Selected Poetry by P.C. Scheponik

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What Mrs. Gladys Told Me

I remember when I was just a boy, our next door neighbor

was Mrs. Brown. I called her Mrs. Gladys. She called me

her “little man child.” She used to let me dig the prizes out

of her cereal boxes: a plastic robot with a string and small

weight at the end that would make the robot walk across the

kitchen table when the weight was hung off the side, and a

small rubber frogman I would drop in her filled bathroom

sink, flippers first, and watch him twirl down to the chrome

stopper in a plume of tiny bubbles. Mrs. Gladys told me

many things, but the most important one that I always

remembered– even to this day, in this poem was to never be

satisfied, to always be sure to want a little bit more; because

once you were finally satisfied, that’s when you would die. I

remember the combination of awe and fear I felt when I

heard those words, saw her soft, brown eyes behind the large

dark frames of her glasses. Her forearm resting against the

table’s edge, the cigarette tilted upward between her middle

and forefinger, the smoke rushing out of her nostrils in light

gray streams. The smile of her bright red lips, the streak of

lipstick smeared across her front teeth. There was something

in those words that reached deep inside of me–a truth I

accepted, though I could not comprehend, like a catechism

lesson or a Bible verse. So that even now, at almost 70, far

older than Mrs. Gladys was– I am afraid to say I am

satisfied. I prefer to keep death away by always wanting a

little bit more– using my want list like a novena or a charm,

or a splash of lamb’s blood above my door.

My Want

There is something that I want—

never to forget the beauty of this world:

The pebble lifted from the salt foam and sand,

still glistening in its sealed goodness,

its beauty compacted into truth so dense

I can hold it in the palm of my hand,

like the head of a nail, like a collapsed star.

My soul becomes a black hole swallowing

all the loveliness it can hold, even more.

My heart is spinning galaxies, constellations

of dandelions, nebulae of ocean mist and dune roses.

My mind is silver-side of sun-kissed fish

in the talons of osprey— cloud high with urgency,

wring-wrought with hunger.

My will is pulsar of sunset surf, red wine and sunlight

the color of blood and stars spilling their shimmer

into memory’s bag. Their lights fall like diamonds,

like glass beads, like marbles that I fling,

let roll across infinity’s floor.

I want never to forget.

I want more, and my more wants more.

Take me to the mansion of not forgetting.

Tell me the right door that I might knock,

that my want might be received.

Scent of Spring

This morning, Bella was smelling the snow,

between the blades of frosted grass

that shown with the light of the rising sun.

She buried her nose deeply among the blades,

down to the dark brown frozen earth.

I imagined she might be sniffing for spring,

some canine instinct foraging for rebirth

locked below the grass and snow,

beneath the root-hair ceiling where bulbs

dream of flowering, and earthworms turn

in humid sleep, where moles patrol the deep terrain,

tunneling their hungry way to grub-filled feasts,

where earth gorges itself with nitrogen

in preparation to feed April’s seeds.

I wondered if Bella felt all this each time she breathed

the aromas of snow-covered ground.

I watched her wet nose quivering, nostrils bright and flaring,

as if she had found spring’s beating heart.

In truth, I could not be sure if what I was seeing

was simply my imagination, Bella’s animal instinct,

or nature’s revelation of her flawless art.

But I knew there was an answer to be found

buried deep beneath the winter ground,

and Bella would keep smelling around until

she knew what it was.

P.C. Scheponik is a lifelong poet who lives with his wife and their shizon. His writing celebrates nature, the human condition, and the metaphysical mysteries of life. He has published six collections of poems. His work has also appeared in numerous literary journals. He is a 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee.