happiness is all i want
it's not a front
or something i can roll in a blunt
not something i can drink
not something to eat
or a quick feel
not a tug on the reel
a new steering wheel
but it's what i want
and i'm gonna find it
trying to figure out where to look
i've read a number of books
to see what in the world
i saw it in a kid
he was riding his bike
and another little boy with his father
flying a kite
i saw it in the face
of the kenyan who won the boston marathon race
i saw it in the eyes
of a young couple
and it was two guys
i see it in the sun
in the beaming rays
when it goes on my face
my face gets grazed
i smell it in the kitchen
mother's cooking dinner
the roast is in the oven
and the dog is by her side
i saw it in her face
in her eyes
when we came home from work
she'd jump off the couch
in a very quick spurt
and start barking
i miss it
i wish it was staying
i'm gonna find it
no matter how hard i try
i'm going to make it
through the world i'll glide
i always strive
but how do i get it?
do i stop try?
or go harder?
travel waters unchartered
by any boat, bus, or marta
i seek happiness
it'll make me smarter
i'd rather it not
have a price
can't be bought
is all i sought
all i seek
and in the future i dream
I am awoken by a child’s faint cry.
As I look around I see all these women; waiting oh so patiently.
Each waits for a nurse to call her name.
For a man to hold her hand.
For those obscure nights to dissipate into a dream.
For the bumps on their bellies
to be worth a soul, a sin, a miraculous thing.
No, no one has a ring..
There’s an awkward silence.
The siblings of the unborn interrupt.
Some fragile women secretly thankful to be distracted away from their ambivalent thoughts and trepidation seek refuge in reprimanding the unruly children.
A tumult of questions inundate my mind.
Incessant raindrops leaving puddles of muddy thoughts.
There is a girl across the room she had shared with the group that her husband had gone to the restroom the day before and would soon join her. I fake a pitiful smile and yet hope that he does.
Until a woman dressed in white yells my name and I clutch my empty hand.
Fire in her eyes love in her thighs as the cougar seeks her quarry
His clothes to be ripped his face to be kissed his body to devour
A younger flesh to be her next to feast and writhe upon
Oh she's complete with heels on her feet and nylons just for him
Oh why oh why did she not meet the focus of all her desire
Well you where in college while he was in shorts with a soother shoved in his mush
But now he's a man with a mind of his own and a mission to seek what he wants
Others may weep as they slip between sheets but love has no age size or creed
So mark my words well we're all off to hell and I hope with the person we love
As old as we get or as much as we try you can only be who you are
So sleep with the love whomever they are and wake in their warm embrace
For life is to short to tary with age and miss the one made for you.
I know as I missed and no longer resist and hope that you do too
poetry is motion graceful
as a fawn
gentle as a teardrop
strong like the eye
finding peace in a crowded room
we poets tend to think
our words are golden
though emotion speaks too
loudly to be defined
sometimes after midnight or just before
we sit typewriter in hand
pulling loneliness around us
forgetting our lovers or children
who are sleeping
ignoring the weary wariness
of our own logic
to compose a poem
no one understands it
it never says "love me" for poets are
it never says "accept me" for poems seek not
acceptance but controversy
it only says "i am" and therefore
i concede that you are too
a poem is pure energy
between the mind
of the poet and the ear of the reader
if it does not sing discard the ear
for poetry is song
if it does not delight discard
the heart for poetry is joy
if it does not inform then close
off the brain for it is dead
if it cannot heed the insistent message
that life is precious
which is all we poets
wrapped in our loneliness
are trying to say
The first time I saw
Betty Grater swoon
and heard Ms Arnault sigh
I knew I had found the answer
that all young men seek
Instead of good looks
and the scent of money
I realized that the tippled sound of Thomas,
the piston drive of Cummings,
or shroud and mystery of Rimbaud
could accomplish what fumbling
postures never could
They could make a button come
undone and stay that way
part a leg and have it
see an arm brushed
and not pulled back
Ah, but women are not
so easily wooed
You see, poetry is but a beginning
once is never sufficient
and Cyrano found
he was forced to return
to keep those fires burning
Soon you discover it is not enough
to merely sing another’s tune
and you must learn the art
whose muse is not so
So the new poems to Emily or Mary Lou
are steeped in ignorance, stumbling tongue
and emotion that knows only extreme
a Dickinson hodgepodge of flowers,
spring-rain and metaphor trampled
by testosterone expectation
And as these women grow
you discover the magic is fading
that they have learned these lures
and their virtue will not part quite so easy
Ah, but art is ever inventive
and for those hard to dissemble
there are the more obscure songs
of Baudelaire, Jefferson and Yeats
these will free even the firmest
of corset-strung objections
But to truly reach the promised land
there is need to create one’s own
to wrestle the evening with nature’s muse
and tease a line between the sheets
Then, if you've still a mind
you can glance to see
if her clothes have been shed
But the sad and beautiful truth
is that poetry’s muse will suffer no others
rarely will that graceful form stay the course
she will leave to find yet another
that can keep them
It is the voice all seek to hear
The voice the beckons listeners
Not for its loudness anyway
But for the authority it carries
The station ID played on
The man with the voice sat
The jingle was soon on
Listeners expected the voice
The jingle sunk, the voice thundered
“Good morning, here is the news…”
It was indeed the beloved voice
I, like others were relieved at last
For the voice behind the mic
Brought the news to us in fashion
It kept us abreast with happenings
All along something in it said ‘Listen’
Passersby are hauled by the voice
Of the man of unusual charm & panache
We yelled and staggered on
We stumbled and many fell
Detained in the perplexity
No respite as danger pursued
The ordeal ensued when
In the midst of clout struggle
The insurgents took up weaponry
Determined to surmount a dictator
That morning bewilderment originated
Helter-skelter we escaped for safety
Sad enough bullets out ran some
Especially as cross fires existed
We saw our Kinsmen reach for the ground
As though caught only with fatigue
But bullets indeed penetrated some
They lay motionless as we lurched on
Struggling to God knows where,
We knew not our course
No worst thing existed for us
Like the cross fires we were trapped in.
