Poems and other Words . .
R G Schmidt/Slyd Blvd
R G Schmidt / Slyd Blvd has been creating poetry prose music art and related concepts for decades. This site has been created to house some of these items and open them to a larger audience.
We welcome like minded confidants to connect with the site.
The collection of Poems below are the property of R G Schmidt
The selections will be changed periodically.
The Three Cards
She peered from the small upstairs window
and a tear from heaven fell.
Her eyes so deeply set
Three cards in her hand
Her robe mostly untied
a white rose on its plume
Hair as wild as the April morning
wilder than the rose.
One card from a lover, one card from a son
the other card had not yet come.
To one it is ten years of years
Ten years of want,
imagination, triangles, fear, hurting.
To another it is impossible to comprehend.
The third card had no place
the trump card faceless.
And now in this space her hair fell upon,
as soft as the petals,
softer than the robe,
smoother than the lace.
And with that still look that was only hers
the wonder played on
as the lovers and souls
of those that loved her
slid by her in thin flames,
And her heart recorded every flicker.
She stooped to cling to the window,
sedating the air,
until her breast lay so soft,
as if asleep on her arm.
In a wink she had bowed to heaven,
and heaven should have acknowledged that call.
Through all the Worlds her gaze drove,
penetrant and not repentant.
As in the window she continued to hang,
and hang on to the three cards.
She wished he would come
and she was afraid of what might become of me.
Laying in the shadow,
within whose secret the white white dove had nested.
And I saw her from both sides now,
and beyond the window.
And I could lay my cheek to hers,
and I could stroke the babe inside of her
and whisper our love.
Hide pride and still speak,
hand in hand, as in once on earth.
But I could not hide the son
and the trump card
that would yet come.
She listened and smiled, sad but mild,
as the light rushed toward her
But soon, it's path would be vague and distant
Then she let her arms fall
and laid her face between the blinds
and then she wept.
And the tears she shed I cried.
. . . . Slyd Blvd 1993
Little boy ducks out from the window sill,
Dives and rolls across the floor,
Sees his buddy on the stairway,
And chases him out of the door.
They both yell and imitate the noises,
Of last nights TV show,
Starsky and Hutch of the living room carpet,
So much that little heroes don't know.
Jimmy props his toy gun to his shoulder,
And with a sharp grunt sound Troy Ritz is blown away,
He does two pained cartwheels and lands facedown on the pavement,
It was so cute to see the two pals play.
Jimmy's Dad had two more rifles on the living room wall,
I've seen him use 'em lots of times he told Troy Ritz,
We were in the country once in the winter time,
And this here big one tore a big tree all to bits.
By this time Troy was mighty impressed,
He watched with awe as Jimmy lowered that huge machine,
He ran for the door just like moments before,
And Jimmy chased him all the way to the screen.
But the real thing was to heavy for Jimmy to run with,
And when he tried to get through the door he bumped his head,
The rifle fell to the steps with a shattering crash,
Troy did two more cartwheels and was dead.
So when you are pushing through the Bay at Christmas time,
Wondering what to buy your loving son,
Listen to the cry, society,
Go out and get your kid a gun.
---- Slyd Blvd, 1970
One Bright Thing
As on a broken wing in silent lightening under the stars
madness, fear, burning.
And, oh yes, she knew,
That separate from my dream she could awake and escape and even
speak of hope for the world,
And maybe it was but a dream
to have gazed upon eyes so young and so fare,
and in a weary world,
to behold one bright thing.
---- Slyd Blvd, 1993
Oh Angel, with your lust still probing our world of pendulance.
Nasty Angel, still shaking my soul savagely and suspecting.
Because of you, no ideology, no images, no Irises, scream for me.
Airy Angel, hovering, haloing, never quite reaching, never quite arriving, too late.
When my music breaths you change it's steaming serenity to ice, it's shimmering silver to fire.
What chance, to live life untortured by desire?
