Monday, February 04, 2008


What is said of art can be said of poetry. I don’t know art, but I know what I like.” A poet is necessary for poetry, readers optional. However, when a poet (or an ordinary person for that matter) writes a poem, she shares herself−thoughts & feelings, yes−but also a specific time and place with a specific viewpoint and setting. Without someone to share with, sharing is a misnomer at best.

A poem exists in the time/space continuum as a fixed entity. A person reading a specific poem will find it resonating with themselves in the exact same time & space and feeling & thought level the poet was in at the time she wrote the poem, much like a song. However, this makes a poem even more specific while at the same time making it universal. Poems speak for the poet and to the reader in a highly personal way, thus becoming more specific while expanding in relevance.

At any rate, poetry is a literary form as ancient as the hills. Bards of old sang poetry before people could read. It was their history and religion as well as education and entertainment. Poetic thought can exist outside of language, hence was probably used by the cave men − their pictures on the cave walls are their poetic language. We read their hearts, minds and souls when we view petroglyphs.

Just as there is art for the sake of art, there’s poetry for the sake of poetry. For all the wordsmiths, my fellow poets and authors, and people for whom these poems resonate, I give you my poems and heart/mind/soul − no longer locked in a vault but here to be read and experienced.

So, that said, enjoy these offerings from The Vault of the Poeteer,

Sandy Schairer

Poetry as Therapy?

I hope it is just not psychiatric "therapy"

That ordinary poetry therapy aims to be.

A poem is a feeling that comes from – ME !

I feel it, I write it, I change it, oh my,

But the words do come to me by and by

Helping me say what when I didn't know why.

All people are creative along with God Himself.

We can't just use our minds,

Leave our feelings on a shelf.

So get out there, open up and be someone -- yourself!

Therapy or not, write from inner grace.

Put the words on paper or out in cyberspace.

Ssend them out into the world to find their perfect place.

Write them on your own for yourself alone.

Read them in secret, on a stage or a phone.

Find where they flow from − blood, gut and bone.

Feel the rhythm, feel the words.

Yes. Poetry’s for people, not for cats & birds.

And it's simply not only for all us literary nerds.


Being Here

Being alive, here and now, sometimes hurts.

I wanted life to be always fun,

To be exciting and joyful,

Every moment 24/7, 364 and a ¼ days and nights a year

Year in and year out for my duration.

Breathing in beauty

Exhaling and starting again




Falling and jumping up

Again to run

Just for fun.


And seriousness

(When it’s called for)

But good, and real, and happy.

Where do we catch happiness?

Did we dream it up?

If so–what woke us and made it go?

Must we continue to feel pain and hurt and fear and anger

And --– no no no don’t make me say it --–


Me, Myself and I

When I see myself

Through others eyes

I don’t like myself

On their behalf.

I think maybe

I ought to have a really belly laugh.

But when I see myself, my life,

Through my own mind and eye

I love me.

I love myself,

The ever-present I.

I am smart

And I am pretty

Though now older and wrinkling.

Might be thick in the middle

But still sharp on top, I’m thinking.

I’m awake and I’m aware

I have feelings, too,

Wow. How I DO care.

My wisdom might be born of

Trial and error, true

But also of regrets

Yes, I’ve known a few.

I’m comfortable as ME now.

I’m glad I’ve gotten to know

“Me” as someone still willing

To learn, to love and to grow.

E.A. Poe: Poet

I used to love the poet
Edgar Allen Poe,
The way he had his sounds
All lined up in a row.
His clanging and banging

Of bells galore,
And a raven who sat
On the top of his door
And when the clock chimed
Would say “Nevermore”

I thought his hard life
Made his talents more sharp,
But his teenaged dead bride
Made his view sort of dark.
A lot of his problem was
Drugging and drink,
It drained his life’s blood
And beauty, I think

And now what’s a poet?
A silly old woman
Who sits with a pen
And tries to stay human.
Are poems ever read?
It’s all mystery adventure
Like Da Vinci Code
And works of joint venture.

So I'll bid Poe farewell
Go soak in the bath
And scatter some poems
On my own writing path.

Nevermore? Is That Your Final Answer?


Animals have very few questions to answer in life.

They have to decide

“Can I eat it?”

And if so, “When?”

Or, “Will it eat me first?”

“Oh, I hope not.”

And “Can I mate with it?”

And if so, “How soon?”

And a few other important things such as

“Is it time to fight,

Or can I lie down now?”

And the big one is always, “Where’s the water?”

Humans are much the same.

Only we wrap up all these choices

In multitudes of detail.

We celebrate every holiday and special event

With food and eating.

And tangle up our sexuality with

Traditions such as

Dating, courting, weddings and marriages.

And the ever-popular divorce.

But life all boils down to the same

Questions within our instincts

“Should I eat now or can I fuck first?”

(Or would that be “make love?”)

And always ask, “Must I fight or can I take it easy now?”

And of course, there would be no life on this planet

If we didn’t answer the question,

“Where’s the water?”

Regardless of how much fine wine

there is in the world.

Life as a Motion Picture

How elegant

Is our suffering.

We really get-off on it, huh?

Exquisite pain.

Watch me squirm.

Hear me cry and moan.

Awww, aren’t I The perfect


I win the Academy Award.

Thank you

Thank you

Thank you

Time’s up

Drag me off.

Where’s my next movie?

What’s my next role?

Any plot this time?


Didn’t think so.

From Eve to Me to Infinity

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