I often think back to the day, I brought you that place
With graffiti on the walls all failing to decay
And how in the summer’s ending heat I held your hand
And underneath arches I pulled you close and then
I, I kissed you right
Not like the time from the preceding night
But then came a new day, one further from our past
And you started to think about us, seeing this could last
I understand you were afraid, but fear is not to blame
When you held my heart so tightly then stomped it again and again
Three times, and never from a fight
Three times, sweetheart that’s not right
Someone said I'm a so so writer and I'm not that good.
The words didn't offend me and I'm working at improving.
Here's the short list of what I'd like to do with and for you.
I embrace words most need to look up and love when you use them.
Sit back and read this poem that I wrote and hope you like.
I'd like to take you for a long walk on a long pier.
I know you have difficulties walking without pain
so we take it slow and stop as much as you required.
I'd like to talk to you for hours using intelligent words.
I'd like to gift you long love poetry written on parchment paper.
I'd like you to write poetry for me using a King's English.
I LOVE it when you use words found in a thesaurus!
I like the way you make poetry writing easy breezy.
I'd like to get to know you better face to face and use our words.
I've heard speak and I love hearing the sound of your voice.
I would love it if you called me and said you want to hear me breath.
I'd like you to write and sing a song just for me one day.
I'd like to know your favorite perfume and gift it to you.
I'd like you to paint a portrait of me and I'd hang it on my wall.
I'd like to know what you do when you're off net.
I wont follow you around town to discover where you go.
I'd like to know your secrets if you wanted to share them.
I'd like to know your favorite foods and prepare them for you.
I read words and know you like being read to and would like to
read works by your favorite authors to you under a shade tree.
I'd like to build a time machine for you to go back in time
to before you lost trust and faith in all men not to hurt you.
I like your long poems and we like we share a love of big and small words.
it is i who is
in my face are
of who i
used to be,
i wake up
and i pull on
built out of
into my lungs,
they tell me
what to say
(who is it
to the bathroom,
my make up tray -
it lies empty
on the counter
but never worn
i grieve it
before i sleep again)
I'm sick of chasing shadows up and down these halls,
and watching headlights dance across the cold and pale white walls.
This empty home is where love once grew from hearts lined with gold
but now the only thing left is an attic full of mold.
I'm tired of the silence but for the whisping trees,
Their aching hearts moaning as they're nearly brought to knee.
The cold cotton on my bed where optimism used to lay.
The resounding echo of dying parts of me and the booming shades of grey.
Depression seeps in nightly and has its own safe place
It comes in when not welcomed and shows its ugly face.
Thursday brings an ugly night, or morning I should say
The day I feel too much just happens to be today.
5:30 am and still awake from the night before
A hazy tired feeling and every muscle sore.
But having seen your smile before you turned to bed
Has brought some life back to this sad life I have led.
The shadows they still linger, the headlights stay and play
But even through this long, dark night you've got me seizing the day.
How did you manage to open up my closed-up heart? Did you not notice the big bold red "SOLD" sign bolstered to the door?
Or did you perhaps slip in through one of the windows?
And why did you simply ignore the contents thereof? Did fate lead you to the empty little room at the back? Away from the clutter and noise that my life has stored?
That is my favourite room, you know. My little "getaway". Little did I know that on that day "getting away" meant running straight into your arms.
I resisted at first, of course . . The familiarity of the room was replaced by your presence. . . by the unexpected familiarity of you . . .
And day by day I would return to that haven, and still, you were there, waiting.. until you became such a part of my daily routine that I stopped resisting and started looking forward to my stolen moments of "solitude".
I can hardly remember the days without you in it . . and that room would seem awfully empty and lonely without you.
By your Decide these Fourteen-Lined Girls Play,
And Shriek then Shrivel their Memories re-vamp
For now the Muse Changed his Technique this Day
And Submitted his Pleasures to his Stamp
I Refer your Lad his Fine Efforts flow
Though Knowing your Forceps his Name refuse
Since Villified Forces emblast his Show
Then Create Sullen Theories by their Confuse
Yet this Numbing Silence your Weapon still
In Disguise make this Wrathful Shouter heal
For all his Looniness his Words distill
Though Somber Passions do Burn until.
Edging enough does Heart frown for Support
Be as it may cringe his Pride to Report.
you say i am not the same person
i say one day i woke up honest
and i do not know how to undo experience
my own eyes and ears and nose and mouth
cannot be undone at the moment
how do you do it?
