Do you want to live forever?
said the Gardener to me,
tending to a creeping thought
and watering the sea.
I replied, no, but thanks, you see,
I'd rather be a tree.
And spread my branches out
to
shelter creatures underneath.
A tree? A tree? He whispered tentatively.
Why, I can't remember what it be.
That word. That thought. That memory.
He shook his head and shrugged at me.
(So I scratched a crude drawing in the dirt
and The Gardener squatted there pondering at it a while,
robes lifted up above bony knees)
But I do that too, said He, jumping up quite suddenly.
Pardon me, but I see no need - No need to be a tree!
Just beg a princely role of me
and I shall fill your fantasy!
I said thanks..but..well..you see..
I'd rather be a tree.
He paused for quite a while.
Then said okay, a little hesitantly.
Then said that he would not be that okay
until he sees these silly things called trees
and until he sees the purpose of the thing it is
that means so wonderfully much to me
to
want to be a tree.
So he turned me to a tree and put me in a park.
Where couples came and families
and cuddling lovers in the dark.
And colored birds were friends to me
and I sheltered all of them beneath.
And spread new life through little seeds
and quenched the world its need to breathe.
And in the autumn dropped my leaves
to feed the insects in the weeds.
I stretched my roots in
luscious ground and saw such beauty all around.
I was
old and happy as only a tree
could ever wish or hope
to be.
And then I saw that a familiar face was watching me.
And He said..
You are quite naturally a tree
and have done so extraordinarily well in green that I will let you be to live your dream.
And as he walked away,
he smiled happily back at me.
......................................................................
Mr. Coffee, who just today
Sent Margaret Thompson a bouquet
Of Birthday Lilies, green as tea,
Just shared a bit of news with me.
How odd he seems when he is near.
So daft at times, and very queer.
He told me just today a grim
And spectral spirit is haunting him.
He told me how it steals the light,
And how it keeps him up at night.
And then he said, "But I don't know
If it is friend, or it is foe."
Mr. Coffee's Ghost, says he,
Fancies his Cranberry Tea.
For he's spied it, quiet as can be,
Pour itself a cup, or three.
He suspects it fiddles with the Loo.
He's heard it flush a time, or two.
Though he figures it just wants to play
In its ectoplasmic way.
I fear, I do, our gentle friend,
May have finally met his bitter end.
That he may not see the here and now.
That he's lost touch with us somehow.
I fear his mind perhaps is spent.
And no one knows just where it went.
As though it packed its bags one shifty day
And lumbered off to Paraguay.
I fear our dear and troubled friend,
Has slipped right off the deepest end.
As though he's lost his crackers and his cheese
In tons and tons of black-eyed peas.
Or, perhaps it's but a jest? A way
To put us to the test today?
To find if we can fairly see
His little play at comedy?
He said he asked his Ghost one day
If it would kindly move away.
And it spluttered out, quite unrehearsed,
"But, truth be told, I was here first!"
Mr. Coffee says he has a Ghost
That likes to steal his raisin toast.
And when he leaves the living room,
He hears it toying with the broom,
Shaking corner cobwebs fair,
Dusting things from here to there,
And sweeping clean the Parlor screen.
Aye, it's heard, it's just not seen!
The oddish way he looked today,
He seemed just a wee bit gray .
Asking if he'll ever comprehend
If his Ghost be foe, or it be friend.
He says, "Of course the floorboards creek."
He hears the murky darkness speak.
He feels the curtains move and sigh,
As evening slowly tip-toes by.
He says, "The place is rather drafty, yes.
And it's a madhouse, I confess.
The sounds this house makes in the rain
Are never easy to explain"
This Ghost will turn the heater so far down
All it gets is cold.
And then tap tap tap the attic wall
Whenever it feels extra bold.
It will shadow every little room
With a phantasmic potpourri
This spooky little specter
Mr. Coffee cannot see.
This spiteful spook, it flickers lights,
To express it's ectoplasmic rights!
It rings the doorbell in a way each day
That scares the neighbor kids away
He'll spot a restless shadow dance,
Whenever he nods half a glance.
And Mr. Coffee feels he's in the right to stay,
And does not want to move away.
