The girl with the smile.
The perfect storm.
Wonderful. Just. Wonderful.
Aren't we a shy pair? The names
you use to describe me to others are cute indeed
but I'd like them better if you used them with me.
I'm more than Lauren, your friend from school.
I'm the "electric wonder" who you deemed "too cool"
to pursue back in eighth grade. So you sat back like a
fool and let me get my heart broken by a boy who didn't care.
I forgive you though,
because you were there when he let me down.
And it was your hug that I'd wished had been his all along.
And back in tenth grade when another stood me up,
it was you, skinny love, who picked me up. From a
lonely cold night outside the movies. It was you,
who took me out for ice cream and it was you,
who told me he wasn't worth the trouble.
In tenth grade you deemed me an exciting beauty who
could never fall for a man like you. But all along it was
your hand I wished had been holding mine.
And my senior year when we parted ways,
and we reminisced about the days we had
you had a look on your face. Like there was something
you just had to say. But instead,
you told me you'd miss me when I was at college
and nothing more. You made me the girl with the smile
that ignited the light in your heart but you did not tell me.
You let me go. And I never let you know that I wish it had
been you in school who I called my own.
Summer after I came home from my first year away,
you said I had changed. I had purple in my hair
and the care I once had of the opinions of others was
gone. We spent weeks together, like nothing had changed.
And when I cried because I had to leave you again you
were the one,
who calmed my fears and promised to visit once you'd move in.
I was your perfect storm of grace and tragedy. And it was you,
who I wanted to share every moment with during those warm summer nights.
Sophomore year you brought me to a party. I
didn't know anyone and your friends were rude.
And when I wanted to leave and never come back it was you,
who stood up for me and told them I was perfect.
You said I was Wonderful. Just. Wonderful. And after all
the times I let the truth stay bottled up inside I finally
let it out. That kiss on the porch was not the wine, nor the
weed. It was me. It was you. It was us. It was all the times
you were there for me and all the times I'd secretly wished
you were those boys who'd let me down.
So why? Skinny Love? Why continue on this way?
No need for another heart break. Let's admit the
way we feel, my friend,
the way we've always felt.
For tenth grade me.
For senior year you.
For the times we cried together.
And hid our feelings for each other.
Come now, skinny love, tell me how you feel.
Wickering destruction thundering from the summit
First a death rain then deafening sound.
Rumble and boom.
Cordite flowers bloom and twinkle in
The srarless night.
Whistle me home my friend though my face unseen.
Lock and load my friend .
Then whistle me swiftly home.
Mother stands in the doorway worlds apart. She ponders the sudden chill.
FIRE. Pull the lanyard wire and whistle me home.away.
Soaring. Sireen.screaming thunder
True and deadly.
Gvround zero stands the hero.
Drop the sight
Gunny.crank her down.
Lockand load Gunny
Fire and whistle me home.
I think the hardest thing to remember is that everything ends.
When times are great and I'm lying in your arms its so easy to remember
That you're going to leave.
I count down the minutes until you'll have to get out of my bed, pull on your shorts, pack up your bag,
Its easy to look at it in terms of time
And know exactly how many seconds I have
Until you leave.
But when the insides of my stomach are clenching and aching,
When there's nothing in the world that can make this pain stop,
It's hard to remember that this too will end.
This time there aren't a set number of minutes to count down,
But it will pass.
My friends tell me, "He wasn't good enough for you"
My roommate says, "There's only so many times he can make you cry before I write him off."
My mom says "You've been down lately honey. Is everything okay?"
I start to perk up and think, You're right. I'm glad he's leaving.
Only a few more minutes.
I follow up with telling them that my psychic says I haven't met the love of my life yet.
I don't yet know the man I'll marry,
Which makes me feel better.
And then she says, "Have you seen her recently? How do you know?"
And I'm back to tallying the minutes left in my misery.
Its hard to remember that this pain will subside
That it will stop hurting so badly.
That I will stop thinking about you every moment of every day.
But then take me back to the flip side where things were perfect.
When we spent our first night together-
The build up,
To when we were finally in your bed, locked in each others arms
And you said to me, "This isn't going to be a one time thing."
Even then, I knew our time was limited.
I know eventually I will leave your bed permanently in the morning
To go back to my place.
