As a razor sharp.
Cutting ties to life.
Fell rapidly through the sky.
Only sound heard,
The sound of silence dragging her feet.
Shuffling by as it passes.
Only silence will trip the switch until death takes.
Sitting in silence.
Almost forgetting the existence of the outside world.
Locked away in deafness prison.
A prison of desolation.
Punished in her silent world.
Child born of mother's sorrow.
She who could not hear her infant cry.
Heavy frost covered senses sound.
While in the pinkish orange morning.
She can see the glowing sky on fire.
Birds of song unheard.
Every sound the world made forbade.
She can only sense her newborn cry!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Don't tell Mr. Ippy
He's leaking a lot.
He'll protest until you're
Convinced he is not.
And, don't tell Mr. Ippy
He's losing his hair.
Oh, he'll rant,
And he'll rage
He's so very much there!
He is an awful nice person
When you're not around.
He's quite level-headed,
With both feet on the ground...
Though sometimes he seems
Just a bit overwound,
He's friendly as can be,
And acts quite neighborly.
So, don't tell Mr. Ippy
His voice has a squeak.
Just nod on and off,
And let the man speak.
Perhaps he's a something
We all ought to hear!
He has things to say,
So we should lend an ear.
Don't tell him his eyebrows
Keep moving around,
Searching for something
They haven't yet found.
And they really don't like it
When we notice them twitch.
As if we've just witnessed
They're losing their stitch.
He'll tell you you're mad,
That you've rust in your clinker,
He'll think you've gone daft,
That you've frazzled your thinker.
And he'll steer clear away
When you come into view.
He'll start to believe
What he's heard about you.
Don't tell him
We know he is no
Although he's been
Boasting of that
For a year.
And don't remind him
His glasses are
Three inches thick.
Or that the frames
Seem to look like an
Old licorice stick.
He's a feisty crustmudgeon,
An ornery bloke.
He's an eccentric old dodge,
From irascible folk.
Yes, his tempermnent's so
That it frightens the day.
It chases the doodads
And whodones away.
So, he yells at the sun -
That it's far, far too bright.
And when it is done,
The man yells at the night.
And when night has finished,
And twilight is here,
Mr. Ippy, convinced that
He's made his point clear,
Heads off to bed
Where he sleeps in his tree.
Somehow that seems
Perfectly normal to me.
He's one of a kind,
When there are two,
Or three near.
And we really don't mind
Just don't call him peculiar,
Eerie, or queer.
Don't tell him he's
Goofy, or dull,
He never will listen.
And he'll do it with grace.
With such grand denial painted
All over his face.
From the right roundy eyebrows
That skittle and skee,
To the erld yeller somethings
That ought not to be.
And trust me,
Cannot take much more.
Sometimes it is better
To simply ignore
The oddness of people
Who seem a bit strange.
He is set in his ways,
And he never will change.
And the man's every right
To see things his way.
He's every good reason
To be him today.
And I'm not one to smidg-ell
The blue from his sky.
I'll not ruin his cheery-do-fair,
Why should I?
He's always been a right
Singular fellow to me.
He is as fine as
A bloke ought to be.
Copyright © 2013 Richard D. Remler
"Love your neighbor as yourself;
but don't take down the fence."
Have you ever seen the stars?
Have you ever counted the night sky?
In the constellations I see shapes,
and the shapes I see create him.
Have you ever counted the night sky?
Followed the moon to the stars.
And the shapes I see create him,
but up there he is unreachable to me.
I followed the moon to the stars,
but only with my eyes could I feel.
Up there he is unreachable to me,
and down here my world stands still.
But only with my eyes could I feel.
They caress over the night sky reflecting love.
And down here my world stands still,
my world separated by the veil of the sky.
They caress over the night sky reflecting love,
but I'm blinded by what I see above,
My world separated by the veil of the sky,
he is no where near to me.
But I'm blinded by what I see above.
I'm unaware of what is truly hidden in the stars.
He is no where near to me,
and I don't think he'll ever fall.
Craving (Part I)
She's calling you like a fog rolling in
Beckoning to you as a book turns it's pages
And you're craving her like a bullet to the chest
She feels like chocolate ushering itself down your throat
Looks like sound painted across the sky
Tastes of sun on the beach
Gnaws at your mind like a dove
A release like prison chains
Hunt (Part II)
Trace her foot steps
Catch her sideways glances
The soft sound of her laugh
Like rain on the sidewalk
Capture her soul
A bird caged with clipped wings
Teach her to sing a song of freedom
Show her how to fly again
Possession (Part III)
Pull her in close
Stay her trembling body
Feel her warmth
Through soft silk
A question on finger tips
Response through her kiss
Bring her back to the cage
And make her feel safe
Lay her down gently
Slowly peel away
The walls she hides behind
Take away her defenses
Gradually unravel her from her skin
And the heart is yours
Free for the taking
Graveyard Valentine (Part IV)
But she's not what you think
Your expectations were too high
All these ideals in your head
She won't live to be
Maybe she's only human
No angelic being would fall this far
Her soul was offered to you
Bare and shuddering at the vulnerability
So you take it in your hand
And its essence repels you
What filth she's turned out to be
Life is a right to be earned
And she has failed
So you take it from her
Cold steel laughs
But she did love you
One last blood stained kiss
And a rose in a jar
On your bedside table
To remind you of her
And the others who disappointed
I think you've missed the point
To and fro, to and fro
In my little boat I go
Sailing far across the sea
All alone, just little me.
