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Ian Schebel (email, MySpace)

 

About the Poet:

I'm a seventeen year old high school senior named Ian P. Schebel.  My writing really started to take shape during my freshman year of high school. Now it seems to have become a close companion of mine that does not seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.

 

 

For Sarah

How odd it must have been
For the innocent onlookers
To see us in our little minds
Dancing that dance in the parking lot that day

But oddity did not make us a trio
And the crowd was nowhere in our vision
For we were both together
Stealing spiratic glances at only eachother beneath that September sky

I led us in to the 1920's
To a late-night New York ballroom
Where smoke and gossip rose to the ceiling
And quietly looked down upon the well dressed man conducting the night

Our September sun was no more than a glowing crystal chandelier
And our black attire blended beautifully in to the crowd's body
And there
We were dancing our dance

I watched as I led you through every twirl
Spun you through every twist
and broke every unshaply tangle with a smile
Only to wheel you back to my breast

I looked down on your glowing reded hair
As you innocently stared
Looking as if it were you're new home
Planning every route

But it was in between those twirls, twists, and tangles
That we occasionally caught eyes
Noticing not our wearing appearances
But seeing all the words we will never speak

It was the glares that kept our train steaming
We knew their would be no end
To the moment thin glimpses
Turning the golden wooden floor to cloud

And as the band threw out the last note
The crowd threw back thanks
And packed the night in to the back of their heads
As we unknowingly continued ours

And back in to the September afternoon we fell
For the fantasy grew tired of our time
Realizing it was just a pleasant addition
to our time in the sky

It was there that I found it fitting to end
And flung you down carefully to my side
And, one last time, took a selfish look at the eyes
That need no more explaining

Now know that I am not in love with you
And you are not my own
But you do appear in my head every so often
And I thank you for that

For in that image
I don't see the clothes you're wearing
Or the people you may be around
All I see are your eyes

And once again
I thank you for that
Because it seems whenever I look in to you
I have the satisfaction of a pleasant peace

But you will forever be my favorite dancer
The one I will always remember twirling
Along with the crowd of none
And to the songs that were not there

 

Their is no better way to go...

There is no better way to go,
Than with the wind.
Not necessarily throwing in the white towel.
It is more-or-less the trail you forgot to leave behind, as you left on your way.

The beauty is the blank expressions on the owners of the house in which just caught flames.
Patiently waiting outside, in the middle of any regular night, for the slightest sound of sirens.
They think of themselves as cars.
And tonight their commute was, once again, interuppted by a faulty electric line, most likely from their hottub.

It is those nights which you expect to hear the screams.
No direction to look
but up
to the stars that so gently watch and let every nightly mishap quietly go forth.
Waiting for the one voice to simply leave them motivated.

But a heavy shout left alone is like a seed on a freshly paved parking lot.
There is no escape,
And absolutely no benefit,
Besides a new, but fresh leaf, on this branch.

Leave the voice in the throat, and let the memories sit motionless in the back of the kitchen drawer,
next to the good pencil you could never seem to find.
There is no need to leave a mark.
Just watch as it slowly burns away.
Watch each other try.
Listen to the groans as they get up and decide to get back on the horse,
Which, inevitably, they will tumble from, then go home to dinner.

The gorgeous used to take shelter underneath the rocks,
Counting down, in whatever way they could, the time they had.
You find these people today, outside their nightly specticle, tired from standing, but not ready to
Give in to the comforts of the wet grass.
Watching, as men they have never met, but somehow are supporting, clean up the mess.

The thought is silent to them.
Caring is the the amount of peole they'll have to meet.
Refusing to get thrown back in to the game, they sit with no more than a pair of watches to count down the time,
And the blank expressions that have seemed to take refuge on their faces.

But when the show is over,
And all the lights are out.
They will, again, be alone
And left staring at their charred waiting room.
It is in that moment that they will turn and look at eachother,
expression far from home,
And silently tell one another
That they wished as the sirens left the show,

That the tires would have added a little brown from the street to their blank face as it left them
In a trail of dust.

 

Beneath the Waves

 

Lets travel
I want to see you with everything
I want to see you in Sinatra's Vegas
Or Ernie's Paris.

But most of all
I want to see you beneath the waves
Not all of you
But just that small part

Everyday I would make a trip down to see you
Knowing very well you are right behind me
And smile at that portion of you
Kept quietly beneath the waves

For if you ever leave
Or get lost on your way to me
Ill always have that small bit of you
That I keep for myself
And no one can touch.

 

Life in Pink


I see it being that time
When I'm supposed to ask for your hand in dance
And we cut the room
So we are the heart of the night.

So long, it seems like, I have thought about the
Song that will be playing.
I feel like I have finally made up my mind
Song after song has rung in my head
But this one puts me at ease

The trumpet will be our introduction
Our tour guide through the pearly gates
The one who simply will keep reminding us
That dishonestly lies no where in this room
This is true

And when the time comes for that voice
I can only garuntee that I will be in tears
For he will command the one thing I want forever
"Hold me close and hold me fastů"

And, as the heart, we will keep this alive
We will be the only ones
And, through the smiles, everyone will know.

  

Simplicity 

Simplicity has always
had it's way
with me

Meaning
lying in the tortured
green blades
in a brightly
colored sweater

Takes your hand (as a guide(
or possibly a mother))
through the fields of memories

You learn what is said and
it becomes another blade

but to confess
blades dissatisfy

Why a blade
if for you
spring could be forever
from my hand?

That hand I will place on my chin
and there it will kindly sit and
patiently wait for the
words I can say

But for now
simplicity is where i am

You and I