One by one we began to die that day
Randomly death swallowed us up,
While power mongers persisted
Fired projectiles missed targets for us.
We ran frantically in seek for safety
Recognizing us as restless victims,
The insurgents mercilessly began to
Extinct us with great delight
‘No one is surviving the assault
What do I do?’ I pondered hastily
‘Shall we all face our demise this way?
No, I’ll live’ I determined
Kinsmen had long fallen to rise no more
This fact gave me impetus to survive
To live and tell the story of the cross fires
History of the fallen most be told to posterity
Inspiration came to me at once
I unyieldingly fell down as one lifeless
Spilled, oozing blood entwined me
The killers shoot till no one stood
Everyone lay motionless in a stack
I lived however not too sure yet
The cross fires persisted for long
That at one point I envied my kinsmen
Finally, calm was reluctantly returning
The government militia advanced
The insurgents had not a choice
But to retreat in dread of superior artillery
We had unfortunately advanced towards
The insurgents that we became the target
Of the artillery that was meant to shield us
Blames on the wrong tactics by the militia
Abounded as calm was retained in days
But I had a story to tell of the cross fires.
If what you seek is full of grace,
Flawless and without defect.
You will not find it on my face,
I'll disappoint with due respect.
If what you seek is beau ideal,
A paragon of excellence.
You shall not find one as genteel
A paragon in my defense.
I do not thrive on the subtle rays
Of sunlight in my later days.
My face shows age, an age defined
That reflect these years upon my mind.
If what you seek is immaculate,
Double-dyed and without err,
You will not find me consummate,
You will not find perfection there.
I am simply me, every flaw and thorn.
Nothing less and nothing more.
From the very day that I was born,
'tis all that I can answer for.
Copyright © 2010 Richard D. Remler
"Insist upon yourself. Be original."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ten thousand years have gone
Since the guarding of the stone.
Many sordid battles were fought
And all ended with scattered bones.
It is written that only one whom is pure of heart
May lift the stone without swift death.
It is guarded by the eldest of all magic
Which captivate our souls and rob our breath.
Now, however, it is concealed underground.
It was hidden after the many battles and nearly forgotten.
But the Alcapye, ancient guardians of the stone,
Had since passed their knowledge beyond the Great Mountain.
Over the seas and through the jungles,
You'll come at last to what may become your tomb.
In the forsaken desert of the Alcapye,
There it lies: be it our hope or our doom!
It is set in a sacred chest of golden yew
Waiting for the heart that can set it free.
It was marked by the Alcapye,
So only the Chosen One may see.
Eleven days you'll have to seek,
And behold the enchanted stone.
Call upon the Alcapye to guide you
And to you your road be shown.
You shall begin your quest at dawn.
We'll hope that it will not be permanent.
You shall have power beyond measure
If you possess the Stone of Judgment.
If you should fail to retrieve the stone,
Say, 'Farewell' to all those you know.
The Earth shall crumble. The Earth shall fall.
From a nuclear war from every foe.
Written by: Andrew D. Robertson
With tattered mind, and withered eyes,
I lay both on the ground below.
Set on seamless struggle, and desperate loves.
Tomorrow hope would never last.
A sleepless turn, in pitch of night.
Composed a gentle touch, in thoughtless merit.
I’ve never felt like dying before,
Until my heart had reached its chord.
In sleepless stutter, and deadly taste.
I seek the house, in which you lay.
To set in stone, whose words were fate.
In wicked hand, to cling false faith.
I thought about the day we met.
With quivering breath, my heart found beat.
The beauty of my poor hearts chord,
Will last not now, nor never more.