I’m unwrapping into the foliage 
of my own blossom.
Petals fall and tear from my stem
though I’m always growing
as another season dawns 
a bud falls off
I cast it away 
determined to sprout anew 
in the summer 
of my annual journey 
of motherhood.
The seasons may change, 
the flower may wilt 
and die to another life.
A hand may pick at me 
and break away the strongholds 
of yesterday.
I may replant myself, 
a new seed for a new season.
I grow steadfast to my roots, 
watered, and nourished 
by the soil I tend
with each passing day 
taking time for myself to rest, 
have fun and rejuvenate.
The words I keep for myself.
You are treasured.
You matter.
I hear you and you are splendid now.

~Cynthia Schaefer

From Mothering Me: Poetry for Moms with Toddlers

Mother to Child
One day I will search for you.
Find you where I lie 
in rose-colored fields 
full of life and warmth.
The day will lend on end 
to your soft hands and warm cheeks 
flush with playful intrigue.
There I will be looking back at you.
Smiles all around.
Face to face with scrunched-up 
noses.

Wife to Husband
Light will dance 
for us in candle, 
sun, and bulb.
Little lines 
in corners of our eyes
shine with experience 
of the years gone by.
My love, I draw you near, 
taste your lips, 
and squeeze you tight.
Alone with you, I wish to be, 
but alone is hard to come by.

~Cynthia Schaefer

Wrapping my arms around myself
the world opens to see me 
in a new way,
that life has drowned out my voice 
like water erodes land.
I long to hear the sound 
of my bayou that calls 
in gator bellows, pelican squawks, 
and flatboat motors. 
The estuaries reverberate 
in wakes that slap the shore. 
Gators slip under, 
awaiting the time to snatch a snack.  
Egrets dip their extended legs 
and beaks in the slimy mud 
to snatch an eel. 
Drifting along the currents,
expanding in the long years
that ask for more time 
as the marsh gives way to ocean.


Time given and taken away
in the borrowed sand of others,
pressed firm in oyster beds, 
hoping to form pearls.
Casting bait off
the warm shorelines 
of Bayou Lacombe 
that found its way 
into my heart. 
Still free to be 
the one I’ve always been 
and longing for the desires of tomorrow. 
I wander past the tall grass 
to unwrap my soul.
​
~Cynthia Schaefer

Not getting what you need 
hits the brick wall, 
shattering the hopes 
and expectations
like glass propelled by a rocket 
without a parachute.
I feel like a failure.  
Like I can’t do this anymore.
Somehow, my distorted view 
of who I should be
doesn’t match with who I am.


Boom! The rocket’s launched, 
glass bottle on top.


Why do I feel so lost?  
I can’t seem to get it together.
Then sadness and depression hits, 
when relief does not come.
Frustration with self to push down 
the walls of soldier on and I can do it all.
Why is the call for help so hard? 
Boundaries so hard to define, 
enforcement a control freak mess.
I hate myself sometimes. 


The rocket fuel burns out. 


I do my best to move onward, 
like a baby moving down the birth canal 
each step I take, I am sucked two steps back.
It is painful to feel.  
I need self-love and gratitude.
So drained of energy. 


Glass bottle plummets 
with its booster.


I need to find happy, 
after this spiral dive 
into sadness and anger.


Glass hits the ground,
surrendering its feeble parts 
in an unshakable quake.


Come out of this!  
You are stronger than you think.
You can get what you need. 


Why can’t I allow myself to feel? 


Lean into the pain 
like I encourage my children to do. 
Allow the shards to rest 
in their brokenness 
before the clean-up crew 
comes to take them away

I refuse to hold to a cultural norm 
that women do the housework. 


No, not anymore.


I’m done with judgments 
I can’t abide or control. 
It’s not mine to do anymore.


I’m tired of all you place on me, 
from the dishes to the childrearing.
I love my children, and why is it 
always me taking them 
when they are sick.
Doing all the doctor appointments. 
In charge of meal planning 
and the bathrooms.
Upholding a standard 
that I can’t keep up with, 
I spit in your face at the load 
you ask me to take.


I don’t want it anymore,.


