......................................
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
..........................................................................
You wanted to learn
from the book of my life,
so here is a tale or two
that made me the way I am.
When I was about 12,
I was a man of the world
with all the knowledge
I needed to know
and nobody could tell me I was wrong.
It wasn't until a fateful night
with a good friend of mine
that I knew how wrong I was.
No child should ever
have to be exposed to death,
but that is a fact of life that one can't escape from
and on that night
I was no exception.
To come home to my mother in tears
was anything but reassuring.
I asked her "What's wrong mama?"
with my reassuring tone,
not a doubt in my mind that
any problem afoot
was nothing more than
a small speed bump.
It was when she told me to speak to my father
that a worry arose.
I stepped into his room, and the silence struck me;
a hit that could have knocked a hole in a brick wall.
But I was stronger than a brick wall.
Or so I thought.
"Hey pops, what's going on?"
Now, I must say that
up to this point in time,
my father has been nothing but
a sign of masculinity;
the tree with which the apples grew from.
But as my father raised his head,
eyes glistening in through the darkness of the room
I could see the thick tracings of
the first real sorrow I've seen my father in.
He was broken, like the slurred words coming from his mouth
He's dead.
and as those words,
those horrible fucking words left his mouth,
the foundation that he had built
crumbled down.
He raised his hands towards me
asking, needing to embrace me.
And I walked away.
I left the broken man to sulk alone.
Now, I'll have you know that I love my father
and I would die for him.
But as he broke, I shattered.
Later that night,
I found him alone
in the grave
he had dug himself earlier,
and I hugged him.
I hugged him harder than I've hugged anything in my life
I hugged him, not for my sake, but so he could know how his father felt
when he hugged him.
. . .
By the time I was fourteen
I had found love.
It's funny to think how ridiculous this sounds,
but this love was an honest love. (for me at least)
We had been together for long enough to know
that in my youthful state of mind
I could picture myself with nobody else.
But, as the long line of history showed before me,
young love is never true love.
However, when I walked up the stairs,
to hear nothing
I was nothing but startled.
I can still remember that feeling;
when time slowed,
the world around me freezing as the doorknob
twisted in my hand
and the door swung up.
To say I was angry
would be wrong.
I wasn't angry.
I would like to say I
was hurt,
but to be honest,
I could feel nothing.
The natural Novocaine of heart-break
filled my veins
as I sway her lips with his,
fitting in the mold that I created.
As I descended the stairs
and walked past her mother, asking
"What's wrong love?"
feeling the sarcasm ooze out of her mouth
I laughed.
Laughed and laughed and laughed.
Not to hide the pain,
but just to feel again.
But my nerves were burnt,
and would stay that way for quite some time.
. . .
Fast forward to the spring
of my sixteenth year of life.
The summer was alive in me and in you.
I remember the sun shining in your hair,
and I remember the way the water flowed
past the rocks under the bridge.
I remember sitting in the yard
of someone else's house
when our lips first met
when the connection was there
and was there to stay.
And I remember laying in the grass
in your back yard
with our hands locked
and our eyes pointed up
at the sky above us
where our heads were.
I remember you asking me
if I knew what I wanted to do with myself.
I don't remember what I said,
but I remember thinking
that there is nothing I wanted more
than to do what I was doing
at that exact moment in time.
And I remember leaving.
And I remember never returning.
I remember the nights alone
waiting for your word,
knowing you were waiting for mine,
and never getting them.
I remember spending day after day
tracing your face next to mine in that grass
and making the record player skip
with the words you said to me.
I remember thinking of all the things I wish I said to you
while I still had the chance
and kicking myself for saying the things I had said to you.
And I remember wishing to hold your hand,
and kiss you lips
and thinking that I never could again.
. . .
But now I am here
where I never thought I'd be
And I'd just like to tell you
that once you have read this,
all other tales and stories I own
are now yours to hear.
My book is open to you.
This was really difficult to write. Had me tearing up a bit. But I want you to know this.
With the little rain
wash your sins away
before this weekend,
before you miss the chance.
But still, next week
it won't even stop:
what the cash bought,
'llget us flocking
past the parking lot
down the trail to our
Octopus' Garden 'neath the waves.
Maybe my nails won't grow back
and I'll be talkative instead.
Stop my choking on pocket lint,
bury the bone, unbusy my head.
Everything I do in this Modern World
supports some institution, thus condition.
Looking for passion or just something,
hafta look for what little I believe in—
not this but next weekend.
"There's a stranger in your life,"
a fortune reading tells, then
feeling my legs are useless,
can't kick my way to the surface,
can' kick one habit for a moment,
a car could carry me around then.
It's a five day weekend, no end, yes.
Best birthday bash, hands down, no contest.
