Thea Schiller, a Long Islander from New York, holds a B.A. in Creative Writing from The City University of New York, and an MS in counseling from Western Connecticut State University.  For over two decades  she spent her summers  abroad in France with her late husband and daughter.    She is the Orchard Prize winner for her poem, "Sarah" published in Furrow, University of Wisconsin,  and has been published in other University literary presses.  Currently, she lives in Westchester,  practices psychotherapy in Connecticut  and is writing her first novel.

​            Eternal Snowfall


Sartre said,
There is “No Exit.”
Two morning doves defy winter.
The son turns East on the icy branch and prays.
The mother bird puffs up her beige chest one last time;
God’s  flakes  fall full and translucent.

Crystal diamonds open up the promise of world
Beyond isolation into memory.
Hope expands past personal stores into Kingdom,
Beyond Sartre and literature
To find entrance.

Thea Schiller, a Long Islander from New York, holds a B.A. in Creative Writing from The City University of New York, and an MS in counseling from Western Connecticut State University.  For over two decades she spent her summers abroad in France with her late husband and daughter.  She is the Orchard Prize winner for her poem, “Sarah" published in Furrow, University of Wisconsin, and has been published in other University literary presses.  Currently, she lives in Westchester, practices psychotherapy in Connecticut and is writing her first novel.

EXPERIENTIAL HOPE by Thea Schiller

I am fancy constrained.
The knotted love besotted gone.
Exotic senses from my youth restrained.
The long way back to return defies refined.

The knotted love besotted gone. 
I dream cool nights can burn the bind.
The long way back to return defies refined.
I miss my youthful entanglements sine qua non.

I dream cool nights can burn the bind.
The beauty of our art fires, flees, and pleads.
I miss my youthful entanglements sine qua non.
Remembrance  of  our magic protects  its ease.

The beauty of our art fires, flees, and pleads,
I am fancy constrained.
Remembrance of our magic protects its ease,
Exotic senses from my youth no longer restrained.

MANNY by Thea Schiller

He is already on the cruise waiting for me with packed bags,
wearing his blue felt sombrero we bought in Cancun five years ago.
Toasting me with champagne by the rail, he says,
“Darling take your walk,
I know how you love the first snow fall.”

I’m rushing, the taxi is late; I’m sweating.
I can’t find my best bra
to wear under the green moss dress he loved to touch.
The telephone rings; it’s our daughter agonizing over the GRE’s,
and I’m wishing he were here.

I run away from her call, consumed in the absence
of  words to comfort.
‘And where the _______,’ (I almost curse)
in case I want to write a poem.

It’s 4:00 am and the cruise is departing,
and I weep knowing
I can’t transcend water and sky.