February 2024
Roberta Schultz
robertaschultz@mac.com
robertaschultz@mac.com
Bio Note: I am a maker of songs, poems, and drum circles. My most recent poetry collections are Underscore from Dos Madres Press, 2022 and Deep Ends from Finishing Line Press, estimated publishing date January 2025.
Cityscape
I can’t stop writing this poem—
the one where I plunge into memory’s
sinkhole and land on broken steps
at the school where my mother learns math.
I can’t stop writing this poem—
the one where we sing “Goodnight, Irene”
on the front stoop while streetlights sizzle
moths into brighter gravity.
I can’t stop writing this poem—
the one where concrete smells of salt
after rain. Downpours stream dead leaves
toward metal sewer lids. Like ancient coins,
they adorn each corner, swallow the gutter
swell under Putnam. Waterfalls gush
toward the Licking, hushed only
by the rumbling rush of passenger trains.
Whistles wail us from bunkbed dreams.
Above the tracks, the windows of 13th Street
wink out like dying stars.
Open Me
—In response to Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s poems about opening
like a door you rush through for something you forgot
like a puzzle you’ve longed to work that’s not too easy
like a well-wrapped present under the tree
in the shape of something you want, not need
like an envelope that looks official
awarding you the prize
like a brand new book you’ve been waiting to read—
not too scary, but a best-seller all the same
like a fine champagne with a rocket cork
that will blast across your sky in celebration
like a fresh box of crunchy cereal
with all the nuts and raisins plump
Open me
in these last few hours when darkness
dominates, when distant stars shine
longer than our one sun
When I open, I will share
every two-word prayer I know
for thanks
The Orb Weaver
sets her strands
in a tight net
that spans our basement door.
She calculates our comings
and goings each morning.
How many generations
could she feed
from such a catch?
My forehead bursts
through slender silk. I brush
away her wispy weave.
Undaunted, she patterns on.
Oh, how she dreams.
She dreams.
©2024 Roberta Schultz
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