Newly arrived old faces join, going to the show;
some more to come soon, some to soon go.
Tonight we revel in our brother's song,
we'll keep the day young and night long.
Tomorrow, we hope to sleep forever in a day,
catch our breaths and try to eat back our strength.
Then, Thursday.
If you bare your heart,
unless you are in love
it will begin to feel silly.
If you want to fall in love
you must bare your heart,
but that predestines nothing.
I do not know, though,
what keeps love in a home,
safe from err; face to heat.
She has eyes that sparkle like rain on the sidewalk,
She makes my day when she smiles,
She is more gorgeous than the stars in the sky,
She has the voice of an angel,
She can make the world stand still with her beauty,
She is more beautiful than a waterfall,
She is the one who has stolen my heart,
She is the only one,
She is my world
Its not really hate
i mean its my fault
you dished out some bait
covered it up with plastic worms and
silicone tadpoles
You let me know how easy it was
and how fast and quick i was getting it all
but then i fucked up one time
became associated with a bad apple
i dropped the ball
But i was still there to pick it up...
now its a hostile enviornment
I can feel charlie breathing down my neck!
Are they in the trees,
are you in the walls
is there not enough mayo on the bread:
did they see me make that mistake?
Jesus Christ
i work at a sandwich shop so i can eat mushrooms on the weekend and still work the next day...
Its not really hate
i mean its my fault
you dished out some bait
covered it up with plastic worms and
silicone tadpoles
You let me know how easy it was
and how fast and quick i was getting it all
but then i fucked up one time
became associated with a bad apple
i dropped the ball
But i was still there to pick it up...
now its a hostile enviornment
I can feel charlie breathing down my neck!
Are they in the trees,
are you in the walls
is there not enough mayo on the bread:
did they see me make that mistake?
Jesus Christ
i work at a sandwich shop so i can eat mushrooms on the weekend and still work the next day...
Its not really hate
i mean its my fault
you dished out some bait
covered it up with plastic worms and
silicone tadpoles
You let me know how easy it was
and how fast and quick i was getting it all
but then i fucked up one time
became associated with a bad apple
i dropped the ball
But i was still there to pick it up...
now its a hostile enviornment
I can feel charlie breathing down my neck!
Are they in the trees,
are you in the walls
is there not enough mayo on the bread:
did they see me make that mistake?
Jesus Christ
i work at a sandwich shop so i can eat mushrooms on the weekend and still work the next day...
Time is the falling of leaves on a cool autumn day;
colored leaves that taste of cotton candy
and melt in your mouth.
Time looks like my grandfather's snowy, white beard,
and feels like his crisp dress shirts.
It sounds like a cough in the middle of the night,
and tastes of the NyQuil used to soothe it.
His distinctly "old man cologne" wafts through Time
and to the front of my mind.
But Death is cold. . .
Even colder than Time.
Maybe Time is not the falling of leaves,
but the emptying of an old service revolver.
It was there he lay thinkin' 'bout his day
the closing days of the year last,
'twas then he'd be a man, and have to sail under his own mast
but the winds stagnant as they be he'd nay sail out his own bay
sad as the sea, his heart heavy as the anchor weigh
like n' anchor on da' sea below he shows the rust of his past
he sits alone with his eyes lost; heavier than stones of ballast
wishin' for not soft winds, but torrents of a blistering storm night and day
N' 'bitious young lad, itchin' to go
But like the Anchor he'll stay, below the ladder's lowest rung
Unlike the Anchor he be, he strives to be a Sailor Free
Silly as it be the barnacles and rust be all there be, the angel's last song sung,
No runnin' away, no cargo to hide away in stow,
No words left to say, only a lump at the end of the Anchor's tongue.
z.m.
It was last year. What was I doing on a day like today? Was I contemplating the meaning of my Youth, as I do now? It must have been something like that. Now it seems like I simply count away the hours until I slip into my image of adulthood. Eighteen is a powerful number when you have not the slightest idea what might happen in the next two years. After that point, well, I’m not so sure. I hitch-hike to a small town in Arizona. I get a full time job and then what? The snow continues to fall outside. It’s more sleet than anything. I’m thinking of the girl I used to talk to around this time last year and another. Within one was the artwork of old Paris and the other, I pictured in the rave scene of underground Europe. It was strange, I know. I don’t speak to either of them, now. I haven’t in a long time. I’m trying to imagine my journey across America. My longing for new people to meet, with stories about heartbreak and self destruction. Along with my own. I’m nowhere near a novelist, I’ll say that, and as far as being a poet, I’m half of one at most. I hope to meet a woman full of ideas in my travels through Youth. The grand adventure, I would call it. I want to meet modern Hemingways and Wolfes. I imagine this and pour myself a cup of coffee, lighting another cigarette
