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Best Poems Written by Carly Schmidt

Below are the all-time best Carly Schmidt poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Carly Schmidt Poem

Broken Record Sickness

Two hands in folds of shoddy cotton,
in clouds of cheap champagne and cigarette smoke.
My ringing ears

Echoing the television murmurs,
but it’s the same news on a broken record,
broken record horrors.

Now the clock— It’s snickering, a thief, consuming time and stealing
the 217 kisses, the 32 chocolate milkshakes shared
in his old Porsche,
the 3 ice creams in December and the 12 shivers that followed, 
the 56 morning coffees, 
the 12 months of moon cycles—
I counted them one by one, refusing to let time
pass
him
by.

I remember with him
the 314 soft embraces, the 17 drops of brandy
that dripped down our chins, the 39 words 
yelled then regretted, the 3 meteor showers
he slept through.

Waiting room. I try to peel the hospital scent from his skin,
but it’s a lonely phantom refusing to depart.
The summer cologne lingers its dollar’s worth on his scalp,
quickly fading, masked by Lysol, white walls, sickness.

Feverish. He closes his eyes, heart monitor beeping to a constant,
the peaks on a swift descent. 

Because as time chews away
the 3 teeth bumps, the 14 letters, 
19 skin tracings, 2 chalk outlines,
the 3-syllable, 8-letter words,
and the 100 times
I confirmed reality
(as he cried, in vain, 
for release),
I’m forgetting already 
the smell of his hair, the precise pores
and number of freckles on his cheeks.

Now. I turn car key, start engine, breathe broken- record breaths.

I’ll pretend it’s all a formula I’m confirming,
because Fate never meant us to be. 
I am discovering truths:
we’re just awkward children in this adult world,
aware of waning time, unprepared, longing for youth.

His Gods have plugged us both in like variables,
and we’re no longer oblivious to the outcome,
because I’ll wrestle with Love, plead with Death,
beg and bargain with Time,

and still,
I’ll drive on.

Details | Carly Schmidt Poem

Cliche'

let us say the summer that year
was a cliché to its lovers.
And its once open windows stood 
firm
against Prying Eyes.
Perhaps the silver 
smoke of automobiles rose toward the waiting sun that
climbed so eagerly. we didn’t know.

Summer was a witness
A watcher
Tracking our movements, counting our 
numbered pulse beats
our Numbered Kisses
—of sweet desert rain
when the creosote bush was thick in the air— 
our crimson liquids
moving fast through 

the chalks of our skin
And the rouge on your cheek seemed
almost translucent to me
as time itself, sifting between
Hourglasses broken shattered
With memories tainted
stained—

and let us say that Dandelion perfume lingered on our parted lips
—it was pungent, maybe, as the saline tears
where lashes are sieves— 
clinging to the pads of our fingers.
our identities
veiled by tiny white seeds 
that may,
In the winter (when the sun cracks along its crevices
		like melons in the heat),
bury themselves deep into our pores, Waiting
For that last Dandelion seed
to surrender

Details | Carly Schmidt Poem

Checkmate

Maybe I’ll lick my savage knuckles
or shoot arrows at the sun

And if our anonymous devils dance
after slipping on their potential tap shoes
we might play the waiting game
	they’ll click click
away as paparazzi cameras
flash phosphorescent lights and
strip us

down to our Botoxed skin. Maybe our ethereal moon winks
its coy smile as our clouds drip crumbs and I might
vanish in the fog, consuming time.

But if she should flush pink and bittersweet,
dices might roll
—Vegas gambling 
with Fate’s silver dollars—
and chess pieces might move forward, 
pawns played on black and white squares
hypnotic sea anemones breathing

‘Cause here’s my King and Queen,
they might say,
and they’re Bigger and Better than yours.
But possibly they’re not quite looking at the game, 
eyes half-glued to the metal mechanics of
their phones click-clicking like ponies prancing
as they speak revolving words.

Maybe fold forth
copper eyelids salty earlobes
perhaps lick the sugar from the celestial concrete where our shoes
erase our corrupt footprints.

 And will we open? maybe.
then suddenly—
Checkmate!

Maybe this overdose
is safely diagnosed 
and snapping ribbons frayed
this drug we call love, possibly it’s all about
who might be most comatose,
where we sleep in earbuds, implants, spray tans

and perhaps our time’s running out, and
maybe I’ll count your breaths,
your puffs of silver cigarette smoke that could be
tarring your lungs and lips
as I kiss you I might taste your inner clock

a stopwatch counting down: tick tock:
consuming your time with me,
swallowing, stealing
Checkmate. god’s winning.

Details | Carly Schmidt Poem

Bittersweet Keepsake

You are unlocking my doors,
Peeling the skin from my chest
	digging deep to discover
	my pulsing heart.
And it’s beating with a fervor. 

Lust in my eyes, glittering in the lowlight.
A mirror of past mistakes.
oh, it’s an ache in my fingers, a sigh in my belly.

We exchange hearts, oh:
I might say the feel of a brand new one
(thumping behind my left breast) is strangely bittersweet.
It’s yours, you know, hidden beneath
muscles and tendons and flesh,
	atoms and palpable, bitter melodies.

And when I set my hand
to feel my familiar rhythm,
It’s your skin beneath the plum of my fingers.
I pluck them away,
	like tiny birds chittering.

At night I’ll dissolve,
surrendering to hard alcohol, dreams, headaches, regret.
But you will faithfully stay,
a keeper of hearts,
guarding their thick pounding on the bed.

My shell has escaped.
It will fly up-up-up—like a cheap helium balloon
and burst on low-hanging clouds and sleet.

Baby, my sweet daughter, 
sweet small flesh in my arms,
I cannot keep you for much longer.
You’re a keepsake, you know.

I didn’t love you, you know,
Until I met you.
But we’ve stolen each other’s hearts
and we’ll never
get
	them
		back.

Details | Carly Schmidt Poem

Snipped Strings and a Long Journey Home

In the summer, when
our cracked spines
split
like melons in the heat
we reached toward

the unattainable sun, unbearable dreams.

You kissed me, hard, under the
midnight moon like no regrets,
Our dangling cigarettes tainted the air.

Shivering smoke may have combined
with your skin-scented cocoa
until the lines and boundaries 
between love and
insanity

were blurred (by sweet silver vapor, by the
weight of our snipped strings our cracked
souls our silent songs).

You kissed me, hard, like no regrets,
like the craziness that consumes us all,
like a long journey
home.

Details | Carly Schmidt Poem

Cancer

The cherry tree this spring
Has forgotten how to bloom
And strings of mind (frayed with the strain)
Have threatened snapping soon.

And when my talking eyes
Close shut and cannot speak,
My brittle bones and spider veins
Will start their hide and seek.

The crayons on our new faces
Have waxy melted deep,
But if I should die before I wake,
Do not wake me in my sleep.

When bayonets thrust forward 
Contagious devils caught
Just send my letters to the grave
As I await Death’s somber knock.

Oh Cancer, I’ve become yours
It’s true I have succumbed,
But it’s not death I’m scared of
Because it’s life I’m hiding from.