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Through a haze of gray the ocean foams,
Its thunder set against the sea,
Waves that play tag with the shore,
And then reach out to beckon me.

They raised me here, the sand, the sun.
How I loved the wind against my face.
It haunts this white and sandy shore,
Its clefts and crags, with curious grace.

A scent of cocoa butter in the breeze
Twists its way through willow trees,
That dot the boardwalk to the Bay,
And oh, so gently drifts away.

I can taste the salt within the air,
And hear the children playing there,
Tossing their Frisbee in the salty foam,
As starfish climb the mossy stone.

The crabs along the jetty sneak
Through stony clefts for one brief peek,
And hide again when we pass through,
The seaweed and green waters blue.

And this welcome wind, so warm and dry
Whistles soft against my gray-blue sky.
Reminding me of their golden glow,
Of treasured times so long ago

The gulls, like thieves, are never shy,
As they swoop, roll, dart, screech and cry,
And dive for scraps left on the dock,
By the fishermen now out on the jetty rock.

Oh, bring me back to my wild sea!
Fill my heart and soul and more
With all the wonders blessed to me.
I think this is what memories are for.

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Copyright © 2004 Richard D. Remler
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I didn't need reminding
But you told me all the same
Great friends
What a laugh
I laugh
Then fall screaming
I never stopped hoping
I went through those old letters you sent
Summer nights
Sweet perfume filling the midnight air
Toes playing with the surf
As the breeze sweeps my hair
Back from my face
Captured in a photograph
I look so young
So free
So in love
Yet
So vunerable
Lines of love bleed onto the paper
Time never heals
It just sends us divertions
To cover the truth
It's hard to believe that young girl is me
I see myself differently
Through eyes that lost the tinted glass
Remembering
To replace the past where it lays
I move on to tomorrow
Then beyond
Life is sweeter
Life is worth living
Sleep now comes

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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
Is 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

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"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
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I'm over stressed and depression.
I have scars all over my arms reminding me of everything that could of been.
The days where I gave in, shut the world off and just kept to my self.
I can't breathe,I can't stand straight.I can't do this.
I gave in,I gave in to the sharp edges of my broken heart and held tight.
Slid deep and watched my bloody tears hid the floor of the unknown.
-D.