Poet In Residence Work

April Poetry

"At Belmont Pond" by Paula Schroeder

I am never completely detached from the web,

occasionally, when the wind blows hard,

some strands break and dangle in

        a  

dizzying

                                     flutter….

but other connections hold,

in newly woven

strength and structure,

to capture my free fall.

Birds at the pond this morning,

attend my coronation;

cardinal processes before me

along the earth toned aisle,

pausing at each sacred spot

to pronounce a blessing,

until we reach the stone throne 

at the water's edge,

where I am seated next to the mallards, 

who have been in attendance since sunrise,

helping themselves to bar and buffet, 

bottoms up,

Before the rites begin.

two Canadian geese bluster in,

and skitter into proper formation,

haggling back and forth

to reach consensus 

on who should attend me

to my right

and to my left.

I am passing.

Earth is passing.

And a single ray of light 

glancing off the water,

laser sharp,

cuts me wide open 

to excise the tumor

of doubt and despair,

Here, beside the Belmont pond,

I am proclaimed beloved,

as I begin my rule over my tiny realm,

healing a peace within myself,

so that a piece of Mother Earth

            will heal and expand ever outward….

note: 

Belmont Pond is located on the grounds of McLean Hospital,

located in Cambridge Massachusetts.

March Poetry

"Appalachian Lament" by Paula Schroeder

John L. Lewis heats his house with gas,

I heard it at the bar yesterday,

while Grandma was out pickin' coal off the tracks,

to keep her grandbabies warm.

Ain't no hoppers backin' up these rails,

the sign on the mine's been turned around.

It's a worrisome time when the boss is outta town

and you don't know when he's comin' back.

Cold enough in this house

to keep a body for three days

searchin' for signs of life.

The locomotive struck before the pail was half full,

Grandma's home, but she's never comin' back.

February Poetry

"The Grande Dame of Poetry"

I caught a glimpse, the other morning,

of the Grand Dame of Poetry,

who abides behind the scenes,

on the second floor of this museum.

She glided across the gallery

during the installation of a new art display,

dressed in a form fitting,

crystalline white gown that swished 

gently around her ivory skin;

carrying the same aura of mystery

as her ancestral cousins

on the Baskerville side of the family.

She, however, did not need

to raise a ruckus from far away,

to announce her approach;

she just passed eerily,

though comfortingly near,

whispering beautiful words 

and turns of phrase

to alert me of her approach,

bearing the gift of a poem.

January Poetry

"Winter Rest"

as long as 

an Arctic breath rustles the air,

and the yawning eye 

of a rising winter sun,

subdues any urge

to be aroused,

I'm maintaining confinement

in a restful slumber,

deep in dark soil,

productively cradling life,

in patient gestation,

restraining new birth,

until equinox,

has balanced the odds

that warmth will increasingly

infuse the light -

keeping the chillblains at bay.