And the sea is big and strong
And the journey very long.
To and fro, to and fro
In my little boat I go.
Sea and sky, sea and sky,
Quietly on the deck I lie,
Having just a little rest.
I have really done my best
In an awful pirate fight,
But we captured them all right.
Sea and sky, sea and sky,
Quietly on the deck I lie--
Far away, far away
From my home and from my play,
On a journey without end
Only with the sea for friend
And the fishes in the sea.
But they swim away from me
Far away, far away
From my home and from my play.
Then he cried "O Mother dear."
And he woke and sat upright,
They were in the rocking chair,
Mother's arms around him--tight.
When I gaze up
I see the night sky
Illuminated by the brilliant stars
That are the stage lights.
Radiating from the epicenter
Like the sun,
I feel their soft rays on my face,
warm and nourishing.
The outside world
Enveloped in darkness.
The black expanse conceals onlookers,
But I can feel their presence.
Their energy infuses the air,
Every molecule heavy with anticipation.
The electric atmosphere fuels my passion.
I am at peace.
The clouds enshroud my night in blackened cold
I'm stretched from tundra to savanna grave
The snow and sand comes at my eyes, a wave
In shades of frozen white and burnished gold.
I'll heal, I'll overcome my grief, I'm told
But healing's not the medicine I crave;
There's nothing left of breathing now to save
And nothing left of loving now to hold.
But when the sky parts, brave and bright with stars,
I feel your ghost rise up inside my skin
And though my smile is cut apart with scars
The promised healing fuels and begins.
My faith consoles me; you'll be never far--
The presence of an angel is within.
I. the breathing of human nature
her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *
whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.
she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.
II. the statue and sobriquet
piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.
nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--
in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.
she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,
roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.
Let us now decorate the symbol of life and ensure that the protection from Scandinavian and Turkish witches is confidently displayed at our thresholds whilst snowflakes silently fall.
Are you able to recollect the innocence, where the magic circle of Arctic captivation nurtured the sending of burnt letters through anticipatory chimney flues, deep into the twinkling sky at night?
There is a certain connection to the pattern of Odin - the guide of souls.
In wisdom, I have left savoury and alcoholic sustenance for ancestral spirits between the high places of Ounasvaara and Korkalovaara. So, here it is my sibling energy field of eternal carbon footprints. Once again, the Yule buck and its Old Norse master are soon to descend upon us.
So, although it may have been outlawed in colonial America by Puritans in 1659, we must also acknowledge those infinite prints of cloven hooves in the deep snow of 1038 a.d. in this mid-winter nativity of Cristenmasse.
As we celebrate the harvest of Kekri and consult with Joulupukki on the forest ridge, the symbolic colours of red, green and gold will lavish perceptual and spiritual gifts which are unable to be purchased with material commodities.
As this festival has gradually evolved into an obscene Western construct of politico-economical prowess, we must identify one more thing: Santa is an anagram for Satan.
Is this truly Finnish or Byzantine? Perhaps it is just cosmological ethnography?
Our eyes are forever searching for something beautiful,
longing for its sudden appearance until we can wrap our arms around it and watch it suffocate.
Die in our tiresome grip.
Not by choice, no.
How many times have you been exposed to the night sky?
How many times have you looked up and admired its beauty?
How many poems have been written about it's moon, it's stars?
Constellations you've depicted with your best friend at age eleven.
You're 15, you're 19, you're 25. It's still there.
Unattainable as ever.
Beautiful. As. Ever.
People are not like that.
People are beautiful until you see through their soft skin,
and fall into the creases of their skin;
break through scar tissue
trip and fall through the cracks of their forced smiles.
People are beautiful until you can no longer face the tragedy of their lives,
can no longer deal with the burden of what you once would have died for.
No, definitely not.
People should not be disposable.
They are not the socks you toss away in disgust, after a long day of breaking a sweat.
They are not the gift wrap around your new Macbook Air,
torn and ripped to shreds until you finally get to the good part.
I know this, I do.
So do you.
But I cannot help myself.
You cannot help yourself.
Human nature is a cruelty of some sort.
If I believed in a Hell,
I would say that boredom is the Devil's advocate.