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