..............................................................
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
..............................................................
You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.
There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.
You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.
You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.
You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.
You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.
You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.
You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.
(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.
You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.
You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)
But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.
Each day melts into the
next and I am stuck here
wondering where all my
elasticity disappeared too
heavy and dark was
your dead breath it
coated my lungs like
honey, thick and lifeless
stealing away all moisture
if any still remained
around that deceased
tree we danced in
silence and empty did
your hands feel around me
your eyes hollowed out
stones of a dry unwanted
river bed Oh how you
searched your lips over the
crevices of mine, but dry and
cracked was all that remained
This remembrance somehow still makest me guilty;
in every minute of it I feelest tangled, I feelest unfree.
I loathest this less genial side of captivity,
but still, 'tis ironically within my heart, and my torpid soul;
ah, I am afraid that it shall somehow becomest foul,
and I wantest very much, to endear my soul to liberty,
but so long as I hath consciously loved thee,
My confidence remaineth always too bold-
But I promisest that this shall becomest my last sonata,
Should thou ever findest, that thou desirest it to be;
whilst my incomplete song shall be our last cantata.
Ah, this series shall but never end,
Should I approachest and befriendest it,
but to confess, more I thinkest of it, the more my heart is pained;
No coldness shall it feelest, nor any beat of which, shall remaineth.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My heart, ah-my poor heart, is still restricted, and left within thee,
And amongst this dear spring's shuffling leaves, still blooms,
And shall bloomest forever with benevolence,
and even greater benevolence, as spring fliest and leavest
Just like thy sweet temper, and ever ostentatious laughter,
Thy voice and words, that are no longer here for me,
But still as clear, and authentic like a piece of gospel music, to me.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My pleasurable toils, and consummation still liest in thee-
as forever seemest that I shall trust thee, and thee only,
For the brief moment we had was but grand-and pleasant,
All the way more enigmatic, though frail, and exuberant
than I couldst perhaps rememberest,
But as I rememberest them, I shall also rememberest thee,
For those short nights are always fond and stellar to my memory,
As thou pronounced me lovely-and called myself thy lady,
As thou lingered about and placed thy sheepish fingers on my knee.
Ah, thee, whose heart is so kind and ever gently considerate,
From the moment thou stared at me I knew thou wert my unbinding fate.
And thy scent-o, thy manly scent, too calming but at times, poisonous;
Was more than any treasures I'd once withheld in my hand.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My enormity liest in thee, and so doth every pore
of my irrevocable, consolable sense;
Thou awakened my pride, thou livened up my tense,
Thou disturbed my mind, thou stole my conscience.
And with thy touch I was burning with bashfulness,
meanwhile my mind couldst stop not
ringing within me, unspeakable thoughts.
Ah, thee, thou made me shriek, thou slapped me awake;
And thou steered me away from any cruel dreams, and lies
these variegated worlds ought to make.
But still I hatest myself now, for leaving all of which unspoken,
Though plenty of time I had, whilst walking with thee, by the red ferns;
And every now and then, their branches ejaculated terrific sounds-
But not loud; benign and soft as heartfelt murmurs in our hearts.
And those dead leaves were just dead,
Over and under the gusty tears they had shed,
And their surfaces had been closed,
But as we stormed busily with laughter, along their dead roots,
All came back to life, and polished liveliness, and guiltless temperance.
Ah, thy image is still in my mind-for it is my ill mind's antidote,
With all the haste and loveliness and ardour as thou but ever hath,
Thou art loved, by me and my soul, more than I love myself and the earth,
Thou art more handsome even, than the juicy unearthed hearth yonder.
Ah thee, my very own lover and drowsy merriment at times,
Thou who keepest fading and growing-
and fading and growing over my head,
Thy image hauntest my sleep and drivest all of me crazy,
For justice is not justice, and death is not
death, as long as I am not with thee,
And I shall accept not-death as it is,
for I shall die never without thee,
For I am in thy love, as thine in mine,
And dreams shall no longer matterest,
when thy joys are mine-and fiercely mine,
I am blinded by urgent insecurity,
That occurest and tauntest and shadowest me
like a panoramic little ghost,
Massively shall it address me,
Painstakingly and, in the name of justice, ingloriously,
And shall them address my past and destroy me,
For I hath carelessly let thee fade from my life,
And enslavest and burdenest my very own history,
For in which now there is no longer thy name,
ike how mine not in thine.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
Still thou art gentle as summer daffodils,
Thy image slanderest me, and its fangs couldst kill.
Thou owneth that sharpness that threatens me,
Corruptest and stiflest me, without any single stress,
And charming but evil like thy thirsty flesh.
Ah, still, I wishest to be good, and be not a temptress,
though all my love stories be bad, and
endest me and shuttest up in a dire mess.
