VoicesNet.com Recent Poems of Kim Schilling - Copyright for all poems displayed belong to author

Bringing Forth Peace by Kim Schilling

9/6/2008

Gaze into the night
Brilliant star for each man lost
All bringing forth peace.

Symphony of Rain by Kim Schilling

9/6/2008

Raindrops play for me
Beating gently in my heart
Sing sweet melodies

God Weeps by Kim Schilling

9/5/2008

God weeps for our souls
Bloodied bodies strewn about
Stop senseless killing.

Welcoming Fall by Kim Schilling

9/4/2008

Parting the tender way for Fall,
tan blades of crunchy grass kneel,
succumbing to the crisp breeze,
dividing the line of old and new.

Against airy, snow filled clouds,
raucous flocks prepare their exodus,
leaving behind remnants of summer
in naked bending branches of oaks.

Laughter fills the cool afternoon air,
the song of innocent children playing;
yesterday passes - today promises
of leaves in heaps to throw about.

Squirrels don their wooly hazel coats,
watching attentively from fissures above;
their acorns stored away in neat clusters.
Unclothed trees cast skeletal shadows,
as a single leaf holds on for dear life.

Chill of the Morning by Kim Schilling

9/4/2008

Tender leaves capture
chill of the morning dew;
weeps not for those living,
but for the passing of life
into winter’s icy slumber.

Arachnophobia by Kim Schilling

9/24/2008

Oh, God, the mere thought
of writing ‘bout a spider
has the hair on my neck
growing wider and wider.

They’re brown and hairy
and damn quick to scurry
across every darn surface;
watch me jump in a hurry.

I scream like a pansy
my husband does declare.
At the mere site of one
I do cuss and do swear.

A sticky web in the face,
sends shivers up my spine.
I dance with my arms flailing;
they've seen me, I ain't lyn'.

And people make fun of me,
all these animals I do keep.
Some roar and will growl,
but a ‘lil spider, not a peep.

Now I can’t even squish one,
the crunch, it does kill me.
And once it’s a goner,
I can’t even take a look see.

This phobia, it’s got me
by the proverbial balls
They’re everywhere!
Everywhere!
Roaming the halls!

Behind the Door by Kim Schilling

9/24/2008

Naked branches, far-reaching black silhouettes,
tapping their slender fingers on cracked windows.
Eerie winds whisk dead leaves across a buckled walk,
while a paint-chipped “for sale” sign creaks to and fro.

Astounded children gather to pass on the ghostly legend;
Old Man Johnson lived to be 103 in this haunted abode,
but his meals of flesh and bones kept him young and spry,
inviting in all who dared touch the knob on his front door.

One by one people began to disappear from the streets,
while Old Man Johnson grew fatter and more malevolent.
Scarlet blood seeped out of rusted drainpipes onto thirsty soil.
Thick, pungent smoke erupted from the slanted brick chimney.

The house grew hungry with the taste of meat and blood,
but the fated old man couldn’t keep the demons at bay.
Murderous screams can still be heard on Halloween night,
and ghastly crimes shadowed through the ragged blinds.

No one knows for sure what happened behind the door,
but some brave children have crossed paths with it.

Those Were the Days by Kim Schilling

9/24/2008

Passing notes back and forth;
“Do you think he likes me?”
“Check Yes or No or Maybe”.
Those were the days,
Of youth and innocence.

And scurrying off to church;
“Don’t be late! God is watching!”
But stealing a church newsletter,
illusory proof that we’d gone,
heading to the malt shop instead.

Yes, those were the days…

And what about kickball?
I so rocked at that!
Smashing the ball with neighborhood kids,
waiting for dad to whistle for dinner.
Steaks grilling on the barbecue.

Later resting on the porch sipping 7-Up;
the school band practicing in the background,
and fireflies flying effortlessly around,
avoiding our glass jars and cupped hands.
Can you remember those days?

Stories being told around campfires,
scary enough to keep me awake,
but lulled to sleep by a loving mom.
“Remember these days”, she said,
“for they’ll soon be long passed.”

Dead Men Tell No Tales by Kim Schilling

9/24/2008

Cold gray granite
rests upon this sullen earth;
A tribute to a great man –
Who knew nothing of himself.

The spirit chained by deceit,
and heightened with lies
for all he felt lacked;
poisoned with self-loathing.

A mask melded to his weathered face
to conceal a misplaced soul,
lost long ago to all the ruse;
better than to be revealed.

Like the burden of a heavy heart,
carrying on the life of a impostor,
but to discern truth from fiction;
he is no longer a capable man.

Harnessed by a yoke of angst,
riddled with craving for extol;
such resistance finally sealing his fate,
and dead men tell no tales.

