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

That First Cup

That early morning ritual
Dark, swirling, steaming liquid
Held by, but also warming, two cold cupped hands
Slowly lifted to parted lips

Then with eyes closed shut against the insistent gloom,
Slowly breathing in the rich aroma
And then sipping, ever so slowly sipping,
That precious brew.

Outside the rain streaked and foggy window,
Accompanied by the muted sounds of steel on steel,
the world races past, to see where I have been.
But I, with my cup, sit, unchanging , uncaring,

Oblivious in my benediction.

Love - Hate - Father

I wrote this over a cup of coffee after attending a poetry seminar at the Geraldine Dodge Poetry festival in Waterloo Village last year. The next day I read it to an audience at the “open – mike” tent. This was painful to write and more painful to read.


He spilt his seed
In my mother’s womb
As a dog would lift
His leg to a tree
And piss.

I did him no harm
Except possibly to exist.
And yet he abandoned me
To life and world
To cold and death

A part of me . . is not
There is an emptiness, a hole,
I cannot name, what
I have never known.
I cannot feel, what
I have never felt.

But if he were not dead
I would hold him, kneel at his knees,
Cry endless tears and
Let my feelings consume him
Leaving only ashes
To fill the void in me.

If I knew of his grave
I would dig him up
I would kick, beat and curse him.
But most of all
I would talk to him
And say those things
A son can only say
To his father,
In the quiet of the night
And wait
For his reply.


Bill . . October 1st, 2006

An Attempt At Haiku

On a Cross of Pain,

Time and Space pause to witness.

The presence of Hope.


Bill, May 24, 2007

The Big Band

Fingers, snap, snap, snap
And four saxes
Spring to life
Blaring out the opening strains
Of “In The Mood”

Thoughts of the past
Mom and my sister
Moving in harmony
To the rhythm section,
A small Bronx apartment.

Memories of old movies.
Black, white, grainy, with a tinny sound.
Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman
John Wayne, World War II,
simpler times, terrible times.

The music changes
New song, new memories
Chuck Mangione, jazz trumpet,
Life in the 60’s and 70’s
Another war. Always another war.

The mood changes – To darkness,
“Our Love Is Here To Stay”, But wasn’t
A marriage, a shattered life, a suicide - almost.
The music blameless, a stake in the sand,
Marking a time, a memory.

And gone, like a fragrance,
Carried away by a breeze
Created by the piano
Hammering out a different song.
Infusing a different mood.

Bill – May 7th, 2007