got you a present!"

From my scolding euphemisms,

He will frown, one eyebrow arched

and tell me he is not happy with me.

And from my mouth he steals the curse words

That accidently slip out,

Singing "Damn it, damn it!" from the backseat.

Yet perhaps the best mimic which melts my mother's heart,

Is when he presses his nose against my nose,

Tiny hands holding my face.

He kisses my nose, my cheeks, and my scarred, lined forehead.

He studies me, and says,

"Mommy? You happy now?"

 

Catherine Schmidt    

Horizons

She faltered in her willingness,
bathed in her indignation, 
she stumbled, and fell.
She rose to her knees, 
broken and bloody, 
reeling from feminine failings. 
Then she stood,
eyes fixed on the horizon,
clothed in newfound determination,
undaunted, she carried on.

Catherine Schmidt

Transplant

A flower can only grow so long

In a seedling pot

As roots struggle against the limits

They compact; wither and perish.

So the flower must be transplanted,

Or it will fade back into the soil.

I will not wither anymore.

I will transplant myself.

I will be something bigger,

And bloom without you.

 

Catherine Schmidt

The Flower Recipe

In the galvanized tin bucket I put

One part bone meal, one cup soil

three cups of lovely black compost,

And fold it all together.

I place the bulbs, sift the mixture in,

And tenderly pat the soil.

"Grow," my soul whispers,

Bring forth the tender green spikes

Which will reach towards the sun,

And bloom in vibrant appreciation

Of my labors.

 

Catherine Schmidt

Old 16 Run

It begins

As a rush, and I settle in,

Stretching, as a cat awakening,

Sinuous muscles bunching,

Digging in, breathing, gulping

Trying to calm my heart

Which leaps against the bars of my ribcage.

Smash the throttle,

Hurtle towards the destination

An unmarked line in infamy,

Faster, chasing the satellite's tail.

Eyes on the lines,

That flow into a white ribbon

Urging me forward into the black,

Outrunning the light.

He crosses, and dashes

In semblance of panicked deer

Pushing each other on

And I, in fear of the collision, glance away.

Dogs barking against their master,

I am betrayed and upended,

Rolling once, twice, three times

on a roller coaster that crashes to a halt.

In defeat I hang,

Straining against my harness,

Upside down, sweating, and laughing.

I am alive, awaiting release.

Catherine Schmidt

Karen’s Butterfly

I watched as she lingered,
danced and flitted away.
I marveled at her timeless beauty,
the gentle grace and fearless ease
with which she passed by my person.

She paused to rest
lounged amidst my hands,
But languished in the confines.
Lifting her upward,
I gently gave her to the wind.

I could have caged her
to hold her here with me,
but to linger longer would be suffering
when she only yearned to be free.

Fly away now, butterfly.
I'll meet you in the breeze.

Catherine Schmidt

Abandoned

There is nothing here

    No space that speaks

No voices chiming in

    From cracked plastered walls

        Or grey glassless windows.

They come from the wind

    Softly caressing, haunting thoughts

People toiling and treading

    Laboring and dying

        Resting under the sod

Upon which I walk.

She creaks, this old house

    She moves with the wind

She aches for the yesterdays

            Of fresh paint and manicured yard

Her tenders left, passed away

    And so she faded

White paint dulled to a bleached gray

Caressed by the weather

Loved by boys hunting,

        Tattooed with buckshot and .22's

She sways and someday will fall

    With the wind that loves her still

        She will find her tenders then,

Finally joining them under the sod.

A Friday Night

When your body brushed against mine

I could feel electricity

and molecules mingling

As your scent filled my nostrils

My body stirred and betrayed my soul.

 

Your eyes lingered over me

And the corners of your mouth    

Turned up in a smile that curled my toes

 

Ions and atoms colliding

In a chemical reaction

akin to intoxication

 

As a thirsting man craves water

I long to drink you in

inhaling your molecules

so your scent remains on my skin.

 

 

Sacred Hills

    

I tread these hills in silent reverence, feeling out of place.

Blades of grass are being twisted

By invisible playing fingers that also tug my hair loose.

I am filled with awareness, knowing that these green knobs

Which hail the start of the great west prairie

Once belonged not to Mr. Shultz,

Or the Dwyers neither before him, nor to any white man,

But were free.

Home to bountiful flora and fauna

Which prospered in the sweeping grasses and groves of sturdy burr oak.

I kneel down to the circle of stones,

Their sacred purpose forgotten by most,

Touching the granite, warmed by the sun's golden kiss.

In a different time, prayers were sent up from this space.

Figures whirling, keening and dancing to the rhythmic thumping of drums.

If I listen carefully,

They may still echo up here yet, in the wind.

And I, reminded of the past in turn,

Am awed by this place,

Feeling closer to God.

 

Catherine Hine

Corn Harvest

 

The starchy sweet scent fills my nose

Bits of hulls flaking off,

Floating into the amber-violet light of sunset

Framed by the trees,

Gleaming off the galvanized bins.

The day once warm, has now turned cool

The crisp fall evening reaches into my bones

Thousands of tiny golden hearts tinged with pink

Pass over my tanned, dirty bare feet.

The death throes of great chartreuse grasshoppers

Gripping with their prickly feet

My tawny legs, the torn blue jeans

Struggling against the moving hearts

The gravity of the uplifted box

Seeing with their blank dead eyes

The end of the warm days

The culmination of the harvest.

 

 

Winter Thaw

In shivering delight, arriving at the door

Shrouded in layers of wool and fleece

Greeted by his fiery presence

His hands know what hides beneath this stratum

With agonizing strength he peels the layers away

For I am an onion, weeping at my body's joy

As he cuts away to my center.

Moving together effortlessly,

The melting snow carving channels into itself

His silken bandana wound about my wrists

His willing prisoner, and bound to him

He is melting the ice walls within me

As he takes what he can;

I give all I have, knowing that when he leaves

The hoarfrost will return to my heart.

Horned Owl

Heavy worries and thoughts are

Drowned out by the soft hooting of

The great-horned owl.

Who sits outside my window

And lulls me to sleep….

"Whoo! Whoo-whoo-whoo! Whoo! whoo!"

"Are you awake? Me too!"

Somewhere you are awake,

although I am fading into sleep,

My thoughts are caressed by the owl,

And I wonder if he is a reflection of you

Wishing to be ever closer.

Perhaps he is just an owl,

And you just a man,

Who captivated my heart,

And took hostage my dreams.

Tangles

In a tangle of bed sheets and comforter,

I laid in fitful disgust, waiting

Should sleep come, it would ease my mind.

Yet there is no rest when I cannot

Be where I most want to be.

Images of skin and smells rush back

Flooding my brain and my thoughts

Turn to you.

So distant from me, yet

In this ever-connected world,

I can see your face and it turns my heart.

It fools me into believing

That you are near, and I anticipate

The sleep that is reluctant to come;

The dreams in which

we can finally touch….