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Michael Schoeffel Poem
my heart is hard
but you find the soft spots
like a carpenter searching for studs.
now, drive the nail in
Copyright © Michael Schoeffel | Year Posted 2012
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Details |
Michael Schoeffel Poem
Straight Black Coffee
From some hole in the wall diner
in a town of ten-thousand people
tastes a lot like soot,
or bitter ash. Coffee grinds
float weightlessly on the surface
black gnats flailing. Derelicts.
Abandoned in a blackened sea.
The silence is surreal, unnatural
Akin to those peculiar moments before a funeral
When pale bodies in black suits
sit stiff in pews, like naked trees,
and the Reaper can be felt
sliding through the aisles.
Crooked fingers wrapped around
a gleaming scythe. Bony mouth
opened wide. Howling at the sky.
The Universe holds its' breath.
"It's like a dusty tomb in here,"
I hear a big-toothed waitress say,
the lights are grey
and coated in tar.
Dead insects bake on the bottom,
One can hear them crackle and fry.
It's a somber cell
with peeling yellow wallpaper,
baby crying in the street
Reaper clicking his stiffened feet
Or a Poem,
"I Heard a Fly Buzz,"
by Emily Dickinson.
The King is in the Room, now
The King is in the Room.
Copyright © Michael Schoeffel | Year Posted 2012
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Details |
Michael Schoeffel Poem
When the sun can be seen
shining down
through trees,
and the asphalt warms the palms
of pale feet,
Summer can be seen striding
gracefully
towards the closest river bank.
Merrily she smiles
reflecting back the sun's warm graces,
her hand locked tightly in mine,
our pale palms nestled
together
like two swollen hearts
on a softened bed of pine needles.
What does she see
when she looks into my eyes so softly?
When she gently kisses my palm
what does she feel?
Is it like a gentle breeze
blowing over the river there?
Or is it like a burning sun
that evaporates despair?
On the river bank, a robin rests
his beak turned towards the sea.
Deep inside,
as her lips meet mine,
a sun burns
Peacefully.
Copyright © Michael Schoeffel | Year Posted 2012
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