I’ll not get over George,
Alice said, not manage
to get him out of my skin
or memory. Her psychiatrist
said she might. Twat. Her
word. Heard it someplace.
Not sure where. No, George
she misses. Known him for
years, ever since the work
house closed and they were
dumped in some home for
homeless. He was partially
blind, saw badly, spoke in
a jumble of words. But she
was drawn to him; first out
of pity, then deeper out of
love. Possible, her psychiatrist
said, love may help whatever
it is. Arse. Her word. Heard
it somewhere, not sure where.
She kissed George first; then
he kissed her. Each carried the
work house haunting with them.
Young staff at the home for the
homeless, smirked, spoke behind
their hands. George seeing her
poorly imagined her better maybe,
she didn’t care, at least he was
kissing her and he was right there.
Once they almost did it, but
George fumbled and they lost
concentration. And they gave
that up as a bad job. Best not to,
her psychiatrist said. Knob. Her word.
Heard it someplace, not sure where.
Then George died; stiff in bed, his not
hers, heart gave out, the doctor said,
poor Alice, loved mostly, cared much,
all gone, not wed, she alone, missing
George, in her single noisy spring bed.
tonight
tonight tonight i will give them what i have
my heads in th right condition
and my hearts in the right state,
i've tried to blend
i get lost in the weather
backwards sounds make me never forget her
my mind stays
set on the facts i try
tonight
tonight i will not be like a bad father
i will not be plastic not bothered
and i will speak clearly
and they'll understand
You
You know not what you're doing,
You drift, in ways of abstract design,
You give false impressions,
Of things deeply untrue,
Oh God,
I wish that you weren't you!
You are anonymously sweet,
Portraying that you're bad,
When in fact,
You're really sad,
Full of lost delights,
Everything is wrong,
Not much is right!
You found the right one then,
It melted, lava bursting,blood ripples,
You get judged in ridicule,
By all who surround you!
In you're life,
They all confound you,
You want to fit in and fall in love,
But all around you,
Astound you.
You are not a frog on a leash,
To be toyed with,
Nor one who wants to play,
You are a person!
You have a heart,
A heart which sustains and nourishes,
Protects and cossets,
You have dark secrets,
Running through cold veins,
A brain of creations,
Your thoughts run deep,
Still waters they say,
You have to hold them everyday,
Black as night is,
As white as pure is,
All you want is love for sure,
Do you know your name?
Do you know who you are?
Full suit of armour protects naked soul
Falling deeper into a hole, daily,
You are me, and I am you!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
i step on the scales
i have gained weight
worthless; i am too fat
i step on the scales
i have lost weight
worthless; i am weak, i am still too fat
i am not enough
.........................................
I don't come here much anymore.
Too many memories.
They say every house has a tale to tell,
Every rusted door jam a mystery.
That window over there, looking pale
And yellowed with age
And dust and yesterdays wonder, I broke
Way, way back before Grandpa had his stroke
And Grandma left her rocker for the last time.
I'd thrown a baseball right through it.
Pa was drinking then, the hard liquor,
And he whipped me raw out back behind the shed
With the full buckle. He reminded me
Windows cost money we don't have.
And Eleanor...
She was six or seven then.
She was just learning how to ride a bike,
And she was proud as can be.
She would hang out by the hollyhocks,
Pretending they were scarecrows,
Naming each one,
And telling me she'd found a pirates treasure
Buried out there near the windmill that still needed
A coat or two of fresh paint.
She was that shine in Momma's eyes,
The one person in all the world Grandma would tell
Her stories to -
Stories that would bring Eleanor
Into worlds of imagination and wonder
She'd never known before.
And Eleanor would drink it in,
All the color and fire,
That lingered in every word.
And when she wandered that late October night
Into the fields,
We searched up and down with lanterns lit and flashlights, And the neighbors helped,
And we found her come morning in the silo.
I guess she'd climbed in to explore.
You can't breathe when it hits you. It's like it
Sucks the air right out of the little space you find ,
And the weight of the grain slowly drowns out your Thoughts and your struggles, your prayers
And your cries. And nothing's left to do
But feel that terror
Of nothingness pull you away.
So many memories...
And I was angry then. Angry at Pa,
At Gren,
At God.
I blamed them for everything and then some.
I learned to smoke , and I did it well.
I learned to swear, and I was good at it.
I didn't stay home much after that.
I left, hitched a ride to New Castle Valley,
And then to Porterville.
I didn't care for schooling,
So I found a job feeding pigs.
That lead to butchering. And I was good at it.
I could lose myself in it. In the thunder of the sin,
Found some satisfaction in how they bled.
I didn't go back til after Dad died.
He'd lost everything, did a bit of drinking,
Spent his time in the county jail,
Did more drinking
When he got out.
I'd learned Grandpa died of the pneumonia,
And Grandma had a few strokes.
Nobody ever told me what happened to Momma.
She just disappeared.
...and over time I grew less angry.
