Of The Fire

Like Great trees in a storm,
Lives uprooted
People, Animals,
Devastated, Numb.
Walking in circles
Staring un-comprehending.
At footprints, Their own.

Of the Victims.

Least important, Possessions,
Things that can be replaced.
But the memories, the pictures, the letters, a lock of a baby’s hair.
From parents, children, loved ones,
Faces lost forever, Dim memories,
They diminish, fade away
Like the fire’s smoke.

Of those who Help.

Compassion , Yes, but tempered.
Distance is demanded for Objectivity, for Sanity.
Eyes that see – Too much.
The faces stoic, oft times sad.
Their actions, rehearsed, competent.
But in their hearts a joy, a relief,
Not their homes. Not their families.

Of the Future.

What remains?
Pain, Anger,
The will to survive - The will to pick up the pieces,
To go on.
But, no two hearts beat the same,
While one will lie in the ashes - Another,
Will Rise like the Phoenix.

It’s the way of things. Life, in all it’s complexity.

Bill Schatzabel December 22, 2008

End Of Summer

They grasp the last days of August
The diehards.
With nails lacquered
Hot pink, coral

The heels of last seasons Flip-flops
Dug in, with
Tanned backs braced
Against the calendars relentless march.

You’ve seen them, in
Short shorts and Mini-skirts
Hoodies turned up against the interloping chill
Hands retracted into copious sleeves

The sun is gone,
The evening sky forlorn
The temperature – has slowly begun
Its journey south

Conversations of
Beach parties and summer movies, have shifted.
Given way to the subdued anticipations
of school.

One season has ended and another begun.
Memories of youth, alive with power and passion -
Put away, like so many pressed flowers
To be re-opened and re-lived
On cold winter evenings.

Bill Schatzabel 09/15/2008

Of Rain & Convertibles

Driving with the top down
A commitment of sorts
Like life

And the showers forecast
Also like life
Sometimes sun, Sometimes rain

Should I stop,
Put the top up
Continue on in safety?

Or push on – and live,
Take a chance,
Mayby get wet.

I choose the latter,
With most of the rain
Deflected up & away.

Of the cold spray that gets through,
Striking my face
Stinging refreshment.

It tastes of life
It’s wonderful diversity,
Unexpected, Welcome.

It was not always so.
There was a crossroad,
A series of wrong turns, bad decisions.

I chose safety over confrontation,
Lies over truth, death over life,
So close - almost an end.

And to what End?
What would I have missed?
What would not have been?

The friends made,
The lives touched
Been touched by.

The experiences, good & bad,
The sunny days, the squalls,
The storms , the clearing.

I drive on.
I wipe the wet from my face – And Think,
Even this, Yes even this, would be missed.

Bill Schatzabel 07/01/2008

Rasberry Cafe

A little shop
A bowl of steaming soup
And a window view of the street

Where visitors hurry by
Sidestepping muddy puddles
Collars turned to the wet and cold.

I sit and sip, blowing when needed
Sip and listen, stealing lives
Cataloging emotions.

A stray word here, there
A head comes up, a furtive look
To recant if necessary, secrets revealed.

Some seem happy
Others sad
A few going through the motions.

Of what is expected
On this stage, at this time
Where the actors, are merely human.

Bill Schatzabel – April 12, 2008

Mother's Pub

The pub has central heating
But it’s the fire
Flickering in blues and yellows
That warm my bones , and attempts
To warm my heart

The damp and chill
Of this spring day
Is acceptable, albeit,
With fingers entwined, around,
Hot coffee.

Unlike the fall
With it’s portent of
Inhospitable cold
Spring is endured – even welcomed
The precursor of summer.

The harbinger
Of long hot days,
Girls in summer frocks,
Boys in muscle tees,
The smell of suntan lotion – permeating the air.

Even summer’s sweat is
Clean and fresh,
Visited upon tanned limbs,
Running rivulets down lithe bodies

Spring whispers
Of life to come – but
Summer cries out
Life has arrived.
Life in full and complete glory

A moment
A time
A witness ,
God’s covenant renewed.

Bill Schatzabel – April 12th, 2008

All My Years

I feel my years today
All three score and three
My bones ache from use
My heart from other things.

I feel my years this day
In the games of the young
What joy to run with wild abandon
Even better to scream as well.

I feel my years most keenly
In those left behind
A mother's warm smile
A cousin's quick wit

I feel my years in flash-backs
In memories triggered
By a song or a fragrance – An image -
Of A boy, A girl

I feel my years
In all things mundane -
A street in New York, A shop in Paris,
A drive in the country, a walk on the beach.

I feel all my years this day,
And celebrate as well,
All the missteps I've taken
And living to tell.

