Paul Schneiter

I know what is to become of this frame.
But I don't know how it will get there.
Heart attack? Cancer? Hit by a train?
The causes are endless and oft unfair
...

Some say you're not quite whole,
but I know better, Angel Child.
You live in a place all your own,
free, unhinged, sometimes wild.
...

Did you suppose it would be easy
wearing well these mortal clothes?
Did you not fathom Father's words
when this realm you freely chose?
...

Something about January
broods my blood to slush.
A new year's unknowns
hearkens hope to hush.
...

The son gathered the remnants
of his father's ninety-four years.
Faded photos, toiletries, pajamas
seen through the old man's tears.
...

He has a voice, and it taunts my being
trumpeting a truth earth-ages ringing.
I sense it now in my lack of seeing
a distant dirge someone is singing.
...

Sentences that make no sense,
words that are likewise afflicted.
Messages that are at best dense,
a vessel of verbiage is depicted.
...

It takes a spine spun of steel
to forgive a hateful infliction.
Many are wont to let it fester
mining malignity of malediction.
...

There's a place I'm longing to go
just across the river where finches fly.
It's a paradisiacal spot I alone know'
where the real me is ever standing by.
...

It's possible there is another you
just as decent and giving and good.
There may even be one as true
who'd bless every life if she could.
...