So, Mr. Coffee has a Ghost
A fair bit ghoulish of a Host,
Who thinks itself a China Rose,
And keeps poor Coffee on his toes.
Reminding him most every day,
His Ghost will never move away.
And in this Peculiar Poltergeist's parlay,
His Spectral Specter's here to say.
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
................................................................................
"The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill
crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses
and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house,
full of gloom and haunted by ghosts."
-Henry Wadsworth Longfello
.................................................................................
a little piece
of my soul dies
every time i see
some poor girl
who thinks that
she is everything
but all she does
is throw herself
to the dogs of this world
i wish they
would realize
they are not wanted
in a year from now
they will likely
take to the streets
because that is
the only place
left for them
A Little Fall of Rain
That song hits me
HARD
every time
"If I could close your wounds with words of love"
"Just hold me now
And let it be
Shelter me
Comfort me"
"She essayed to smile
again
And expired"
And his fabulous work
Les Misérables
Including
But not limited to
This wretched soul
Éponine Thénardier
She loved with
All her heart
And died as she lived
Loving a boy
Who never saw her
For who she was
I'm getting old and I am falling to bits
think I'll give up the ghost
and just call it quits.
It's alright for you,
You're all so young
and so very vibrant
but I am reliant on doctors and pills
and every day I go on just brings me more ills.
The Priest Calls...
..and tells me,
'that life is but a distraction
and afterwards the real action begins
Repent of your sins'
Oh Christ
I don't want to hear that no more
I show him the door.
I try to shuffle around
but I admit it at last I am almost bedbound.
The Lady Calls...
..I let her in
another repentable sin?
but she just looks and she laughs
and says,
'the only thing you'll get in that bed is bedbaths'
I don't need to show her the door
she's there before
I even know it.
Yes,
getting old is the pits
are you also thinking of calling it quits?
Life is a fight
nature fights for the light
we are all blind in the night
and none more than me.
I can see I'll go on 'til the day's finally gone
but nothing tastes good any more
I wonder who let my taste buds out the door.
The Devil Knocks..
..and that shocks me awake
but I never really sleep
got to keep my eye on the green line.
Beep.Beep.Beep
the monitor doesn't allow me to sleep
but 'Old Nick makes me sick
he's even older than me
why would I want to be one of his acolytes?
they're just little shites.
I show him the door
and he roars into flames
feckin showoff.
I've never been good at poker
But me and Life played a game
I pulled a horrid, useless hand
And lost every penny to my name
The consequences were harsh
Life gave me them with a smile
With very little to work with
To overcome the trials
Life gave me keloid scars
Life gave me misophonia
Life gave me depression
Life gave me paranoia
And panic attacks
And a fear of love
(And a huge nose
As if I hadn't had enough)
And I'm meant to accept my "spoils"
From a horrid poker game
And spend years of my life
Pretending I'm okay
I'm supposed to laugh
And have a smile on my face
But what emotion should I show
When the audience walks away?
I'm supposed to do this
Without being too fake
But how can one be genuine
While wearing the facades they make?