It's not your heart, arranged and insecure, that will not allow or unchain delight despite desire.
And so alone to the unknown I lunge.
And with you the land of dreams remain a maze of fear where treasures of beauty burn.
Flames of attested ecstasy, above and beyond the realm that we purport to be of,
And Angel, do what you shall.
Triumph over me, but Triumph, over you and over me.
---- Slyd Blvd, 1990
The glory of the form,, the luster of the eye,, Beauty be not alone
The feel of the strength,, the bloom of the limb,, Lover be not alone
All this is for when he comes she said
Her eyes bled,, but she smiled,, I saw her smile
As she opened her arms and heaved all life aside
And she cried,, as she tried,, and I saw her cry
Do not take desire and regret to bed and try hand in hand to teach the unforgettable to forget.
Unforgotten pain will transpose no soul
Run through the spray,, jump the stream,, slip up,, greet the day alone
And this day can lead you home
---- Slyd Blvd, 1990
Fill Me With Novels
Some hearts tire, running a song so long
Some hearts inspire, then they're gone
And I stand at the airport my bag under my arm
Relieved that the fighting is over
Surprised that it did me so little harm
And suppose you had lived on that Island
With no ferry and no way to ride aside
And that you had met that African princess
You too would decide to hide
As she feeds you with all models of novels
And you become pleased to look at the tide inside
What do you do when one day you discover
That the novel is still in your mind?
And I stand all alone at the airport
My novel tucked under my arm
Because some hearts tire
But my heart is so inspired.
. . . . . Slyd Blvd 1976
The Midnight Hour I, II, III and IV
The Midnight Hour I
In the evening wondering and in the twilight lingering
what a specter!
To be stung by such a force of movement.
Excuse me for the intrusion and the expostition.
I dreamed I dreamed this day,
but am discovering my eyes to be wide awake.
Such surprise to reprise such size in my own eyes
side by side to a goddess so magnified.
Whispers of hopes heroes or heroines
in deepest treasures chill.
The Midnight Hour II
Blue fragrant evening mist settles calmly on the grasses.
Last I begin to see who I am.
My arms yearning to embrace and skin the tender hands
of the pending new day.
The Midnight Hour III
The most innocent and loveliest of visions appears
in the midnight hour
on howling wings.
Eyes inspire to let warm morn light in
to imbue and behold
a shrine, a temple, a sanctuary. Allow
to sleep, to lull, to murmur, to moan of perfect pain.
A victory for love.
The Midnight Hour IV
In the midnight hour reeling to greet the dawn
a child born.
The magic moment of crimson splitting sky
and a dawn of aurorean love.
. . . . . Slyd Blvd 1994
One Shot One Shock
One shot to the body and one shock to the head,
That's all that was said
Since creation cried – the skies were spied –
and the heavens were set ablaze
And as we journey from eternity to eternity
so unresponsive, so reverberating, so elaborately graced,
from the in most in and from the heart to the skin,
astonished and naive.
The crimson crutches at our side.
The innocents submit while the touchstones hide inside
Jerusalem for a day
Heaven in it's stride
Why let the light in when we had it made inside?
Pleasures often shown, but
I have known all along
First fruits then faiths
A quick and steady diet from the birth to the dead
On shot to the body and one shock to the head.
. . . . . Slyd Blvd 1993
The Dreamed Sleep
I've been around some, I guess
not sure how or why
but I've been tossed
off some rocks
and through some doors
somtimes the noise
sometimes the stench
somtimes the blindness
of the night
have thrashed me so near to the shore
Life, like the ocean ends at the shore . . .
And yes, we have met before,
not sure now just why – but I remember
I remember the posture
I remember the way you hung your head
as your scarf fell to the floor,
and the way your fingers bent
to pick it up . . . .
And now again, by what chance in this place
Worlds from our past
Blazed with our personal glories . . .
and you know I need to hold you
and I know your arms plead to mold me
the dreamed sleep.
. . . . Slyd Blvd 1993