And I know eventually my life will continue on without you in it.
Without our fingertips locked around each others.
But its hard to remember that
Its hard to want that.
And now you're leaving
And I so badly want to say the things
That you're not supposed to say to the guy you're fucking.
Will you ever talk to me again?
Can I still text you 24 hours a day?
Can I have your address?
Can I call you?
Do you want to call me?
Can we talk about doing more?
Can we talk about visiting?
I don't want to get a drink or coffee when I happen to be in town.
I want to visit for you.
But I'm afraid those are going to end things even quicker.
I know its going to end. That's not the question.
I just want to hold out for as long as possible
With my fingers caught in your hair,
With your arm grasping my waist,
With our texts stretching late into the nights when we can't be together.
Maybe someday we'll meet in some city
And get that drink or coffee I want more than
And rekindle this flame (5 years?).
Maybe I'll text you one too many times
And you'll stop responding (6 months?).
Or maybe we'll meet other people
And forget about our short moment of bliss (1 year?).
Until then I will continue to tally how many minutes have passed
And I have left to suffer
Until something, someone, fills this aching hole
Until there is a happier ending.
Is tonight another night
I like to label restless
Will it be filled with dreams
Or thoughts of things unseen
In the dark I stare at nothing
Yet something's staring back
its the night where my nightmares live
And hauntings of things I lack.
Darling, look at me,
Through this night that we can defeat
We'll march proudly and come to be
We'll see who boils under heat.
When the sun decides to wake
Darling, I will be there
When the sun comes up
I'll always be here.
The multi-story carpark
was an urban tower
for adolescent escapism.
Despite how that sounds,
The feelings of those times
couldn't be more pronounced.
Huddled in groups,
Cheap noise blaring
out fuzzy tunes.
We'd mosh to it nonetheless,
Our reverence unsaid.
Winter month's wet weather
brought more to our shelter,
We'd skate, paint and
be anti-social together.
Often we'd engage
in illegal activity,
Around us, this place
would be a hub for divinity.
stealing and sex.
Party for free,
Plan the next.
Our weekends were spent
surrounded by concrete,
we'd hide from problems
where only we could find us.
One night on the top
at nine o' clock,
a chorus of ringing
I held the girl close as we looked upon the city,
Skystruck teens getting dizzy.
No escape from cherished memories,
Don't run away,
Confront the melancholy.
is a beatific bane.
Good times are never in vain.
You are my lover,like a father--
But I will never be your wife
And I will never be your daughter.
I am the skeleton locked in the closet
While you sit together, Sunday brunch
With sweet smiles and shared laughs
Over sentiments I will never be part of.
Family man with a happy home,
Why are you unfulfilled?
Lay with her at night, but your
Thoughts are with me, and night-time
Dreams will bring our lust to your solemn bed.
You love her, I know, but
Where once floods of passion brought you
To embrace has turned into a slow and
Steady river, and visions flash in your mind
Of wandering between between soft, young
Thighs, where pleasure is welcomed
Longingly between smooth legs in
Black boots with stiletto heels.
One last moment of freedom, rebellion and
Youth before all has fleeted and chains are a condition
of old age, where feeble mind and feeble body
Receive no coy flattery or passing glance.
You are only a man, it's true;
and all men fall to the right woman.
A flash in the sky
One question, why?
A small bit of fear
The feeling that it's near
The mentioning of stranger things
A presence from above the radio sings
The dark night sky filled by lights
Are the sightings right
The things that roam inside my head
At night when the stop light is red
Love you forbidden storyteller
Won't you come to me tonight
Whisper a story in my ear
A little louder so I can hear
So when I open my eyes
I might believe in the lies
So that when I'm left for dead
The pain might seem small instead
And you can come back the next night
And tell me another story
So it can happen all over again
how do i say
one last good night,
after that day
of our last fight?
how can i give
you one last kiss,
and tell you i love you
in pure joyful bliss?
how will i hold
you one last time,
and feel my cold
wrapped in your warmth?
how can i see,
your beautiful eyes
shining under the moon,
so full of glee?
all the stupid arguments--
mean nothing now
it's all too late
and you are gone.
now i'm left with
these last wishes,
to say, to give, to hold
just. one. last. time.
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