Bill Schatzabel - April 16, 2008
Revised April 10, 2009

Four Boys At The Rivers Edge

Four boys at the rivers edge
Doing what boys do
Amusing themselves
With rocks and stones
Skimming across the turbulent surface.

No care for tomorrow
No memory of yesterday
Only hear and now
With compatriots enthusiastic
A time and place of their choosing.

Not a meeting, not a care
Save hunger or thirst
Those most basic of needs
To dispel the moment
To warrant their attention.

I remember it well,
When once I ran.
Where once I fell,
And skinned a knee,
And then forgot.

Those brilliant dreams of Youth, And now,
The harsh face of reality
But Oh, to go back! Just once –
And fling - with all my might
One - carefree - skimming stone.


Bill Schatzabel April 2008

The Peace Amidst The Noise

There is peace amidst the noise and
The din holds no sway.
The roar of the road,
The steady thrum of the engine,
A framework for the quiet within.

I flash – back – to a time
Lying on my back
With tracer rounds
Streaking overhead
Explosions all around.

Lying there and laughing
Sharing a joke,
A chocolate bar
Basic memories of basic training
A millennia past.

Or holding fast to a strap
Being banged and pulled
By the motion of the train
And yet, lost in a novel, Engrossed in a crossword
Oblivious to the chaos.

Such a curious thing
It allows us to look
Into a lover's eyes
We do not see the throng
We do not hear the cacophony.

At such times
The world shrinks
To eyes that smile
To a hand within a hand
Lips brushing lips

We hear and see but do not process
The mind’s eye has taken control
The filters are in place
The peace amidst the noise
The quiet of the soul.

Bill Schatzabel April 2008

The River Path

I walked this path once
Many torments
And heartaches past.

I walked not alone
This meandering trail
Along the rivers course.

Quietly now I walk
Remembering a time
Filled with talk , with laughter.

The path remains, the times are no more.
Along the rivers flow
Only we have changed.

Only we have changed.

Bill Schatzabel April 2008

And why are we doing this?

The sun did not quite make it up this morning. The cold permeates,
My bones, my body.
It insinuates between collar and neck.
It intrudes on my warmth and insults
My well being.

These then the thoughts
As I trudge through the sand
Me and some few stalwarts
Down to the waters edge
Where waves crash against
Resolute sand

We march heads down
And shoulders hunched
Our breath comes
Like hissing puffs
From great engines.
Great stupid engines.

We stop where wet sand
Meets dry.
We stare mutely ahead
To where slate sky
Meets blue-grey water
We stop but only briefly.

We know what comes
Of stopping.
We know the end result
Of waiting.
Shelter and warmth
Entice, they peck at our resolve.

The clothes come off
In a frenzy of activity
Until as one, we nod
To each other
And run into the surf

The mantra: Don’t stop,
With each yard,
Don’t stop
With each foot fall
Don’t stop and dive
Into the misty grey froth.

The shock is absurd
The cold hurts, numbs
My mouth opens but
No sound comes forth
Exhilaration and life in every breath.
And then the race for dry land.

It’s January 1st and
It seemed like the right thing
To do.
Not a mark of sanity
By any known test.
But a test all the same
A test of life, a test of friends
And – we passed.


Bill Schatzabel - Recounting New Years Day 2008

When Thoughts Come Unbidden

Driving along the
Twistings and turnings
Of that old road
Beside the river
Cold and Deep.

The high mid-winter sun
Filtering through
Branches, Bare branches, My eyes
Now in sun, now in shade
The dappled glare from melting snow.

The CD holds my favorite songs
But not turned on. No, not on,
Lest the music intrude
On me, on my solitude
On the task at hand

And then the thoughts,
Unbidden, Unwelcome,
Unwanted thoughts
Maneuvering through
The blocks, the land mines.

My defenses - lax
My heart vulnerable.
They cut and slash
These thoughts, these Damnable thoughts,
That refuse oblivion.

I swerve to avoid
A specter, a ghost
A remembered Fall from grace
Coldness grows in my stomach
I squeeze shut long dried eyes.

When will they leave me
Isn’t five years enough
To forget the loss, the pain.
Will they always be part of me.
Will they Always Come, Unbidden.

Bill Schatzabel February 2008

January the First

On that first of mornings
As the new year looms
Cold and Bright and Crisp
The bare, brown fingers of the trees
Reach to heaven. And wait.

Nothing stirs in the frigid air, Nothing moves.
And then slowly, as if being warmed
By the timid rays of the newly risen son
They come.

Slowly at first and then in ones and twos,
They come. Then, more and still more,
Alighting on branch and twig
In a dozen varieties, In a hundred colors.

They fly about, foraging for food.
They push and shove and sing.
Proclaiming new Life
New hope, New beginnings.


Bill Schatzabel – Jan. 1st, 2008