Poetry – Janice Lynch Schuster

The Cocktail Napkin Love Poems: To Help You Through The Night

In college I used to write poems on cocktail napkins while frequenting happy hours with my boyfriend or other students…why not? Happy Hour at Huck’s had twenty-five cent glasses of wine and I was 18 and full of myself, and wildly in love with language and a man who swept me to another world.

In these pandemic days and nights, like so many other people, I find myself alone, wondering what to do next to fill the long days and nights while we wait for this disaster to pass. For me, being alone has always given rise to creative thoughts and energy. This go-round it reminded me of those old cocktail napkin poems. And so I began to write them again, this time using the “Notes” function on my iPhone: that tiny screen surely approximates the size and weight of a cocktail napkin.

This collection, The Cocktail Napkin Love Poems: Short Verses for Long Nights, includes about thirty love poems, inspired by memory, family, relationships, marriage, and the world I observe every day. The poems are simple and easy to read. They would not a degree in English to parse…just a loving heart. Some of them would make great text for a wedding invitation, or a love letter when your own words just can’t get you there. The cover illustration is by my friend, Anita Ewing, a fellow member of the Muddy Creek Artists Guild, and was inspired by the poem, “We are Diving”:

Near the coral where the fish
are a rainbow of color
only more subtle for they catch
light and move more quickly
than we can tell each other to look.
When I say, “I love you,”
words are like that–
Magnificent and fast.
Watch me instead.
Just now I am a dolphin
bounding for the air

“We are diving” in The Cocktail Napkin Love Poems

The book is available via Amazon, in paperback and in Kindle and, just now, is free on Kindle for those who are members of Amazon Prime.

For those of you embarking on new romances or engagements or in need of Valentine’s Love or anniversary specials, here is my own favorite (from my own book).

What were my dreams
Before I dreamt you?
What were my words
Before I spoke you?
Was there a song
Before I heard you?
I see the world before me.
I see everything
I see you.
From “What Were My Dreams” in The Cocktail Napkin Love Poems

Of course I hope you’ll buy my book or read it in Kindle. Even more, if you’ve read this for, I’d love to hear your comments on these poems. I did not submit to the usual literary journals because these aren’t literary poems. These are cocktail napkin love poems. Love endures. In hard times it is all we have. So perhaps for this little while my poems will help some of you out by going through.

Dreaming of Margaret

There are no ghosts for me to fear. When you arrive here, mid-dream, post- midnight, you appear whole and rested, your mind ready and quick as ever. We get on with things. You are dressed in our favorite shade of purple–you were the only grown-up who dared love such color in my Seventies childhood of … Continue reading “Dreaming of Margaret”

There are no ghosts for me to fear.
When you arrive here, mid-dream, post-
midnight, you appear whole and rested,
your mind ready and quick as ever.
We get on with things.

You are dressed in our favorite shade
of purple–you were the only grown-up
who dared love such color in my Seventies
childhood of mustard and green. I wanted
to be just like you: confident enough
of what I could do to do it.

Tonight, you must be near, reminding
me of things I have forgotten.
Just one more time, we stand side
by side and cheer our candidates
and make poor jokes. We walk
arm in arm, to New York City

and a theatre. Your diamond smile,
your perfect hair. The best day
I’ve had all year. Then the dog

barks and the sun snaps
through the blinds. To find
you, I see, I need only
close my eyes.

JUST BEYOND THE GARDEN GATE

I ate that apple, whole. I spit its tiny black seeds into my hands. Later, I’ll plant them to see what clay makes, other than that creature who found me here, blaming me for that ache in his side, and a chunk missing from the apple in his hand. No one said Paradise would be … Continue reading “JUST BEYOND THE GARDEN GATE”

I ate that apple, whole. I spit
its tiny black seeds into my hands.
Later, I’ll plant them to see
what clay makes, other than that
creature who found me here, blaming
me for that ache in his side, and a chunk
missing from the apple in his hand.

No one said Paradise would be easy,
or that a bed of roses—I’m talking thorns, hon—
is a place I’d ever lay my head.

Adam is off, shaking his fist at me
and pleading with the clouds. I will not
let him drag me down,, all that anger
and finger-pointing. Who has time?

O! This sweet apple is so filling,
its skin so red and unblemished.
O! That satisfying crunch every bite
I take! That hard white center
is irresistible. For all the trouble
it has caused, I am savoring
every morsel. It is so ripe,
my lips run with juice.

key words: poetry, Janice Lynch Schuster, Eve, Garden of Eden, apples

ANGELS PASSING TIME

for Meme, 1920-2015 Birds flew, like checkmarks in the sky marking off the clouds. Where I stand, I can close one eye and squint. I find your face, drifting in the light. Birds travel so quickly and far, to a place I can only imagine, not know. Where I stand in the snow it is … Continue reading “ANGELS PASSING TIME”

for Meme, 1920-2015

Birds flew, like checkmarks in the sky
marking off the clouds. Where I stand,
I can close one eye and squint.
I find your face, drifting
in the light. Birds travel
so quickly and far, to a place
I can only imagine, not know.

Where I stand in the snow
it is cold. We once stood here,
together, eyes lifted to the sky
as it darkened for a storm.
You told me I had nothing to fear,
you were near and would not leave me.

Anyway, you added, thunder is only angels
bowling, and lightning, the devil’s anger.
He is a poor sport, you said.
And what about the rain, I demanded.
“Just rain,” you said,
so much magic could only go so far.

Have faith, you told me,
though you cannot see.
We were on a balcony
full of last summer’s flowers,
their dried heads nodding
in the wind.

KEY WORDS: grandmother, heaven, faith, angels, poetry

LAST WALTZ

for Grandmom Because she believed, I did, all those Sundays she filled me with forbidden fruits, a grandmother’s reward for having persevered. Everything tastes better with sugar, even oranges and secrets kept from home. In old St. Jerome’s church, we’d kneel for communion, long after my parish priest had dispensed with being an intermediary … Continue reading “LAST WALTZ”

for Grandmom

Because she believed, I did,
all those Sundays she filled me
with forbidden fruits,
a grandmother’s reward
for having persevered. Everything
tastes better with sugar,
even oranges and secrets
kept from home.

In old St. Jerome’s church,
we’d kneel for communion,
long after my parish priest
had dispensed with being
an intermediary for God,
and handed me a wafer
All that was holy
flourished in my palm.

The years sped by so fast,
time invisible as angels.
Now, though belief is less rote,
I mouth her prayers
to lift her journey
to its end. If there were candles
I would blaze a trail.

I smell her Noxzema kisses
and count pennies won
at gin rummy, and remember
how I danced on her toes
and she laughed.
“Step lively,” she’d say.
“Here’s your hat,
what’s your hurry?”

Surely, now, some light-
footed prince has freed
a card for her and swept
her away in a drift
of stars, a cascade of ‘wow’
a mystery that sets
her free.

Key words: poetry, end-of-life, vigil, grandmothers, family, grief

GARDEN IN WINTER

The gardening catalogues land with their beautiful images of what you could pull from the dirt if only you had the latest tools in this year’s Pantone colors, and sand delivered from some Holy Land. If only you outfitted the place with brilliant bottle trees in primary colors to remind you of an African sun … Continue reading “GARDEN IN WINTER”

If only you outfitted the place
with brilliant bottle trees
in primary colors to remind
you of an African sun
you have never glimpsed.

If only your beds
were smoothly made in boxes,
deer proofed. If only your kitchen
garden grew herbs fit
for the mouths of queens.

As it is, just promises
of summer, empty as your head
that night in the bar
when the married man
tied his gold ring to his shoe
laces and told you he knew
how to make love grow.

key words: Gardeners Supply Outlet, Audobon Society, Homestead Gardens, Riva Gardens, gardening, flowers, love

Possession

on hearing Jeffrey Harrison describe the shoulders of women My shoulders are not on display. If they ripple, it is strength from years of propping others up. If they are bare, it is that I had no time to cover myself. If they are strong it is because I made them so. They are not … Continue reading “Possession”

on hearing Jeffrey Harrison describe the shoulders of women

My shoulders are not on display.
If they ripple, it is strength from years
of propping others up.

If they are bare, it is that I had no time
to cover myself. If they are strong
it is because I made them so.

They are not your wishbones.

If my hips curve, it is from bearing
down too hard to release new lives.
If my breasts swell, it is from feeding people.
If I walk with a sway, it is because I need
to be someplace, fast. There are places

I must be, alone.

