In a world of constant struggles,
many people would agree,
like a feather when it’s falling,
life is priceless when it’s free.
When the search for something bigger
goes beyond what you can see,
like a feather when it’s falling,
faith is deeper when it’s free.
Gripped too tight, a love grows weary,
and it yearns for liberty.
Like a feather when it’s falling,
love is precious when it’s free.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
Through tear stained glass,
a vision asks
What value do you give?
How do you justify yourself?
What right have you to live?
And pain abounds
in endless rounds
of darkness and despair,
and cause the red, rimmed eyes
to urge me strongly to beware.
The ghostly vision’s
cruel precision
eradicates the will
until the moment passes
and the mirror ghost is still.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
A warming sun, a springtime rain,
its roots alive with fire,
it rises from its earthen bed,
and grass grows ever higher.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
It sees a glimpse of sunlight
behind the steady showers.
Though anxious for renewal,
it sits patiently for hours.
While robins cheer, a blue jay scorns
this miracle on earth.
The bud ignores the mockery
and waits for its rebirth.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
Having a glimmer of light
Overcome the darkness
Perpetuated by those disappointments
Eventually diminished by time.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
In night’s lonely chasm, I felt the loss more.
The pain of the darkness reopened the sore.
There was nothing to see in the black, velvet gloom,
yet, still I kept seeking love’s heart in its tomb.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
Bad love breaks apart
the way a cookie crumbles.
All scraps, no substance.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
An act of pure simplicity
withdrew me from my lethargy.
Completed by love’s energy,
I cease to be my enemy.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
What weighs on me more:
the sun setting on another day
or the fear of no more dawns?
The clock rapidly accelerates.
Hours blend into one another,
then disappear completely.
A new day promises nothing more
than the certainty of its passing.
A lifetime is swallowed up in a vortex.
I fear the speed of the cycle,
and trapped by the redundancy of time.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
Sometimes,
the poem writes itself
and I am merely the typist.
Other times,
the steady flow of words
plows right into an unforgiving roadblock.
At no time,
in the puzzling of words,
is the process as easy as it should be.
When is it time
to abandon a cherished idea,
leaving it to rot with other literary rubbish?
In a future time,
I may want to revive the thoughts
that led me down the road to discontent.
But not at this time.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
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