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In the Book

The poem sits
dead. It's innards are
frozen. The grass
is passing
through it's skin.
The poem is a shadow
covering tunnels
leading to little rooms
with tiny tables on which
are boxes. It's uneven
in its fog. Crisp
edges emerge when
the light shifts
and some of what
is suddenly seen
is a tiny bird.
The warm workings of its
life grind and slide,
lubricated by rusty
water from the sea.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 9:38 AM   0 comments 
Not a Nightmare

In dreams of shame and tension
not exactly nightmares,
without time
or distance,
I hear her say,
happening to me?
I don't
go near her again.
Nor does she want me.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 7:12 AM   0 comments 
New EBook Poetry about a life in flux.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 11:31 AM   0 comments 

The snowshovel
waves like a feather
and the cold white powder
gathers and tosses
puffing through the air.
The neighborman
dances, holding the
snowshovel's hand.
And when he
nears the end of the song,
a friendly door behind him
opens and a woman's face appears.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 3:45 PM   0 comments 
Avoidance Prayer

I wake up grateful
that something is not true.
It could be that the
black cat is not
glowering at me
from the top of the stairs
and I won't have to pass him,
so small but fierce.
It could be
someone's face
I don't see in the hall.
It could be that
today I'm not a slave.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 8:34 AM   0 comments 
My Memory of a Song by Elvis

I dreamed the singer's words:
"I can't help
falling in love
with you." It took time
said she,
with all
due consideration.
I found you,
winner of my heart.
It took time, said the singer,
to decide the contest.
I am a careful
incorruptible judge.
I awoke:
What a thrill
what honor!
Will contests of love
ever again
take place for me? Will
the victory of love ever again
take place for me.

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 3:32 PM   1 comments 
Three Suns in the Sky

posted by Don Schaeffer @ 7:15 PM   0 comments