February 2024
Bio Note: I am a dreamer, a seeker. a widow, a psychotherapist in private practice and a poetry mentor who was awarded The Contemporary American Poetry Prize by Chicago Poetry. I have written six collections of poetry including Through My Window: Poetry of a Psychotherapist and edited two poetry anthologies, Poems from 84th Street and Mentor's Bouquet. All of the poems in both anthologies were written by poets I have had the pleasure of mentoring. I founded the Manhattan Writing Workshop in 2008 and lead workshops for The International Women's Writing Guild. Thank you, always, to my mentor, Stellasue Lee, for her guidance and support.
I Said I Would Wait for Him
A man is coming for dinner.
My heart pounds. Will he
sit in the logical chair,
the one that replaced my husband's recliner,
the chair he took his last breath in
while I told him over and over I loved him,
would always love him, would choose him again.
Asked him to just let go,
nestled my face in his hair,
held my hand on his chest
while his ears grew cold, so cold
and then his chest, his belly.
He was gone,
but I stayed with him until dawn,
looked at his hands, unwrapped his cold swollen legs,
rubbed lotion on his body,
held him, hugged him,
told him I would miss him, that I loved him,
I would wait for him.
Finally, I called hospice, and a nurse anointed him
with lavender and said a prayer.
Someone removed his wedding ring and placed
it on a chain. I still have the chain around my neck.
A man is coming to my house for dinner tonight.
Oak Leaves
I. I am Alyssum, the last flower alive in this planter. It's November for God's sake, and here I am small pure like baby's breath or bridal lace. I bloom among the blighted. Geranium's flare of fuchsia is now black and curled into itself like an infant pulls in his legs to remember the sea. Daisy’s only eye is closed. She holds her seeds close. This is Michigan—ripped by glaciers and soothed by the subsequent sea. Great Lakes wash over wounds, mastodon bones, Petoskey stones. Sleeping Bear Dune keeps watch, but Lake Michigan steals sand with every wave and sends back snow to kill November flowers. White on white, I will succumb. November, trees empty except for the oak that hangs on to its dead, carries them—brown, broken, afraid to let go. II. My left eye hurts, waters, clouds this page. I have sliced onions to make stock. Soup—what else can I do when words wither, and he hangs on brittle, crumpled, as afraid as the oak leaves?
Originally published in Pedestal Magazine
I Reclaim
I reclaim the orchard.
Tear down the houses.
Plant trees.
I reclaim buds, blossoms and bees.
I reclaim milk in glass bottles
left in a tin box, frozen cream
that rose to the top
broke open the seal.
I reclaim the lid I slid
off popping corn
to delight my dog
who ate the evidence.
I reclaim my father’s lap,
towers of blocks built
for the thrill of their crash,
being able to rebuild
over and over.
I reclaim myself from rows of wooden desks,
crayons I must not peel, arithmetic facts,
surplus apples, and the names on the blackboard
under We do not talk in work period.
I reclaim the live monarch
I had to impale and spray
with fixative for Miss Mason
whose wall of breasts fed no one.
I reclaim the girl who finally refused
to kill a frog for the biology teacher.
I reclaim that girl and the right
to rebuild any tower
over and over again.
Originally published in Rattle
Winner of The Contemporary American Poetry Prize awarded by Chicago Poetry
Winner of The Contemporary American Poetry Prize awarded by Chicago Poetry
©2024 Linda Leedy Schneider
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL