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.