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Best Poems Written by Jennifer Schroeder

Below are the all-time best Jennifer Schroeder poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Jennifer Schroeder Poem

Sleep, Sweet Prince

I left a breadcrumb trail back to you.
There were photos, what was left of them
after years of handling,
Hiding them in the back of my desk drawer, daily,
worn and folded, and some in pieces.
Out of sight, out of mind?
No.

And your written words --
written with a scratchy pen
because it’s all we had,
and we had all we needed. 

No TV because watching you sleep
was much better.
And I dared not wake you, but why?
I supposed that when you were sleeping
That you dreamt of me and you,
Because you had a half smile sometimes.

When you fell asleep you had chosen to stay
in this world of comfort and trust,
devotion and love.
You wake and my fear creeps in.
Sleep, sweet prince, and dream of us again.
No time to think about my flaws,
short-comings, the real me –
or your plan your escape.
Thoughts I still can’t bear.

The bread crumbs carefully placed are still there.
I can follow them now, but only if 
I can watch you sleep again,
dreams of me and you,
and your half smile.

Sleep, sweet prince, and dream of us again.

Details | Jennifer Schroeder Poem

A Hundred Words

I met you on a Sunday and by Tuesday I knew your name
but nothing else.

I'm fearless. Are you?
I will tell you anything and everything about me. Only ask. You don't.

My Plan B involves asking. 
You give brief details about your hometown and what life was like when you were young.
Things that might seem meaningless to you, offer clues to your true identity.

“I am a man without labels,” you once admitted. I nodded – I know exactly what you meant.

Your need to run exceeds your need to stay.
Walk down a block or two and find another woman who doesn't care about your name,
who doesn't want to know you – did you give her a tip?

I don't want your life story – tell me who you are in a hundred words or less.
Sum up your existence. You have 3 minutes. Start.

I agree to count your words so you begin:

“I am a poet. Any question about money has just been answered.
I love people – men by day, business suits and strong handshakes,
and women by night. I am a taker, not a giver.”

You continue.
“I saw a flower once, more lovely than any woman, now or ever.
The color left me breathless. And as it opened up I realized this is true beauty.
But it won't endure.
By tomorrow the petals
will be brown and limp.”

You have a shelf life of five days, tops,
and you are thirty words shy of a hundred.

You're not my type.
I'm moving on.

Details | Jennifer Schroeder Poem

Dwelling Place

My dwelling place is underground
so that's where you can find me.
Inevitably, I must resurface now and then
to know what's real outside --
no contact with the “up-aboves.”

The sunlight is blinding to my eyes as
my dwelling place is underground.
Evil things that creep and slither
surrounded by a bed of roots
invade my space, my home.

Once satisfied with normal life
I quickly grew to hate it –
Injustice left me with no hope.
My dwelling place is underground –
home is now where I choose to make it.

My dwelling place is underground
and I'd be mistaken now
for something monstrous, troll-like,
who is dead or close to it,
pale and aged beyond my years.

Details | Jennifer Schroeder Poem

Regrets

I whisper “I'm so sorry.”
Then I remember that grammar rule –
“I'm sorry,” I repeat.
And your head drops and you say, “It's okay.”
You look up and I see from your eyes
that it's not okay.
I feel terrible – the kind of thing that gnaws
at your soul.
It's that falling feeling that wakes us from dreams.
I say, a little louder, “I'm sorry.”
Still not there.

I reflect.
I am one girl and you are one boy –
we are in a sea of millions of us,
with different names
and different highways carved into their hearts.
We seem meaningless when viewed that way
but we both carry scars from my sins.

I think of Rod KcKuen,
What words would he use?
I'm sure it would be something clever
that might rhyme.
Something like “I loved you for a moment,
for a moment was only a penny
and I had no more money to my name.”

I want to step back and scream,
scream for an hour, or a day,
a week, or perhaps a month.
I need you to feel my desperation
and make you know that my apology
isn't one out of kindness,
I said that one years ago.
It's for my soul's survival.

I want to scream so something else out there will hear me
and understand this need to purge
and give my soul relief.

You smile briefly and my heart leaps
thinking you understand and then
that smile changes and I notice
a tear drop. Just one.