I feelest empty, and for evermore t'is emptiness
shall proudly tormentest and torturest me,
Stenching me out like I am a little devil,
Who knowest but nothing of love nor goodwill,
I needst thee to make everything better, and shinier,
In my future life, as later-in my advanced years,
As death is getting near, for more and greater
shall my soul hath accordingly stayed here.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
Thou art my summer butterfly and beetle,
I shall cloakest thee with sweet honey and sun,
And engulfest thee safely and warmly
under the angry sickly moon.
I am thankful for thee still, for thou hath changed me,
For thou made me see, and opened my flawed eyes
Thou enabled me to witness the real world;
But everything is still, at times, beyond my fancy,
For they keepest moving and stayest never still,
Sometimes I am, like I used to be, astonished
at the gust of things, and the way they grossly turned
Their malice made my heart wrenched, and my stomach churned
What I seest oftentimes weariest my bosom, and disruptest my glee
And still I shall convincest myself, that I but needst thee with me,
Thee to for evermore be my all-day guide and candlelight,
Thee who art so understanding, and everything lovable, to my sight.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
If thou wert a needle then I'd be thy thread,
If thy rain wert dry then I'd makest it wet.
But needst not thou worry about my rain;
For 'tis all enduring and canst bear
even the greatest, most cynical pain.
Ah, and thus I'd be thy umbrella,
Thou, whose abode in my heart
is more superfluous, and graceful-
than my random, fictitious nirvana;
Oh, thee, thou art my lost grace,
And everyone who is not thee-
I keepest calling them by thy name,
How crazy-ah, I am, just like now I am, about thee!
Ah, thou art my air, my sigh, and my comfortable relief,
And in my poetry thou art worth all my sonnets, my charm,
and forever inadequate, affection!
And only in thy eyes I find my dear, effectual temptations,
As under the hungered moonlight by the infuriated sea,
Who standeth strenuously by the peering strand of couples,
Thou evokest within me dangerous eves, and morns of madness,
Thou makest me find my irked melody, and vexed sonnet,
Thou made, even briefly-my latent days gracious,
Thou made me feelest glad and undistant and precious.
Thou art a saint, thou art a saint, though thy being a human
intervenest thee and prohibitest thee from being so;
ah, and whoever thinkest so is worthy of my regrets,
and the worst tactfulness of my weary wrath;
For thou art far precious, more than any trace
of silverness, or even true goldness,
Thou art my holiest source of joy,
and most healing pond of tears;
Thou art my wealth, virgin trust,
and my only sober redemption;
thou art my conscience, pride, and lost self;
Thou art indeed, my eternally irredeemable satisfaction.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
I adorest thee only-my prince, my hero, my pristine knight;
Ah, thee, thou art perfect to my belief and my sight,
Thou who art deserving of all my breath and my poetry;
Thou who understandest what kindness is, and desires are,
Thou who made me seest farther but not too far.
Thou who art an angel to me-a fair, fair angel,
Thou who art beguiling as tasteful tides
among the sea-my courteous summer sea,
Thou who art even more human than
our fellow living souls themselves;
Sometimes I think thou art courage itself-
as thou art even braver than it, the latter, is!
Thou art the sole ripe fruit of my soul,
And my poetic imagination, and due thought;
Thou art the naked notes of my sonata,
And the naughty lyrics of my sonnet,
Thou art everything to nothingness,
As how nothingness deemest thee everything;
Thou makest them shy, and dutifully-
and outstandingly, changest their minds;
Thou art a handsome one to everything,
Just as how everything respectest, and adore thee.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
By whose presence I was delighted, as well my breath-dignified,
Ah, my love, now helpest me define what love itself is;
For I assumest it is more than fits of hysteria, and sweet kisses
Look, now, and dream that if death is not really death
Than what is it aside from unseen rays of breath?
For love is, I thinkest, more handsome than it doth lookest,
For in love flowest blood, and sacrifice, and fate that hearts adorest
But desiccated and mocked as it is, by its very own lovers
That its sweetness hath now turned dark, and far bitter;
Full of hesitations engulfed in the best ways they could muster;
O, my love, like the round-leafed dandellions outside,
I shall glancest and swimest and delvest into thy soul;
I shall bearest and detainest and imprisonest thee in my mind,
But verily shall I care for thee,
ah, and thus I shall become thy everything!
Let me, once more, become obstinate-but delirious in thy arms;
let me my very prince-oh, my very, very own prince!
Doth thou knowest not that I am misguided,
and awfully derogated, without thee!
Ah, thee! My very, very own thee!
Comest back to me, o my sweet,
And let me be painted in thy charms,
o thee, whom I hath so tearfully,
and blushingly missed, ever since!
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
I loveth thee adorably, and am fond of thee admirably,
so frequent not outside when all is dark and yon sky is red,
For I hatest justification, and its possibly hidden wrath;
I hatest judging what is to happen when our hearts hath met,
but how canst I ever knowest-when thou choosest to remaineth mute?
