Wendy L. Schmidt | Five poems

Single

A life she lived.

but never truly loved,

except for spare moments,

when the floor boards creaked,

under children’s feet,

and the man inside,

brought her flowers.

 

Something seemed lost,

in the familiar routine.

Marriage was maze.

of hidden threats,

and hard won bets,

and suddenly a stranger,

was sleeping next door.

 

Finding a letter,

left on his last day.

No hint of regret,

she read between the lines,

in the silent spaces,

where truth often lies.

I’m leaving you for her.

She will not ask why,

or search beneath the surface,

or love what is missing,

or hate what is mine.

 

He hadn’t made a dent,

in the parts that truly mattered.

Her life grew wild,

with no one to tame it,

she danced the dance,

of a free woman.

comfortable in,

her own skin.

 

Swan

Snow swans drift,
on midnight blue,
they prayer to a falling star,
to a turn of fate,
to the flight of few,
who break free,
from the lake of tears.
They stretch and bend,
bow and flow,
on waves of classical notes.
She is fluid as falling rain,
yet precision directs each position.
Her body slowly rises,
to demi-pointe
to pointe,
to all that is perfection.
Each movement tells the story,
each step evolves a scene.
Spellbound, the princess,
the Prima Ballerina,
creates her character.
Wings gracefully unfold,
long neck curves,
willingly transformed,
she is Odette,
then wantonly deceives,
she is Odile. 
The role, inspired,
the dancer, possessed,
surrender found at every turn,
she must sacrifice herself,
to capture the soul of a swan.

 —

Midnight in the Garden

We shall dance until the sun touches petals,

then close our eyes to morning’s light.

Like the fading Moon Flower,

we sleep away the day,

then waken in this gloaming garden.

 

Fire draws all warrior women,

as a magical mood ignites them.

Sing to trees and sway in the breeze.

Wear wreaths of braided herbs,

entwined to find Hearts Ease and Heather.

 

We chant our ancient song:

Mother make us whole,

bring us gifts of lavender hair and henna hue,

Chamomile tea and Rosewater dew.

Help us witness life anew.

 

The perfect pearl in a Dragon’s fruit,

the glory of Angel’s Trumpet,

each small miracle performed in turn.

We honor their timid beauty,

as they open in Danú’s garden.

 

Sunflower seeds shall serve to strengthen us,

honey wine to loosen our limbs.

Set down this path in sacred woods,

honor the wise woman’s ways,

and summon nocturnal spirits.

 

Come now, ye wild ones.

We welcome all with thyme and tender touch.

For this is the home of fairy and gnome,

who seek shelter in summer sunsets.

Who rise at dusk and rest in morrow’s dawn.

 

End Of A Fairytale

Beating,
always beating,
until the very end,
heart alive,
heart revived,
two hearts in love,
in tune to the song,
of our seasons.
 
September she came,
in a tremble of pain,
in a moment of creation.
A ghost of a girl,
a tiny heart,
held in my hands.
November she waned,
as branches turned bare,
he landscape brown,
the wind, raw,
and so she flew,
like a soft prayer,
into snow swept skies.
We huddled for warmth,
but ice formed slowly,
on the edges of our grief.
 
Once lost,
she will not be found,
broken,
bereft,
distant to each other,
strangers to ourselves.
Speaking out loud,
the words swallowed you whole.
 
I’m drowning in a river of regret.
Our life before is lost,
the arrogance of youth,
the innocence of faith,
God,
will not save us.
You aged in a day,
an old man of twenty.
 
A heart turns cold,
to the ones it loves,
when the only way out,
is to start again.
But what of the lingering hope,
what of the promises,
kept in my pocket,
saved for a rainy day?
 
Everything was new,
when love grew,
like wild seed on fertile ground.
And the seed sown was good,
meant to sustain,
through every hidden storm,
every once upon a time,
until the happy ending.
 
Nothing survives,
beyond the frozen world of forever after,
knights disappoint,
damsels disappear,
the princess stays asleep,
with no one to waken her.
My heart keeps beating,
but I don’t know why.

 —

Daughter of the Dark Fairy

Sleeping on the sand,

she feels closest to her true nature,

shorelines softer than a featherbed,

yet firm when the tide rolls in.

She longs for the song of a passing whale,

or the whistle of a Bottlenose.

Lift and loch unite, bonded in blue. (loCH)

Her impulse to stay is a strong one.

Bewitched by the sailor’s kiss.

True bliss does exist.

 

She belongs to this storm,

of seiche and spilling waves.

Sometimes a whisper, sometimes a roar.

Gwen loves every changing mood.

In early morning light she roams the shoreline,

searching for small treasures.

A mermaid’s necklace,

made from spiral strands of gold,

branches of white coral.

or an oyster’s perfect pearl.

 

Gifts given lavishly,

to a daughter of the clan Macfie.

Fierce waters flow through her family.

Seals are kindred and watch and wait,

as she rests on the craggy headland cliffs.

When sunset stills the sea,

she tells the story of a Scottish lad,

who long ago captured a Selkie,

then hid its shed skin in secret.

and forced her to marry.

 

Greys gather to hear their sister’s words.

With mournful eyes they call out, come back to us.

It only adds to the mystery of her origins.

For she is NicDubhsithe,

daughter of the dark fairy,

drawn to swells and wild seas.

If one day, Gwen does vanish,

none will wonder.

The girl simply swam home, they’ll say,

she found her Selkie skin, at last.

 

Wendy-Schmidt

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