“I am sorry, you know.” I'm calm now.
I need you to listen.

I wanted to return you in the same condition
I found you in.
You were young and had enough hope for all of us.
You smiled a lot and I would ask,
“What's making you so happy?”
And you'd point to my heart.
That was all we needed.

I wanted to give you the world
and I do still now, decades later.
But I did the thing I am best at –
my amazing disappearing trick.
I took myself from you before
I became a big disappointment
yet to one more person.

I wish I knew what you saw in me –
maybe I would sleep easier.
Maybe I could remember then and
I would know who I am now.
Have I paid back the karma?
No. Because if I had, my heart
would surely know –
and my soul which has been tethered
would be released and I could fly.

You don't have enough space in your heart
for all of my apologies.
So I hold them all,
scooped up from a worn wooden floor
hoping the day will come
when I can just let them go.
The day that I can open a door
and throw them so far away
that they can't hurt me anymore.

It's not today –
I pray that it will be tomorrow.

Details | Jennifer Schroeder Poem

At One With the Ocean

I'm going to build a boat.
It doesn't have to be large –
just enough for one,
comfortably.

And when it's done,
I will set sail,
taking with me a heart full of love
and a head full of dreams.
Tears by the million
for no one to see.
The ocean will take those tears,
and as they mingle with the salty brine,
I will be one with the ocean.

I will have my bag of tricks, as well.
A million kisses, one for one, with the tears,
for I have kissed you a million times, or more.
And my broken heart, edges worn now,
no longer jagged or sharp,
but dulled by time -- still broken.

As I dump my kisses and broken heart,
I am one with the ocean.
The ocean accepts all with emotion
in its endless expanse.

Last, but not least, my soul.
I won't say I can throw it,
or even drop it over the side.
The balls of light, colors surreal,
dance in my hands, encircling me,
warm and gentle, dream-like,
and I realize I can't let it go.
It must remain in my bag of tricks
at least for another day.

Details | Jennifer Schroeder Poem

Poor Old House

Poor old, half-painted, clapboard house.
Your hallways quiet –
no more laughter and joy,
pain or grief,
births and deaths.
No more babies' cries
or children playing in the yard.

When Grandma drew her last breath
you released all those years
of living and loving
out of your windows
and they floated skyward.

Silently now, you sit
save the occasional chirps of crickets
and creaking wood on a windy day.
You once held much joy, and
the hopes and dreams of all
who slept within your walls.

Now we drive by and
have forgotten what you used to be –
now you're a sad,
half-painted clapboard house,
no longer a home.

Details | Jennifer Schroeder Poem

Mister Stanley

Mr. Stanley died today.
His nurse had been puttering around
in his room,
straightening his bed clothes,
taking his vital signs.
He decided to let her have one more go at it.

“Mr. Stanley,” she would say,
“Your blood pressure is a little bit high.
Think of pleasant things.”

Mr. Stanley didn't know pleasant,
or comfortable, or nice and kind.
He was a man unto himself.

Relatives had little choice but to see him –
it was the duty of family to visit those who are sick.
But in the past few days, less people visited.
He wondered why – 

When he awoke in the morning
of his last day of being earthbound,
there was sunlight streaming through the windows.
Mr. Stanley didn't approve of sunlight in his room
and it dampened his spirits more.
“Come close this damn shade,” he yelled,
hoping someone would hear.
He preferred calling out over pushing a button.

Suddenly the shade
seemed to matter less.
Mr. Stanley felt a lightness,
an incredible lightness;
he took one last look
around his tiny room
and flew away.

Details | Jennifer Schroeder Poem

Tether Me

Take my hand and tether me
my fingers outstretched,
long and unnatural,
being pulled gently, slowly,
vibrations slowing.

Don't let my fingers slip away --
do not release my weight 
or am I weightless?
Which second or millisecond
do we transform from weight to ether?
The soul knows and prepares for lift
and for loft. 

I see you now, expressionless,
or crying -- maybe dying,
as I drift upward, speed increasing.

I see you and you grow smaller.
I'm flying now.  Can you see me?
You are a pinpoint
much like an ink mark, superfine,
on paper that once recorded
who I was and
who you will continue to be. 

Tether my memory now, dear love,
I fear I am a pinpoint too.