No one should have to live up 
to the cleanliness level 
you show on TV.
Forget the health benefits. 
If no one helps, you can shove it!


Who said I could do it all? 


You had a role in this didn’t you.
Why did I think 
it was all mine to bear? 
When I went to work, 
the load, not fair.


Was I the weaker sex 
to take the blame 
that everyone says 
will put me to shame?
How did I not see past 
the gender bias to notice 
the divide of duties felt one-sided?
Why do you judge me and not him 
for the state that my house is in?


Who named me CEO 
without a golden parachute 
to catch me mid-air 
when the chaos of clutter 
and dirt enveloped my home? 
Too cheap to hire subordinates, 
all the duties on my shoulders 
so heavy I can barely move 
my neck side to side. 
The children I shuttled 
to daycare and back. 
The times I missed at work 
when my parents couldn’t 
risk their health 
to care for my sick babies. 
How is this right?


Then the guilt you put on me 
for being at work. 
My children spent 
more time at daycare.
When I quit my job 
to make it easier on me, 
I said goodbye to daycare, 
the women who took care of me. 
Then I really took it all, 
plus more guilt from you 
for not contributing.
Because nothing I did 
had money coming in. 


Society, why don’t you value me?


Where is the balance beam 
that allows me to walk effortlessly? 


All I do is fall.


Society, I realize these choices 
are all my own and somehow 
I’m not alone.
​

I toss and I turn.

His snores sound like bongs 
in my head. 
I thought I’d get use to them.
Most nights I drift off 
like a fire smoldering,
flickering out, 
smoke streaming 
puffing fast.
The last bit of thoughts 
burning in my mind
are swiftly snuffed 
as slumber takes me.

Not tonight. 

The day left me with logs stacked as high
as my shoulders, yet to burn.
Each one takes its time to light, 
crackle, and ignite the one above it. 
Worry from the words I said,
the actions I took, 
the movements quick.
Tears of self-hatred fall on regret.

Burning anger, spreads to fury,
fueled by kerosene of, how dare you? 

No, how dare I?

Bonfire-high flames as tall as trees 
spout up, reflected in my eyes.
Blue hues losing me in the night sky.

Out of control, the flames
pop out of holes traveling
from one dead stump to another.
We all burn in the ghosts 
of our mothers.
No way to soak this 
without a firetruck. 
Will that be enough?
Will it all collapse,
light the columns of my porch,
turn brick and shingle to ash?
Will the damage be permanent?

Tears rush down my face.
When did I get so angry?
Fear turned the corner. 
Helplessness filled the door.
Opening up to, you’ll do it my way.

NOW!

Another log burned black, 
cratering amber center,
splits open the heart,
shaking my limbs,
filled with thoughts of,
they are better off 
with someone else.
​
~Cynthia Schaefer 

During National Poetry Month, I wrote 25 poems and put out on TikTok and Facebook 7 poetry reading videos. I recorded more than that, but I'm not counting those. In celebration and for my own research and enjoyment, I attended the New Orleans Poetry Festival Small Press Fair. It was a wonderful experience and I got to hear local poets live as well as meet other poets and publishers. If you live in the area, I highly recommend checking it out. When I can figure out how to get my videos on here, I will post my readings on this website of the two poets I met from the festival. It feels good to support other poets. Anyway I am pretty stoked that I almost wrote a poem everyday in April. How did you celebrate poetry in April? Feel free to comment below. #NaPoWrMo

I've selected two poems from each of the five sections of my book Present Peace for you to preview. At the end of each section is a button "Keep Reading" that links to the next section. Thanks for visiting my blog and I hope you enjoy the preview. Feel free to leave me feedback in the comments or email [email protected]. I would love to hear from you.

Dear Reader,

Welcome and thank you for joining me on this poetic journey through fear, doubt, anger, and grief to find a landscape more joyful than we imagine, an open door of inspiration for our dreams, and a well of love for ourselves.

Present Peace is a poetry collection that I wrote while going through a spiritual awakening and very transitional period in my life because I quit my job to focus on my kids. This experience cracked me open to realizing the work I needed to do to become the person I wanted to be for myself and my children. I no longer had a title or a purpose outside of my family. I was lost in a fog, but I knew the fog would lift. It did! Then I rediscovered my love for poetry. 