Then tearest my heart, and keepest my mouth shut
O thee, should this discomfort ever happenest again;
Please instead slayest me, slaughterest me, and consumest me-
And lastly let me wander around the earth as a ghost.
Let me be all ghastly, deadly, and but penniless;
Let me be breathless, poor, imbecile, and lost-
For in utter death there is only poverty,
And poverty ever after-as no delicacy nor taste,
But I shall still dreamest as though my deadness is not death,
for I am alone; for I am all cursed, without thee.
To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully cherished,
To thee whom I endorsed, and magnified,
My heart, ah-my poor heart, is still left within thee,
Just how weepest shall the leafless autumn tree,
Waiting for its lost offspring to return,
and be liberated from its pious mourns;
And as I hearest their shaky, infantile chorus,
I shall but picturest thee again, thus;
Thy cordial left palm entwined in my hand,
Strolling with me about the leafy garden.
A joyed maiden having found her dream man,
a loving man swamped deeply with his love, for his loyal maiden.
I'm staring at walls and hiding away.
Breathing to fast for a normal day
Yet at the same time I can't breathe
As I stare at the test in front of me.
Life can take you in unplanned ways,
And leave you hanging with only a few days.
And here I ask you, who am I?
To choose between death and life?
I'm seventeen, I'm too young to make this choice,
To silence another soul and bury down their voice.
But as the seconds tick on by
And as I feel my eyes dry
I think of how hard it would be
If there was something growing inside of me.
That "Just one time" was probably enough.
And that even protection isn't so tough.
No matter how far I reach
Your tiny hands are too far from me,
And I want to hold you in my arms
And protect you from all world harms.
I want to wipe away your little sorrows
And hold you for every tomorrow
And lift you up above my head so high,
That you could take flight in the sky.
And when I look into your eyes,
The color of midsummer skies,
I'll be looking into his too.
Because love gave his eyes to you.
And our little family would fight along
And we'd have to find a way to be strong.
School would be a dying dream.
More jobs would magnetize me.
And I love you, I love you, I really do.
But it's much too soon for me to have you.
And there's still a minute until the end of the test.
And I can't find where I lost my breath.
Baby, be patient, you'll be here one day.
But if I want what's best for you, I can't let you stay.
And I'm sorry for ever doing wrong,
But my love for you is much too strong.
I'm staring at walls and hiding away.
Breathing to fast for a normal day
Yet at the same time I can't breathe
As the test says "No - " in front of me.
Perfect autumn day
The red leaves
And orange specks
Adam was only ten
Placing the apple carefully
On the top of his head
He stood underneath a tree
"Dont be scared,trust me."
His friend said
And picked up the bow and arrow
Adam squeezed his eyes
And then opened it again
He saw the arrow being pulled
And suddenly all he could see
Were the images of his sister
And the days he spent with his friend
Playing ball
Climbing the fences
The way his mother kissed him on the forehead
Her lavender smell wafting through the house
The report card he got just yesterday
How proud his father would be
Looking down from above
"1..."
How he never got to kiss Sadie
And dry her tears
"2..."
How in about 3 days his baby brother
Jordan would be born
"3."
And how in that last second
He saw himself next to his father
And gave one last smile
As the world was shut off
From the soulless eyes
The arrow struck
Straight in the middle of his forehead
I'm not a poet. I'm just a writer trying
to find a place to rest my pen
somewhere between the sonnets
and the story books
The ink runs dry and the pages
o v e r f l o w
but from which end,
I just don't know
I beat myself up for hurting
Decide not to procrastinate
And decide to implement that
Wonderful decision later
Later
when my pen is dry
And my eyes
Fall out of my head
To watch my self-inflicted
Demise.
*
Will anyone ever read this?
Let me invite you inside my head
You would be the only welcome visitor
Will you take my problems when you leave?
A parting gift
Apart from me your head is full
Of what you see
And so no one will EVER see things the way I do
And yet
Why
Do
I
Still
Try
?
***
11.11pm
i cannot explain
how i am feeling
for i have no reason
and no medical condition
12.01am
i saw the way
the shit of the world
consumed you
and left you dry
1.33am
in saying that my scars
looked beautiful
you had no idea
that it made me bleed
to please you
4.56am
tonight i am feeling more alone
and this is why i am finding myself
crying on your bathroom floor
tears mixing with blood and betrayal
6.00am
the only thing i have left
is my courage
and my strength
I stand aside sometimes
And await my punishment
Await my flogging
The consequences of my actions
I know I've been bad
I've lied to myself so, I have been had... by me
But that false reality, for a second, filled me with so much satisfaction
I stand aside, stand out of my own way... so I can see
The ability to be in denial to myself is one that I lack, that character is hardly me
And so, I stand aside sometimes, turn my gaze inward, and look inside at times
Correct my wrongs
The rhythm somehow kind of went off key
Re-write these songs
These bad ideas come in crowds... in throngs
These crazy things that we conjure up
That flow freely
Damn this tap
Will never stop giving
When will it dry up?
