......................................

Nordbert paid me
A visit today,
And it's something
Nordbert never does.
Perhaps Nordbert had
Something to say
In his oddly-oddish
Nordbert way.

Now, Nordbert usually
Keeps to himself,
We rarely ever
Heed his name,
He treasures his
Own privacy,
And believes that we
Ought do the same.

When Nordbert confessed
All his problems to me-
I dreaded each odd little a, b and c.
He told me his wife
Had abandoned her post,
But the one thing that
Irritated Nordbert the most

Was that she took every
Cooking mit in the house,
He called her a dribbit,
A goon, and a louse.
He'd unfriend her on Facebook
In less than a day
If she brought any more
Of her evil his way,

Such as hiding his
Butterbean marmalade toast,
Or stealing away
Nordberts treasured pet mouse.
Or tossing his popsicle pie
Out the door
When she did not understand
What he used the pie for.

And then Nordbert studied
The me that I am,
And seemed not at all
Pleased I was there.
He grumbled somewhat that
My name was just Sam,
And told me I needed
To color my hair

A green-blue, perhaps red,
Or maybe a brown.
And did I have any qualms
About painting it pink?
Oh, the neighbors will cheer
When they see you in town
Wearing a dabble
Of porcupine ink.

He told me I'm too short
And fat for my age,
And then laughed at
The way that I dress.
He told me the wisdom's
He'd learned from a Sage,
That I was a literal
Nincompoops mess.

He told me I needed
A shave and a shower,
That I was rather offensive,
Polluting his air.
And it took almost the whole
Belly lot of an hour
Before I had realized
He'd insulted me there.

He said that we ought
Have our dog put to sleep.
And he offered to
Help make it so.
He said every good dog
Has it's very dog day
And it was time
For our dog to go.

He told me my kids
Were annoying,
That they rackled
The bin of his brain.
He mentioned my wife
Was quite fetching
Except he thought she
Was insane.

He told me my lawn
Was an utter disgrace,
Then pointed out all the
Stress lines on my face.
He said our tap water
Is all full of lead,
And we're all gonna die.
At least that's what he said.

Nordbert told me my house
Needs a coat of new paint,
Something more homey,
And not at all quaint.
He explained how I'd brought
His fine neighborhood down,
To the grit and the gluster
Of the bad part of town.

And he patted my shoulder
And whispered, "But all's well.
If it gets any worse
We may all have to sell."
And he hobbled away
As he picked at his ear,
In the thick of the day,
With his neighborly cheer.
And I had to acknowledge,
Concede and admit
I did not like Nordbert,
Not one little bit.

Copyright © 2013 Richard D. Remler

.............................................................­............
"A good neighbor is a fellow who smiles
at you over the back fence, but doesn't
climb over it."
~ Arthur Baer
.............................................................­.............

..............................................................

Just underneath his Wickett tree
Douglas Milford died, you see.
He died the way old men die
When pausing deep within a sigh.
And there he stood and watched
The world, his world
Slowly fade.
Into the deep, the darkest,
Empty, soulless shade.
Shaded well, and sadly so,
For Douglas Milford discovered secrets
All dead men come to know.
That time, she waits for no one.
And that it was time to go.

Time called him
And Douglas Milford heard
Every cold
And empty word-
'Follow,' she said,
And Milford knew
It was but one more thing
He was required to do,
And he felt that lingering,
Haunting sting,
Like the gentle turn
Of a gossamer wing.

And Death paused,
Ever briefly,
At a raggedy pond,
And said, "You must leave
Your dreams here,
Before moving on.
What you were in life,
That emotionless shell,
You cannot be in death.
It will not do you well.
So discard it right here,
And we'll be on our way.
It is part of the fee
To the price you must pay."
And so Douglas Milford
Collected each dream
Into a small satchel
He'd taken along,
And he poured them inside,
Every hope, every scheme,
Every wish, every want,
Every childhood song.
And he wrapped them up tight,
Without any delay.
And then he watched Death
Simply toss them away.

"Death is unkind,"
He thought with a sigh,
Not quick to noticed
There was no longer a sky.
And that the air
Tasted thin,
Rusted metals and soot.
And the road was not easy
To travel barefoot.

He was poor
And not so right.
His boney feet
So thin and small
Did not show
He'd been quite large in life,
For, now Douglas did not seem so tall.
The cool wind against his face
Carried such a nasty sting,
His mind thundered in a rush,
And he remembered
Every little thing.

Ten years old he stood
And saw his mother cry,
And somewhere deep inside he ached
As he watched again his father die.
And his little baby sister -
Who came with the harvest moon,
Faded into the red and cold and gray,
Called away far, far too soon.
It was a pain that he could
Not deny.
And he cursed himself and
Hated life.
And there Death smiled,
Somewhat pleased.
For this pain had cut him
Like a knife.
"Why do I have to cling to these
Damned and fool-hearted memories?"
And he shivered with a quiet fear
As he wiped away a tear.
And Death told him,
"They haunted you in life, my friend.
And they'll haunt you to your very end.
They are the Ghosts in life
You could not change.
Cancel out or rearrange.
You've trained yourself so very well -
With your selective memory.
And you've crafted yourself quite a cell
By seeing only what you want to see.
All these years you've carried these
Little haunts you've hid so deep,
And you never could forgive yourself
For sins you did not plan to keep.
I am afraid they'll linger in your heart
And echo back from time to time-
It is the price you have to pay
When a haunt of guilt clouds up your mind."

And images danced against
The shaded thoughts within his head.
Every cold and empty thing
He'd ever briefly said.
Those words he'd shared with strangers,
Was he just arrogant,
Or completely blind?
Far too many moments when
All that he spoke
Was heartless and unkind.
Will they haunt me too? he thought,
Damn this vile retrospection.
Must I drag up everything
Accursed with indigestion.
There must be something good I've done
That Death cannot steal away.
Some memory locked so deep inside
The fates cannot betray.
And there he saw a spark of good,
A hint of gentle grace.
Was that Grandma? he wondered
As he saw her rosy face.
She shined with such compassion,
He longed for her embrace.
Her smile was so welcome
She brightened up this
Shaded place.

But something in his mind snapped back,
And offered no reprieve.
"You are no victim, Douglas.
So do not grieve.
In life you lived just for the day.
You did every single thing your way.
You had no faith, and damned to hell
That eternity the preacher's sell.
You cared less for those with less than you-
And you cannot return to fix that.
It's a something you can't do.
There's so much you had no faith in,
For it wasn't your ideal.
But just because you don't believe in it,
Doesn't mean it isn't real.
This is your inheritance.
And you've worked hard for your reward.
You've hidden all your fortune,
And this it where it's stored."

And Douglas Milford rested some,
As if the day was finally done.
His bones, they ached,
His knuckles bled,
And there was a pounding
In his head.
And he swallowed dry the metal air,
And imagined a softly moving sea,
And tried to dream that he was there,
Still underneath his Wickett Tree.
That upside where it was cold and gray
Blue sky still welcomed in his day.
And that this ground,
Just shards of broken glass
Were soft and cool as new grass.
He tried to drift into his dream
Of peaceful quiet on a hill,
That gentle breeze that carried every
Song sung by the whippoorwill.
He wanted blue sky overhead,
And crickets chirping by his tree.
He longed to hear a story read
About how good a life should be.
But the jagged thorns that pricked his heel
Brought him back to skies of gray,
And to the shaded shards he knew as real,
That Douglas Milford died today.

Copyright © 2013 Richard D. Remler

.............................................................­..
"For death begins with life's first breath
And life begins at touch of death."
~John Oxenham
.............................................................­.