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I walk amidst the bearded barley
brushing the crested heads with my hands
I wade into the living sea of gold
and upon laying down,
gaze up at the blue sky
painted with wandering cirrus clouds
framed out by bowing, amber bearded heads
nodding in wondrous acknowledgement
of my peace.
Catherine Schmidt
West Hall is filled with geriatrics;
It seems the people that fill these offices,
Not one is under the age of fifty.
Older women dressed in sweaters and slacks
With Black Hills Gold earrings
And oversized gaudy necklaces
Dyed, perfectly styled hair.
Their desks strewn with pictures
Of children, and grandchildren
And comedic cats.
There is an office door which is almost always closed.
R. Whalen states the plaque.
The door when open, reveals an ancient man
In his eighties
His balding, liver spotted head
Resting on his chest in an afternoon nap.
Wearing a dignified navy blue sweater vest
Looking the part of the retired professor.
I wonder if he passed away, in his sleep
In that hot cramped office, would people notice
His leaving,
Or think he was merely napping?
Catherine Schmidt
The dust is tickling my nose
As we rifle through the stacks
Of our youth, sorted by genre
And labeled with rummage sale stickers
Two dollars for my memory
Of dancing in the living room with Lizzy
To Baby Elephant Walk or
Fifteen for your late night excursions
Into the Strawberry Fields
Our memories are in these piles
Every pop, crack and needle slide
We gather them up,
Giggling at our discoveries
And drive away with our find
Dust-covered memories
For only $20.95.
Catherine Schmidt
Skeletal branches are
Softened and shaded
By sparkling hoar frost
In the embrace of morning.
Stars trace impossible
Geometric patterns
Lacework against
The blue-black sky.
Venus is dancing,
Skipping and chasing
The moon across the sky
In flirtatious appreciation.
Catherine Schmidt
She had a moment of clairvoyance,
The second before, and she knew
This could be the beginning of her new life.
He reached for her, drew her in,
Circling one strong arm firmly about her waist.
She felt small, petite, there, in that hold.
He slid his right hand up along her neck,
Cupping her face, holding her
As if she was delicate crystal, precious.
Their breathing synchronized,
And he tilted her face up to his.
His lips touched hers, and flitted away,
Then raced towards her again.
Her breath became his,
And his breath was hers.
She was warm, and flushed,
And in fact, she was melted.
Catherine Schmidt
Somewhere in between
the weaving of cotton-threaded sheets,
and the matched naked bodies
lying spooned to each other.
In the bliss that follows,
the breathlessness, the exhilaration,
the praising of something
akin to a higher power
but chemically rooted in the brain.
The mingling of scents, for tomorrow,
his redolence will linger in her hair,
and he will smell her fragrance on his hands.
On the premise of loneliness,
of affection, of wanting,
They will give and taste of each other.
All in the name of oneness,
the search for skinlessness,
in between cotton-threaded sheets.
Catherine Schmidt
In the gentle flush of the evening light
There comes a calming clamor
That speaks of the ages
Of the circles intertwined
As the weaver mingling fibers
Lovingly over and under each other
The din sings, and swells to a magnificent aria
Hailing and tapping, calling to the night
Drumming out a rhythm
Thousands of joyous hands clapping
And weary feet dancing
I stand at the screen door in wonder
The rain keeps coming down
Laughing and singing, clapping
As it meets the flagging leaves
Of the India green corn.
Catherine Schmidt
