Posted in Internal Rhyme

Why I Abhor Thor

I don’t adore Thor. He’s a bore, and what’s more
I deplore the sight of his might dressed in white.
No delight do I know from this snow. It can go
back to where I won’t care if it dares to ensnare
with its not very nice slice of hard, frosty ice.
You’re a chore, Mr. Thor. Take your roar out the door!

© Susan Schoeffield

Another poem written for the 3/1/15 post at the Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild to write a rhyming poem on any topic in any form.  If the weather forecasters are right and the next named winter storm pays us a visit, I’m ready for him.

Posted in Triolet


An icy finger pokes my heart
in jabbing motions unrestrained.
When decency is blown apart,
an icy finger pokes my heart.
What message can this deed impart
beyond the cruelty sustained?
An icy finger pokes my heart
in jabbing motions unrestrained.

© Susan Schoeffield

A somber poem, influenced by the recent events in Paris.

Posted in Acrostic

Two Faces

How do you justify
Your words of anger
Propagating hatred
Only to say later, “Why
Can’t we all get along?”
Reasonable people
Ignite flames of respect
Through all they do and
Every word they speak.

© Susan Schoeffield

Posted in Monotetra

Snow Drifting

The biting winds of frosty squalls
envelope shrubs in winter shawls.
The snow forms lines of whitened walls
and still it falls. And still it falls.

Throughout the air, it softly sails.
My plea for warmer days derails.
Increasing depths conceal my wails.
The sunshine pales. The sunshine pales.

And when the flakes fall from the skies,
each one a varied shape and size,
the drifts begin to quickly rise.
They blind my eyes. They blind my eyes.

Then as the storm winds down, I rush
to clear the alabaster mush.
The lawn no longer white and lush,
it’s grayish slush. It’s grayish slush.

© Susan Schoeffield

Posted in Internal Rhyme

Color Me Crazy

We just painted the kitchen,
which in dogs years is forever
(never to be confused with
refusing to paint).
You see, in my heart
it’s the color chart I fear.
And to be clear, that wheel
just makes me feel tense.
The pretense of picking a shade
to be sprayed on the walls
appalls me.
Should we pick a green
for an outdoorsy scene?
Or a yellow for mellow dining?
Perhaps a refining blue
will do the trick.
And so it begins, I’m getting sick.
There must be a way to end this abuse?
What if I say a lovely chartreuse
would be a good choice?
Could I smile and rejoice
or would we return to the wheel?
I’m starting to reel at the thought
and find myself overwrought.
Let’s paint the darn thing in blacks.
Is this how we get heart attacks?

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 8/24/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings to write a “color” poem.