In Light (a poem)
Everything worth knowing
once held
in those light-obscured rooms
Rooms
emptied, now
saturated by the sun
Truth
amidst the dancing motes
in the weaning afternoon light
Anything worth knowing
remained
Evidence
not much had changed
by the absence of the things
And yet
in light, there is warmth
hope
breath not yet had
Realized by
the absence of the things
not for the sake of them
We carry on
in light
a poem by,
Christina Schmidt, MA
www.ArmedWithCoffee.com
@gnrmuggle
The Kiss (a poem)
Only moments known to them.
Precious and fleeting.
Moments here.
Moments there.
Two sets of eyes fixed.
Signaling their unspoken truths.
Warm smiles, issuing weathered conversation.
Close and never touching.
Weeks, months worth of such moments.
Was all they had.
Enough to see them through.
Until the next moment.
An alignment formed by Chaos.
Taking pity on the would-be lovers.
Holding back time itself.
But time can be held for so long.
A gap.
A sliver.
A promise of an undisturbed moment.
What they make now must last.
They find themselves at the wall.
Aquiver with excitement.
Without witness.
Without fear.
Seconds to minutes.
Their hearts thunder demands.
Cries for reparations.
At being so long divided.
He initiates.
A downward tilt of his head.
Taking the space halfway between them.
She meets him there, face upturned.
The kiss.
Earned.
Stolen.
Glorious.
A poem by,
Christina Schmidt
www.ArmedWithCoffee.com
@gnrmuggle
She Left (a poem)
In what space
How did she go from
Being
One man’s everything
To nothing.
She tempered her passions
To better suit his own
They lay fallow now
Nothing sown
Nothing grown.
Compromise
She’s told
Compromise
And yet
She cannot recall her share of the thing.
A brief moment
She remembered
Being
A woman who laughed
A woman who loved.
Undecided for far too long
She must officiate,
She must navigate the unknown
Having set her mind
She left.
A poem by,
Christina Schmidt, MA
www.ArmedWithCoffee.com
@gnrmuggle
Pulse (a poem)
There.
Right
There.
Rising.
Persistent.
Maddening.
Stubborn.
A bull
Charging.
Pulse.
Exclusive
As one.
Divides as two.
A beat.
A calling.
A challenge.
The pulse
Dictates
The movement.
Craving.
Dissatisfied.
Demanding.
Primal.
Driven.
Go for the neck.
Pulse’s
Cradle.
Release.
A poem by,
Christina Schmidt, MA
www.ArmedWithCoffee.com
@gnrmuggle
Amber Fluid (a poem, 2003)
Amber fluid contained by
cheap
glass
runs rampant across
the counter top.
I push it back
making room for the essentials of
daily life
but
she hauls them forward
once more
by day’s end.
Amber fluid in
cheap
glass
taking the space
establishing priority
spirits to bread.
I wipe the spills
knowing
she will spill
again.
I chase the smells of
amber fluid
with
floral fragrances
spewed by aerosol cans
but
the amber smell
lingers
underneath.
I throw out the emptied
bottles of
cheap
glass
knowing
more will come.
She will pour
again.
A poem by,
Christina Schmidt
ArmedWithCoffee.com
@gnrmuggle
Two Poems, 2002
I went creeping through my old journals today, dating back to 2002. I was probably meant to be paying attention in class (college) while scratching these out.
“Attic Movers”
The attic movers are at it again
They’re stirring up things that ought to be dead
With steel dusters they fling up
Things that I want kept down
Way down
I was perfectly happy with the cobwebs on the crates
Boxes labeled Too bad, Too long, Too late
They pry up the decayed wood and rusted nails
Those attic movers can’t keep their fingers
Still
From behind my eyes they glare
Demanding an answer
Answer to what?
I’m supposed to know?
They don’t tell me
I fire the lot
The attic movers always come back
They are dedicated fellows
_________________________________________________________________
“The Source”
An uncommon spring
Flowing of uneasy things
The source – a blackened peak beyond purple fields
And lightning filled skies
So few are made to traverse
They must be born from the spring
Of such natural / unnatural things
_________________________________________________________________
Feel free to share your thoughts or your own attempts in poetry. I can say, in all honesty, the ones written in college may embarrass me now, but I can also say they contain more sincerity than what I wrote in later years. The privilege of youth I suppose.
Poems by,
Christina Schmidt, MA
www.ArmedWithCoffee.com
@gnrmuggle
My Poetic Side
I’ll be releasing a poem this evening entitled, “The Kiss” via my blog and it occurred to me how strange it must seem that I freely release my poetry into the world, but not my writing. NEVER. EVER. Not even a scrap of a short story.
Perhaps it’s because I identify as a writer and not as a poet. I don’t mind cutting those poetic pieces loose because they seem more fluid and readily available. Perhaps I’m not as attached to my poems as my written pieces. Nobody knows the self-doubt, the sheer volume of wretchedness I experience over every professional sample I’ve ever submitted.
But a poem? I’ll release that into the world, no problem.
I’ve shared some real whopper-esque poems on this blog too. All my poems come from a real place, prompted by real situations or inspired by them. Perhaps that’s why I’m so comfortable putting them out in to the world. Poems are about as abstract as I’m like to get. Abstract work is infinitely more freeing than fiction.
Any other writers out there that can identify? Are you a poet that dabbles in stories? I’d like to know what you experience in that creative crossover.
In poetry, I don’t have to be straightforward, linear, or even sensical. In my poetry I strive for feeling first and “graspable” at best, intellectually speaking. That’s the blessed release of poetry, much like a song, poems are a place of feeling.
That being said, I hope you enjoy “The Kiss,” released later this evening.
Comments are always welcome.
Cheers,
Christina Schmidt
www.ArmedWithCoffee.com
@gnrmuggle