push that pressure to the back of your mind
how do you all manage to laugh with a straight face
at things that you know aren't really funny
i can't fathom it. where you go
when you are stomping and ripping
and bloody and jeering
and laughing and running
i apologize if it doesn't make sense
that i can't play along
but playing along
just doesn't make sense
i could never win a grammy
with this tight lipped smile
laughing at the expense of others
makes me feel more like a paparazzi
placating insecurities for currency
leeching off the vulnerability
you may not think i'm smart but
i am smart enough to know this is not 'normal'
and there is nothing wrong with staring at you in the rearview
and saying "i wish that was really sarcasm"
i'll tell you the truth
and you don't have to like it
and you don't have to like me
and i don't have to like you
because if there's one thing i know about myself
it's that i don't dislike anyone
until they show off their callousness
hoping it's the right party trick
to gain respect
we watch comedy tv, and you are worried
by the way my spine cracks
when i let out a uncontrollable laugh
dragging on, beginning to spill, and as i try to quell it
my whole body shakes with the pressure
of it bubbling inside of me
you feel all of this beside me
a small volcano with a bent back
quaking absorbed by pillows and flowers and cushions
not quite right for you
wondering why i couldn't laugh like this earlier
when we were not alone
everyone is looking for something more porous
more willing to let in effortlessly
and absorb tirelessly
that can simply laugh like a stream bubbles
and let go of the undercurrent
yet we are sharp and uneven and course like logs
and the weight of our actions carries much further
being shunted downstream by tides of gravity
every intention runs it's course
every intention speaks volumes
if you feel that in your core
every day you will uncontrollably think of how
every intention defines the quality of the laughter
stuck in someone else's head
and you will save it for things that are funny
Don't tell Mr. Ippy
He's leaking a lot.
He'll protest until you're
Convinced he is not.
And, don't tell Mr. Ippy
He's losing his hair.
Oh, he'll rant,
And he'll rage
He's so very much there!
He is an awful nice person
When you're not around.
He's quite level-headed,
With both feet on the ground...
Though sometimes he seems
Just a bit overwound,
He's friendly as can be,
And acts quite neighborly.
So, don't tell Mr. Ippy
His voice has a squeak.
Just nod on and off,
And let the man speak.
Perhaps he's a something
We all ought to hear!
He has things to say,
So we should lend an ear.
Don't tell him his eyebrows
Keep moving around,
Searching for something
They haven't yet found.
And they really don't like it
When we notice them twitch.
As if we've just witnessed
They're losing their stitch.
He'll tell you you're mad,
That you've rust in your clinker,
He'll think you've gone daft,
That you've frazzled your thinker.
And he'll steer clear away
When you come into view.
He'll start to believe
What he's heard about you.
Don't tell him
We know he is no
Although he's been
Boasting of that
For a year.
And don't remind him
His glasses are
Three inches thick.
Or that the frames
Seem to look like an
Old licorice stick.
He's a feisty crustmudgeon,
An ornery bloke.
He's an eccentric old dodge,
From irascible folk.
Yes, his tempermnent's so
That it frightens the day.
It chases the doodads
And whodones away.
So, he yells at the sun -
That it's far, far too bright.
And when it is done,
The man yells at the night.
And when night has finished,
And twilight is here,
Mr. Ippy, convinced that
He's made his point clear,
Heads off to bed
Where he sleeps in his tree.
Somehow that seems
Perfectly normal to me.
He's one of a kind,
When there are two,
Or three near.
And we really don't mind
Just don't call him peculiar,
Eerie, or queer.
Don't tell him he's
Goofy, or dull,
He never will listen.
And he'll do it with grace.
With such grand denial painted
All over his face.
From the right roundy eyebrows
That skittle and skee,
To the erld yeller somethings
That ought not to be.
And trust me,
Cannot take much more.
Sometimes it is better
To simply ignore
The oddness of people
Who seem a bit strange.
He is set in his ways,
And he never will change.
And the man's every right
To see things his way.
He's every good reason
To be him today.
And I'm not one to smidg-ell
The blue from his sky.
I'll not ruin his cheery-do-fair,
Why should I?
He's always been a right
Singular fellow to me.
He is as fine as
A bloke ought to be.
Copyright © 2013 Richard D. Remler
"Love your neighbor as yourself;
but don't take down the fence."
— things wanted or needed; the plural of desideratum: “Happily-ever-after” and “eternal love” appear to be the desiderata of the current generation"
Your stream of drops
Enters my conscious
Heart, and is
Let me feed you
Whose taste will linger
Long after rich foods
Flee, leaving only empty calories
That will burn you.
Better than hugs,
These words are yours
Your pain absorbed
In the sponge of this
Poem of caring, a
Tissue of shoulders to be
Until this day is over,
until tomorrow when
Up you stand,
Eyes no longer red,
The only face you will wear,
These words are yours
Tomorrow and forever.
Cloak yourself in them
When the invaders attack,
Wrap yourself in their armor,
as often as needed.
No one can ever take them
From you, no one can touch
Them like you can.
For they live in the human warmth
In the centre of you
Where the day's soul soils
For they are
Poem a day, day 5
Crying stings my eyes
Even that's not going right for me today
Yesterday I breathed
And wondered if that's enough.
Today I breathed
And could almost wish I hadn't
Wouldn't have minded a fuck today actually
Another thing that didn't go my way
Thanks for pointing that out.
Now could just do with a hug
And some decadent food
Yip great coping mechanism, I don't care.
I will probably care tomorrow.
Oh well, today is crap
I will ignore consequences
And tomorrow will look after itself