This body was made for me, not you.
It is no one’s for the taking.
Just because you bit some shiny apple
doesn’t mean I’m yours.

Key words: writer’s almanac, poetry, possession, feminism

Balance of Power in the Pharmacy

I meet a boy who carries a notebook in his breast pocket. “That’s quite a weapon,” I tease, pointing to the blue stain spreading across his lab coat. He is a man, but so clean-shaven and slim, he seems young enough to be a child. High school job, I think, or between classes. We wait … Continue reading “Balance of Power in the Pharmacy”

I meet a boy who carries a notebook in his breast pocket.
“That’s quite a weapon,” I tease, pointing to the blue stain
spreading across his lab coat. He is a man, but so clean-shaven
and slim, he seems young enough to be a child.
High school job, I think, or between classes.
We wait for my pain pills, which the pharmacist measures
so slowly, he could be using coffeespoons.
His lilting accent assures me I will be relieved.
We are close to done, he says, counting pills.

We are far from it.

The man-child says he is two years
past the Navy, where he worked on ships that lined
the suffering shores of the world, witness to the worst
humans could visit on the living.

He tells me his thoughts move faster
than debris in a hurricane, and he gathers them
in the notebook, trying to piece
his life together again. If only he could collect
them all in one place, put a lid on them,
bury them deep, and move on.
Then, he says, he might find sense
in this incomprehensible place.

What is poetry that does not save nations
but souls? The kid mentions that he is a lefty,
able to spot four-leaf clovers in fields of grass and weeds.
He collects them in his wallet.

Life shoots dreams down. To him, I am one more old woman
with pain pills and worry and grey temples and belly fat.
I want to hold his smooth young hand in mine
and tell him how little we know but this:

words, gathered like storm clouds
on a horizon can unleash a torrent
that changes the landscape of this world.
What’s in his mind, he says, he cannot see.
But it is there, and ready.
He did not sail so many seas, he promises,
for his voice to be lost in the wind.

key words: Janice Lynch Schuster, veterans, dreams, writing, creativity, poetry

All Soul’s Day

For Grandmom June 26, 1915-November 4, 1994 I was born into a golden dream of an old woman’s heart. She held me when others could not, rubbed my ear, whispered lullabyes, rocked me hard or soft. I thought I’d always be her doll. What I held for granted vanished that November, all the gold in … Continue reading “All Soul’s Day”

For Grandmom
June 26, 1915-November 4, 1994

I was born into a golden dream
of an old woman’s heart.
She held me when others could not,
rubbed my ear, whispered lullabyes,
rocked me hard or soft.

I thought I’d always be her doll.

What I held for granted vanished
that November, all the gold
in the world could not have saved us.

My turn to whisper, then, holding
her rosary in both our hands,
my incantations some lament
I could not name. I thought she’d always
be mine to love. Our souls surely rested
together in worlds that do not end.

What would I trade
for one more moment
in the corona of her love,
science of her affection,
calculation of her black pen
working problems in ink
until I understood what ‘x’ equaled?

I would always be her doll.
We could pack the car again,
drive out into the night,
just over the speed limit,
me in my pink seersucker skirt,
her with a map and quarters
enough for any toll.

What river could we not cross,
to get back on that highway
that lasted beyond night?

tags: grandmothers, love, grief

Steel

I was forged by desire, hot, molten, flaming that lovers stoked at their own risk. They melted into me. I was hammered by love, reduced by its aftermath. My leaden feet lifted by force of will, I learned to dance with monkeys and their crosses and that weight on my back. What else could we … Continue reading “Steel”

I was forged by desire,
hot, molten, flaming
that lovers stoked
at their own risk.

They melted into me.
I was hammered
by love, reduced
by its aftermath.

My leaden feet lifted
by force of will,
I learned to dance
with monkeys
and their crosses
and that weight
on my back.

What else could we do?

When nothing ever happened
on time, when doors slammed
with us behind them,
when we witnessed
everything
but saw nothing,
when we prayed for help,
and were left to ourselves?

Weren’t we all steeled
by love, etched on singular
faces, long after the bodies
have gone to dust?

What wouldn’t we try
to be so warm
again, to strike
over and over,
casting our mistakes
without regret?

key words: Janice Lynch Schuster, poetry