So when others ask why I'm suicidal
When they ask why I find everything bland
When they try to fix my apathy
I just tell them "I drew a bad hand"
This is for all the men
Who tell me I am beautiful
I can't hear you
Through all those years
Of being and ugly duckling
This is for my dog
Big blue eyes
My baby snugglebug
Sniffing for donuts
Chewing my hands in the morning
And the nail biters
And the chefs
Who lose fingers tot he meatgrinders
And the farmers
Staking lives
On a drop of rain
I am vain
This is for the men
Who have faith
I am not the virgin Mary
Just another pretty face
Another lacy thong to take off
This is for the underwear makers
The firecrackers
This is for the characters
Who explode in the night sky
Like the fourth of July
And ordinary people
Are blinded by the colors
This is for the mothers
And the big brothers
And the Prozac poppers
This is for the bees that have stung me
I've eaten their honey
And my cakes would not taste
So sweet without it
This is for the surgeons
And musicians
And fishermen
For the men who have bought me dinner
And never seen a return
On their investment
This is for the beards
And chest hair
This is for my little sister
Who is finally growing up
The word "love" on her tongue
And this is for America:
Land of the free
Home of the mancave
Beauty is only as deep
As your mineral rights
The copper and coal mines of your eyes
Beauty flies as high as kite
Melts away like cotton candy
After a baseball game
This is for the men who called me beautiful
For all the beauty in the world
All the beautiful
You cannot possibly know
How much you have meant
I know this story
Two broken toys
Lives miming parody
Cruel tragedy
A girl behind glass
We can't touch our
Hearts live in the past
We could press up
Against the pain of glass
It doesn't matter what we want
When your broken you just can't
I know how it is
Fate whispers tragedy
It can't be I want to die
Living dead presently
I see the world through glass
A world of people to see
They're mouthing words I can't hear
I scream but they can't touch me
I'm disconnected and distant
Shadow soul ghost echo
Ephermal intangible animal
Easily confused by what's real
Surviving starts this prison feeling
Crying staring at the ceiling
With every fiber of being
Longing to feel anything
I could sleep with you
Never touch soul just body
Fickle fates heart is a tyrant
One of life's little ironies
So you'll always be
The girl behind glass
Pretty snowglobe to stare at
Cold winter dream untouched
Secret hidden heart hurting enough
Find enough snowglobes
You'll learn to let go
We only have what we hold
Was it you we'll never know
But I'll remember you fondly
In your time of winter and trees most
Memories of hope I'll keep close
The last time someone touched my heart
These days I don't have many of those
We're throwing flowers at glaciers here, with all of the corresponding efficacy you'd expect :-) Sometimes it's not what works but that you're still capable of trying.
What you walk away with is something like hope, rescued from tragedy and you cherish that momentary happiness until it collapses and time elapses and you walk away dazed and confused with pleasant if misguided memories of having your heart touched, even if it was for the briefest of moments.
one of those mornings
where I want to lay on the floor with my legs in the air
where I want to smoke cigarettes as skinny as arms
where I want to wear dark sunglasses that spell out
C-O-O-L C-A-T
and these shades would allow me to be callous
and my apathy and I could make snide remarks
about you,
you little fucker
Boy, I hope you can smell my contempt over there.
You deserve it. But I don't really care anymore.
I don't dislike many people, but if I could do it,
I would tell you that I look upon your character
with the same adoration that I would hold for a
parasite-infested rotting mountain of rat feces.
Which is to say not a lot.
Which is to say I dislike you.
It's just one of those mornings,
where I want to stop knowing you, and wish you wouldn't know me.
where I want to do something, but you see, I can't feel a thing, for you.
I have nothing for you, really,
I am fresh out of fucks to give.
I don't regret anything since I learned a great deal.
I wouldn't say I was heartbroken, just exasperated
by your contrived and un-authentic dumbass-ery.
I am better than you. I put on my darkest shades,
I laugh when I remember that this sunny morning.
old makeup spilled on my floor
dirty clothes strewn on my floor
I have a new, thousand dollar laptop
less than two hundred ($) in checking
no groceries, yet plenty of prescriptions
(but they are needed, much and every day)
where did all these bills come from?
suddenly, it costs money to breathe.
Eating? Oh pshaw, that costs money.
I get what I ask for, and it always comes, at a price of over a hundred dollars,
and more bad luck than a couple broken mirrors smashed over a black cat.
Quick! Let's do designer drugs with the paltry change given by our parents!
Wouldn't they feel proud of our feelings of entitlement and adult decisions?
Break open my mother's back,
or my father's checking account
so long as I get to swipe down
that magnetic strip of their love
(that proves that they love me)
and we will buy strawberries
for five dollars and nine cents
and eat like the bourgeoisie (!)
flicking the tips of eyeliner up
like a little tail, the ends of eyes,
black as my tightest velvet pants
and I'll come call, prepaid, with
a voice that is thick and ripped,
bags under eyes, a little anemic,
(I think it adds to the glamour)
I will put on perfume and furs,
silken drawers, fine gold jewelry.
I will gamble with you in Monte Carlo or Las Vegas,
just as long as you pay my rent at $695 per month,
until I die, or something else.
