Posted in Quatrain

Still, Still, Still

The moon reflects off whitened ground,
in iridescent, steady streams
and here, amid the silent sound,
the snowflakes waltz upon its beams.

For one brief moment, all is calm
eclipsing all the worldly woes.
With mankind touched by soothing balm,
upon the earth a yearning flows

to melt the frost from undue hate.
When words are joined by thoughts and deeds,
the frozen fields could generate
a harvest rich from yuletide seeds.

Yet hope alone won’t lessen fear
with silent nights and moonlit beams.
Beyond the season’s short-lived cheer,
may peace on earth be more than dreams.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 12/14/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem inspired by a Christmas or Holiday song.

Posted in Musette

Post-PAD Predicament

Sparks rise
but the poet’s
muse cries.

Thoughts blazed
but the fingers
aren’t fazed.

Flames spread
but abused muse
is dead.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 11/30/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem inspired by Margaret Atwood’s line: “We are learning to make fire.” I used my completion of the Poetic Asides November Poem-A-Day Chapbook Challenge as additional inspiration.

Posted in Sonnet

Log-In Logistics

Hello and welcome to your online account!
Use lower case, caps or numeric amount
to prove you are you before you can begin.
Without the right code, we cannot let you in.

Hello! Good to see you! We’re glad that you came!
Now what is the password that goes with your name?
You can’t check your cart or when payment is due.
You get but three tries and this one’s Number Two.

Hello! Back again? Got the code? Yeah, we’ll see.
It’s wrong and you’re out with the final strike three.
Perhaps if you’d written it somewhere in blood,
you wouldn’t be stuck in this internet mud.

Without the right password, you’ll only get flack
but we value your business so please hurry back!

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 11/16/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem about an inanimate object getting ready to perform its task.

Posted in Triquain

30-Day Plan

Poems and
novels in thirty days
are tasks not to be taken lightly.
A degree of endurance must face the blank screen
with a cat’s curiosity for
capturing treasures
without gloves.

For words are
also treasures to save,
not to claim a place in history
but for the thrill of watching unfettered fingers
aggressively capture hidden thoughts,
assisted by resolve
and coffee.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 11/2/14 prompt at the Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem based on a selected quote by Benjamin Franklin (mine: The cat in gloves catches no mice), giving a nod to all those participating in the PAD Chapbook Challenge and NaNoWriMo.

Posted in Free Verse

After The Fall

The last leaf waltzes under pearly clouds
while autumn tickles the ivories
before walking away on eggshells.
Dressed in its finest old lace,
winter flurries take center stage.
The glow from vanilla candles
can’t melt the frosted windowpanes.
Alabaster angels search the Milky Way
for cosmic lattes and corn silk teas
as a choir of freshly fallen snowflakes
sings of hope for a White Christmas.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 10/12/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem using the tints and hues of a chosen color.

Posted in Quatrain

A Sense Of Chaos

Last night, a wicked storm came through
and suddenly our power blew.
When in my state of fast asleep,
upon my bed the cat did creep

to ask me, in his loudest mew,
if there was something I could do.
From under covers safe and warm,
I ventured forth to face the storm.

The heater died with power loss.
I could have sworn the room had frost.
No going back, no place to hide.
The dogs were keen to go outside.

The time was lost in darkened clocks.
I slipped cold feet inside of socks
and stumbled to the kitchen door
through which I heard the thunder roar.

Though not yet dawn, my nerves were fraught.
I longed for working coffee pot.
A nice hot brew would warm within.
It’s time to let the pups back in.

No smell of coffee could compete
with those wet dogs and muddy feet.
I dried them off with puppy towels
ignoring all their playful growls.

I would not join them in this game.
The unmade bed called out my name.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 10/5/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem based on your powers of observation at random states of acuity.

Posted in Free Verse

The State Of Denial

The smell of burning leaves
reminds me there is no more
hide and seek with summer.
Born to be a beach bum, for me
it’s more like a whiff of stale coffee
than the aroma of freshly baked bread.
Let autumn strum its balalaika
as reds and golds dance past the greens.
I’d rather fall in Malibu.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 9/28/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem beginning with “the smell of burning leaves” and incorporating a word for each category: something you buy in a bakery, a smell in a diner, a make of automobile, something people do to relieve stress, an unusual musical instrument, and a child’s game.