Poetry helped me process my pain, heal from old trauma, and allow space for my desires to be heard. It also helped me connect to the present moment, where I found so much joy and serenity. This profound awakening I share, hoping you will see the beauty around you now, so you may sense the peace and joy that I have internalized by watching leaves fall. May it gently open you up to your own aspirations and guide you back to yourself as it has done for me. This collection shares my love of creation, explores my fears, embraces my loss, and steps into my vulnerability. I share this collection with love and compassion as you step into my world through your eyes. 

Sincerely,

Cynthia Schaefer

Present Peace

Dear Lord, do not change 
me. Transcend my needy 
ways. Wash over the 
thoughts I harbor. 
Take away the problems 
I create today, 
not by changing 
or intervening, 
but by reminding me 
of present peace.

Let love flow through me.
Let your gentle joy tickle 
thoughts away. For I 
thought that thinking 
would save me, 
but freedom from thoughts 
is the only way.

Hold me in your glory.
Wrap my heart in your love.
Let the present fill my cup.


Thunder Rolls on Quiet Minds

Thunder rolls, cracking across 
the sky. I heed your grumbles 
and go under roof. Fascinated 
with you, I’m here outside 
to witness. I hear your deep, 
loud, vibrant power. Your 
sound reminds me of the metal 
sheets people expand and 
contract to feebly mimic you. 
But the real thing is ominous, 
the gray, dark, cloud-covered 
sky, foreboding. I like to think 
you make us pause and hide 
from you like a dog who is 
afraid of storms. The light-
ning spark follows you as you 
continue your rumble, 
illuminating the sky 
for a moment. You seem old 
and grumpy like a grandpa.

I’m not afraid of your menacing 
sounds or the flashes that 
follow you. The wind relaxes. 
Your roars subdue. Wonderful, 
the sounds of nature--
mystifying and unpredictable 
where you will leave your 
mark. The awe of this light 
display inspires this writer’s 
heart. 

I dream of doing great 
things, but the reality is all 
so touching. Basking in my 
everyday life is more healing 
than escaping to unrealized 
experiences. The life unseen 
is the life unlived, hungered for 
but unsatiated. 
Thinking, dreaming, doing 
cannot be more important 
than stillness, observation, 
and quiet reverence 
for the world around us.

Disappointment

You, dread of expectations
that falters on my head, 
how sour you taste in 
my mouth. The corners 
of my lips turn down. 
An effort was overdone, 
and now disappointment 
spits out frustration and 
sadness of a desire left 
unquenched. Though I 
wonder at pining’s distortion 
because nothing can foster 
joy like internal consciousness. 
Yet, caught up in lost things 
and experiences, we delve deep 
into anger.


Fury

Entangled in my fury, 
my well of anger is deep.
I fear that I will not come out 
of its pit—endless, dark, and 
wide. The anger moves to grief.
My life is a mess of covered nets
in the landfill of my mind.

I refuse this rage to the point 
that acknowledgment feels 
false. I know it’s there. 
The pump’s turned on, 
its pressure pushing the anger 
out of me. It spills out in faucets
I wish I could turn off, 
but it leaks. Smother it.  
But from the depths, it seeps
into my life in ways I do not 
wish like a faucet left on, the 
water fills my being and 
sputters onto the floor.
Sometimes there’s an overflow 
channel, where I stop mid-
scream and take a breath. 
When I’m unaware I’ve 
brimmed over onto everyone, 
then I must repair. Sop it up 
on my hands and knees as 
much as I can to take it back. 
Though there’s no guarantee 
some won’t ooze into the walls. 
Molding our relationships. 
Damage not so easy to fix
with a pile of sheets. Sorry 
is not always a solution, 
but a good start. Sorry is better 
than pretending the water’s 
meant to flood the floor.

Anger, I know you have a place 
in my life. I know I must adjust 
my dripping valves to let you 
come out efficiently. It’s hard to 
find the awareness of anger,
between the trickle and the 
flood. Tears of sad frustration 
fall on my cheek, lie still there,
and then creep slowly down.
I wish I could uncover you in a 
way that does not let me down.
​

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