Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Lover of Ghosts

Poets are
creatures of
spirit, soft, invisible
things whose existence
extends in time.
Hard things,
of the eyes,
of the earth, of matter
are for humorists and critics.
Poets are lovers,
engrossed in love
and memory of love,
in sad recollection,
and mourning.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

At Last the Day

The morning chills
but sunlight's reassuring.
Voices fill the house
so Samuel is not
alone as during the night.

The special lonliness of night,
all the weight,
hanging in space,
sips at the darkness,
drawing the vacuum.

Samuel's hand
scratching on the pillow
sounds like breathing.
He can make beast sounds,
half conscious nightmares.

see the video featuring pillow scratch sounds:

Friday, October 25, 2013

Bedding Down in the Colding

For the first time
since the end of Summer,
Mr. Nobody wears his socks to bed,
a sad admission that
things were going to get worse.
Can't count on the
warmth of mother nature's breast
to keep his mammalian nature intact.
When he wears his socks
and he pulls the thin duvet and the
extra purple woven Dacron blanket
up over himself he feels
warm enough to sleep.

The cat, Missy, who sleeps on his bed
wants to go out. This is Mr. Nobody's worse fear,
like a fear of urination
a fear that keeps him from resting.
Mr. Nobody throws off the blankets, rises,
swings his legs over the side of the bed
and rests his feet on the cold wood laminate floor.
He shuffles to the door
Missy follows.
Opening the back door, he feels
the dread of the betrayal.
Missy scoots out.

Now, before he can sleep, Mr. Nobody has to remember
to find her and let her in again, realizing now that
William, the male cat had been let out earlier.
He will have to recover them both.
Mr. Nobody doesn’t know why he cares so much
about the discomforts of the cats.
He doesn't know if they suffer the terrors
of the failing pact with nature as much as he,
probably they do not.

Mr. Nobody returns to bed, pulls the cover-sandwich package
over his legs then over his chest. He rests,
planning to rise in an hour to go out and find the cats.
Mr. Nobody is certain that when he calls the cats
after an obligatory time
they will agree to follow him,
almost as if they know what's
good for them.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

The Place of Delusion in a World of Fact

Life is small
and simple. Even
The years shrink.
The man knows
that his anomie
comes from the truth.

The world is a
blank on which
many impose comfort.
The secret of the blankness
sometimes leaks through
hinting of the truth.

The leakage
is the disease
which shuts down
the machinery of joy.
The man knows how
the delusion of self importance
is so much
better than the truth.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

The Most Authentic Life

The man lives with what they give him,
being one of those needy people
who can't construct his own
or even select from a much broader range
of things to be.
The man is awed
when he gets the signal to be awed,
when he receives signals about
enormity of this and that
his eyes should be disbelieved.
The signals might say
"this dwarfs you";
or could say, "this is beyond you,"
or that "the beauty here will humble you."
It will.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Rodney's First Tone Poem


Rodney sits at the piano in front of a fresh sheet of music paper. I can't really imagine what it's like. But Rodney can hear the whole of his score through the instruments imbedded in his brain. He writes notes like I write letters to my wife and daughter. He knows how the world inside the music differs from the world of the eyes. He writes with his vision, however, making the transition automatically from space to time. Then there is the emotional side. When he writes the emotion comes from something moving. He can see the motion, a textured point, some of it made of frozen time and some time liquid through which it passes. That is what feels, the blushing, paling, ever articulating moving point.

He rests after pushing his music up a steep hill, chugging, he is out of breath. He could feel the effort as the music tires, repeating the effort in cycles, rhythmic widening, slowly expanding. Rodney reaches the top. There is no higher in this world. He can now see nothing, feel nothing as the moment stops.

Rodney described how he returns after his rest. No longer breathless, he brings his music to the brink then tumbles it down. He feels the music release the sigh that originates in his lungs. It is a dance of relief.

I chug upward
as the air
thins, the sky
blues the stars.
Then it, at the peak,
stops. Music
is not like life.
Envisioning the rhythm of time,
when the now point arrives
there is no view.
I have to tumble
slide down
letting out
the melody
of my breath.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Alex Nodopaka 's Review of My Book

 by Alex Nodopaka October 13, 2013

Alex Nodopaka, BA, MFA, conceived in Ukraine & first exhibitionist show in 1940 Russia. Finger-painted in Austria, 1946 doodled & sketched since. Studied tongue-in-cheek at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, Casablanca, Morocco, 1958. Since 1959 lives in the USA where he is a full time artist, art instructor, art judge, self-appointed art critic and pretends to write poetry.

Schaeffer's book, A Clean Regenerate Poem, is undoubtedly an original in many ways. The literary work combines story-telling essays, artwork and poetry. The author is an accomplished artist in all three crafts. He transitions from one craft into the other as if it were an Olympic ice-skating rink performance. He switches gracefully from one character to another leading us smartly as if we were part of the team.

The author achieves a literary tour de force. Not only Mr. Schaeffer's writing attains literary grace but creates an entertaining read for adults as well as a mind expanding piece of literature for teenagers. He demonstrates stylishly how prose glides into poetry and poetry into art and vice versa. Much of the writing is spiritually uplifting as the author craftily imbues into his characters his professional background in psychology and philosophy and a keen scientific observing eye.

Alex Nodopaka

Wednesday, October 09, 2013


The squirrels nip
about the cooling lawn,
grabbing bits of the
seemingly undigestible.
We don't see
how they could
get any nutrition from this,
don't see the wisdom
in those big baby eyes.

We love them
with archaic love.
Let the love float
ineffectual around the front yard.
They are tough.
Make their living,

Friday, October 04, 2013

Boy Scout

I cry at Chain Bridge.
It's the same thing,
when father takes his time
showing up and the earth
gapes all the way to chaos.
It's when the money runs out
and the business fails.
The scouts all laugh
as they stand near their
neat packs with all their
plans stacked beside them.
I wonder what the crying does.
When I cry
someone warm
strokes me,
kneeling in front
with curled face,
warm breath,
return to Eden,
at 13 in the dangerous
age of sissies.

Wednesday, October 02, 2013

High Orb Spinner

built for what it does
with pragmatic
decorations that
make it uglier,
the monster walks
for topsy-turvy
days to the
cross-arm of the
utility pole.
Then it's
far away with cables
hanging from anus-arms,
victim of the breezes.
What does it
know about webs:
map in its
disparate brain circuits
or mere twists and turns,
embedded sequences
like a knitting machine?

Tuesday, October 01, 2013

Short Story Published