Symphony of Rain (extended version) by Kim Schilling

9/24/2008

Raindrops play for me
Beating gently in my heart
Sing sweet melodies

Oh, tug at my weakness
Give into my deepest desires
As you wash away my inhibitions
Cleansing me to purity, awaiting
Gentle caressing; lovers’ unity
Taking me to pure ecstasy
Oh, such sweet melodies
Rain down on me

Pallet of Radiance by Kim Schilling

9/24/2008

Sky’s dusk and sea embrace in a pallet of radiance,
while unfettered ocean flow sculpts beauty in rock,
and lays heavy saline blanket on the multihued sands.

Fragrance dances in a mist from the depths of purity,
invites me to purge myself of all intense burdens;
profound tranquility cascades fluidly over me.

Memorizing this panorama is but a gift to myself –
I fold it up tightly and keep it with me always;
A remembrance that I need only to wade so deep,
before life’s beauty and serenity tow me ashore.

Painted Face by Kim Schilling

9/12/2008

Grin
they said,
demanding
I hide feelings,
and show the false me.
Put on that happy face.
Repress the sadness and hurt,
for no one likes the lonely child;
or so they told me and I believed.
Swallow all that you know about yourself,
and lose your precious identity too.
So I painted my lips big and bright,
for all to see the cheerful me;
my soul sinister with time.
Now grown and on my own,
I fear being lost.
I am consumed,
but the paint
does come
off.

Multiplicity by Kim Schilling

9/12/2008

Multiplicity…
The result of man’s atrocity
Sick men absent of any integrity
Many brutal rapes of a child’s virginity
From their evil, twisted lures and duplicity
Cold hard facts, but for many a true reality
Such a lifelong affliction from a monstrosity
That we deal day to day with horrid indignity
Reveal ourselves in the mirror with such stupidity
And be viewed by wretched society as such an oddity
But to those who dare to look at us with gentle curiosity
Their stare will soften and discover incredible virtuosity
Our family of one, made up of many isn’t quite a simplicity
But a brilliant survival guide coming from a tragic calamity
We are known to be above in astuteness, far from mediocrity
Our internal endurance and strength comes from pure ingenuity
And creativity that keeps us alive, moving us closer to spirituality.

Miracle of Silence by Kim Schilling

8/8/2008

Miracle of Silence

Say not a word,
For silence is golden;
Heeding the warnings,
Of abusers from past,
And abusers of present.

The miracle of silence;
Hiding your secrets,
Cloaking your shame,
From all who would see,
Imperfections and impurity.

Life-breathing stillness;
A guarantee of existence,
Cold and absent of trueness;
A self devoid of wholeness,
And decaying pain within.

Silence - miracle or curse?

The Letter by Kim Schilling

8/8/2008

What would I write
If one more day I had
To share my feelings
Before God took you?

Would I filter the truth?
Say only loving thoughts?
For death cloaks my eyes,
Showing perfection before me.

Or be true to both of us,
Recollection of imperfection.
Bitter words it might hold,
Spoiling memories of you.

Suffering no greater loss,
I grip your picture tightly,
Searching for you in your eyes,
Praying to Him for wisdom;

With pen and paper in hand,
I can only wish now,
That I could have written -
The Letter.

Slots by Kim Schilling

8/6/2008

Brightly inviting
A test of courage and luck
Sucking you bone dry

What a Child Believes by Kim Schilling

8/6/2008

Look me in the Eyes -
For I am a blank slate,
Waiting for your words;
Speak to my tender soul,
And enlighten me of my worth.

Looking to you I believe –
That truth must flow freely;
Making you all powerful,
To a loving, trusting child,
Prepared to be good or bad.

Make me worthless now –
Flowing words of disdain,
Cutting deeply into my heart.
Would you not see the scars?
A bad child grows into pain.

Or build me up with love –
Speaking with gentle kindness;
Guiding me into self-awareness.
Would you do that for me?
A good child grows into beauty.

A Poet's Curse by Kim Schilling

8/28/2008

See
deeply
into the
core of writers
so true to themselves
undaunted to make known
they bear their hearts openly
with bravery and hope for break
and willingly pen their darkest pains
pulling from the depth of madness within
knowing they make vulnerable their souls
to predators in search of swift feasts
made easy by open flesh wounds
bitter smell of truthfulness
a trusting writer’s curse
doesn’t have to be
but the writing
so defines
poets
see?

Sounds of a Tear by Kim Schilling

8/26/2008

If tears made a sound, would they speak the truth?
Would love’s tears whisper sweet melodies?
Or mother’s mourn a banshee scream!
Surely tears of joy echo!
And ecstasy hollers!
What about torture?
Must be noisy!
Would tears yell?
or just
flow?

Sand Castles by Kim Schilling

8/24/2008

Girls
Playing
In the sand
Building castles
Dreaming of princes
To take them far away
From their pain and suffering
Left unseen behind their small smiles
That they have worn for a short lifetime
For to wear anything else would mean death
But together they have found some comfort
In each other and their visions they know
To believe in something greater
Mighty God high to restore
Faith in people and selves
And move on in life
To pain no more
But to live
Be freer
Dream