And I'd talk to God at night,
Sometimes I'd talk to Eleanor, cuz I knew
She was up there with God doing angel things,
Probably riding a bicycle real good by now.
Time marched on and I made due.
But I don't come here much anymore.
This place haunts me.
The silo that claimed Eleanor now a rusted heap
Of wood and metal that watches every step I take
...and I hate it,
I'd burn it to ashes if I could.
The porch where Grandma's rocker sat
Is weather beaten and tired.
And the stump where Grandpa would sit
Trimming his fingernails with that pocket knife
Lays on its side, victim to the winds of time
And those echoes that whisper things I thought
I'd forgotten.
And I lose it for a moment
And have to mop away a few tears.
Me, a fifty-six year old blubbering fool,
Still picking at the scars.
I can hear her voice,
Her laughter,
As she circled the gravel road on her bike,
Kicking at the small stones to get the bicycle moving
Just a little faster.
And I can almost see her sweet face
And her eyes so wide
They captured the Autumn sun like a rising star.
And there's Momma, hollering "Supper's ready."
And Pa, slamming down the hood on
The truck and wiping the hot sweat from his brow
As Grandma's little rocking chair squeaked its protests
Into the wind.
And there was Grandpa,
Grinning and pocketing that knife
And kicking mud off his
Work boots and heading on in.
No, I don't come here much anymore.
This place holds far too many ghosts for my tastes.
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
.........................................................
"You fall out of your mother's womb,
you crawl across open country under fire,
and drop into your grave."
-Quentin Crisp
........................................................
Not the way you touch my hand so lightly as you speak.
Not the way your eyes ooze into my will.
Oh no, Not that.
Not the way you breath so softly as you sleep.
I cozy up to your face on the pillow savor every breath.
Silently I yearn to share every essence of you.
Not your mouth.your lips that quiver with anticipation
as I draw you close to me. a preamble of what is to be
unspeakable pleasure your eyes twin abysses.
Oh no. Please speak a word. any word.
Now my darling for every whisper is a symphony.
a treasure like no other.Each more priceless than the other.
Your hands were made to hold my heart forever and no other.
Slender fingers serpentine. to slither and caress. Oh sweetheart
My love My dearest your hips they sway a pulsing rhythm that I can
hear, a bossa nova.Cool and warm is your charm.
Have I not loved before?
No.
Clearly,This way is like no other.
I lay awake on endless nights and shudder.
Wipe the silent tears away.Mourn the day
when I have lost your way to another.
I do so love you.
A captain always goes down with his ship
There is honor in that, valor
Guns blazing as you sink, defiant to the end
I never understood where they got the courage
Found a cause worth dying for
Why not be captured?
Isn't prison better than death?
Those Lords of the high seas, they always seemed so confusing to me
I think I understand it now though
Staying attached to a lost cause
Because when you invest so much of yourself in something
It is really, really hard to let it go
So despite odds that most likely will crush you
You battle on, heels dug in, back to the wall
This love is a poison, and she will be the death of you
But you continue fighting the good fights; it is all you know how to do
I once was lost
But then I drew a map of the nothingness
And put myself in the middle.
(religion)
Fat;
Bubbly lipids gathering and stacking in a fashioned order.
Fat;
It was not so "fashionista" when she gained and gained.
Skinny;
She was lost, had no where to run but to the pantry.
Skinny;
Bones showing, skin glimmering in the sunlight.
Fat;
Sticking to her bones as paper sticks to glue.
Fat;
Poking and Prodding at the blubbery material that sits upon her femurs.
Unhappy;
She will always be.
Tourist, who gave her eyes
to the fishes and the sharks.
Ingenue queen of the lingering darkness.
Tourista, chain smoking in the rain.
Perfumed winds blow from her mouth
dizzying the Phoenician sailors with longing for her shores.
And the moths circle,
searching for her cable knit heart.
And I will go back to my darling,
my darling tourista,
when you my darling are gones.
Us being strangers of the night
and enemies in hollow places.
Tourista prays to ooze juicily
at last round the bearded lips of God.
Tourista swallows sleep
and swallows deep.
Tourista lost in translation
between valley girl slang and punk rock idols.
Pushing pushing pushing, push em.
Tourista of the long white neck, neglected.
Free of love nibbles and nicotine kisses.
Though she longs for their ghosts
and strokes the scars of their cousins.
Her screaming, rolling head full of tinder and ready to ignite.
Like the loveliest of hand grenades.
Tourista who's heart swells and empties with the tides,
all Jackson Pollucked up inside.
The punch line of every joke. The object of every desire.
And tourista rattles with wheezing.
Tourista vacant. Accepting reservations.
Calling dimply she prays to the highway dogs
and hound dogs and squealing pups.
Tourista of the pure soul, sprinkling virgin lamplight
like vestal seeds.
Though she implores every living thing to dampen the flame.
Hold tight, says tourista, happiness is surely near.
But she hides it away in her bedside table and hopes she will forget.
