Glass Bottle Wrapped In Cloth - Rachel Schneider

The Boy That Never Was

There’s a candle in my window for

the boy who never was.

It flickers just as brightly as

the laughter in his eyes. The warmth

inside his heart is matched by nothing

but the flame, and the tiny drips

of melted wax, intricate as his mind.

The candle burns to mourn this boy,

the one I could have loved.

He may have lived - this boy, indeed.

But mine he never was.

To Save a Wretch Like Me

Palms sweat thick as blood. I fold them so as not

to stain my skirt, too clean, too white. The wine of redemption

burns my throat, bitter next to the sweet sin so heavy on my

unholy mind. The call to confess crushes the

soul. There are no secrets left. I can’t look up, can’t

burn my eyes with the sight of his neck, red with the embarrassment

of awareness beneath a shock of blond. He sits two rows ahead,

his head bowed in humility, and I sink to the depths of the

earth, opening to swallow me beneath the altar before me,

drowning me in the tears of the women at the cross.

Confess?

Equations in Momentum

If one train is moving south

at sixty miles per hour and

another train is moving north

at the speed of still,

will they notice the wind

rushing between them as they pass,

or are their worlds too far apart

to make a difference?

Autumn

This time of year the rain turns cold.

Amber leaves rustle, threatening to fall.

Before long everything smells of golden brown.

The leaves are most striking right before they die.

They dance in the wind, wild horses with no reins,

As vibrant as a painting from the hands of Van Gogh.

The plunge starts when the will to live minus gravity equals zero.

At last the drop. A gust of wind. Finally, ground.

Once again at rest. Beauty: their last request.

Give it back, the lost color, the lost time.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.

God, will the cycle ever end?

Beauty from the Beast

Sadness was my gut reaction

when I saw her picture in your wallet.

She: more beautiful than me,

eyes brighter than mine,

her smile sweet, pure honey.

But behind my sadness came joy.

Joy that you have someone so beautiful,

someone to love and to love you

as once upon a time I did.  What we became was

ugly, but it taught us life. We were not a waste.

But as our beautiful flowers bloomed,

we came to see we could not share the sun.

Our petals grew shriveled and brown,

choked by the harsh sting of broken promises,

of life and truth, and what is not meant to be.

He is now my light, and she is now your fire,

and as we grow apart we will grow closer to them,

and they will and lift us up toward the sun, and

we will be alive. Apart, we will grow to be

the beauty that we now know we can be.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Before our first date you bought me white lilies. I guessed you didn’t know the symbolism. But as the two of us become one for the who-knows-what time – you, deep inside me and I, clenched tight around you – I wonder if you did. Sometimes I feel as if we have become dead together. Your burning skin pressed against me, answering my need, no longer smells like cinnamon, only sweat. As your lips caress my collarbone, my breast, my navel you no longer taste strawberry, only salt. This four-story apartment building, box-shaped and bland, no longer is a stepping stone to a better life, but just another reminder of how our plans fell through. I remember the lilies as your hands squeeze my aching flesh, too warm for a corpse. The sun rises and the birds chirp and I convince myself that we are not yet dead. Even if that sun has long faded our yellow curtains. Even if we hardly speak. Even if you no longer call me liebe, though  we still make love. Even if your touch is the only thing I’m still living for.

Lone Tree - Rachel Schneider

Medium: 

Calligraphy pens on paper

Pop the Trunk

My life fits in the trunk of a civic

as i slide down this highway

miles pass with minutes

the separation of past and present

a stark reminder of reality

of time space and missed

opportunities it seems that

plans fall through and who’s

to say what comes but may today

be the way to tomorrow

yesterday says hello to memory

and so it goes as we toast to the old

and bring in the new it’s

true i am scared of the future

and you can’t pretend that you don’t

feel the same we all have our

boxes inside our trunks

no one can comprehend but us

so i drive my civic and

take my life from point a to point b

trying to tell myself that somehow

i’ll see where i’m going.

In the Snow - prismacolor pencil and whiteout on paper

Cold Shoulder

Sugared words drip from

sultry lips, making his threshold

glow with the red heat of

inner fire as he opens the door

to the jasmine scent in the evening chill.

She is the one from before.

May I come in?

He thinks it’s better she didn’t.

Jezebel in a cashmere sweater

pouts. I thought you left her.

The fire winks out.