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