A gentle breeze of warmth pushes pleasant,
freakishly normal, but a smack on the water
builds waves that grow older and stronger.
You feel it all soft behind your eyes.
But there is always something missing
that on more cigarette can't fix.
There is always one bird flying
who just can't find the right sticks
to stand on, to launch from, to rise and
fight the world, so he glided circles
as Lady Hurricane approached.
He flew tired, then he flew more.
I opened the door to our house in Connecticut
in the red mist after Sandy and looked up, and
watched him ramble. "The Hawk in the Hurricane."
There he was circling, as if to prove his strength.
And when those boys and girls were murdered in Newtown,
just down the road,
I thought of him
like he was a good thing.
Brave enough stand and be a bad omen.
A crucifix with wings.
Innocent boys and girls are gone now.
Turned into a show we watch on TV.
But that is natural to life in this century,
so there's policy and argument
and my eyes turn back
to my own
with an end.
Happiness makes a subtle appearance as just a humble breath,
a deli sandwich, as sun that peaks around the old windows.
And sees me,
invites a squint,
and then comes back.
Butterflies on that first date
Thinking of what?
What to say.
My head rambles.
My breath abates.
My voice scrambles.
My face straight.
My heart waits.
I think of wide stories
And hope to placate.
I want to pique
With subtle lies
And clean truth.
This to be our
Hiding our anxiety
Behind smiles and drinks.
Wading through tension
With humorous winks.
I listen intently
But you catch me stare.
With each soft touch
We calm the air.
I peek into you.
To reveal what's new.
Attract hints of passion
By sharing what's true.
For all this fragile effort
I hope for date number two.
Sydney Seymour Salazar
Made a quick stop in South Zanzibar
To see if he could rent a car
On his pilgrimage to Zinn.
He tried to ask the lady Clerk,
But she only went about her work,
Without a moments hint nor smirk
That she had even noticed him.
He asked the man who washed the cars,
And drank his tea from apple jars,
While watching flights of shooting stars
Until the morning rolled on in.
But even he seemed unaware
That Sydney Seymour Salazar was there,
And ignored him with that subtle stare,
Much to Salazar's chagrin.
Sidney hopped and plopped, he ooked and eeked,
He twizzled his toes, and then he squeaked.
He jumped up, then down, until he leaked,
But still nobody noticed him.
He finally moseyed on his way,
Across the windy, winding brae
Having little more that he could say,
He simply took it on the chin.
Nobody shows respectful courtesy anymore,
There's no common ground, and no rapport.
Or, perhaps, he thought, somewhat cavalier.
They simply do not care for crickets here.
Copyright © 2011 Richard D. Remler
"Life is not so short but that there
is always time for courtesy."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Have you ever found a spark
In the oddest of places,
A positive mark
By some familiar faces.
Subtle and quiet
But not missed by the heart,
Such a peaceful riot
Begins to start.
This is a poem to warn you of the licentiousness,
the lewdness, the lasciviousness and downright
wickedness of language, especially,
the evil consonants.
Consider, for example, the subtle sibilant 's', seemingly innocuous,
but the consonant first heard in sex.
And take the letter 'l', standing up erect,
the stiff one in this lustful alphabet.
All boys know about the upright 'l',
as in blind, which they'll go if they play with it
too much, double 'l', well, they'll end up in hell.
The consonant 'b' stands for bum, of course,
everyone knows 'b' for bum,
the bold, barefaced, brazen one,
or, on all fours, raised up, the buttocks form an 'm',
with an inverted 'v' between the legs.
And 'c'! 'C' stands for - for, no, no. I can't.
Let's just say 'c' is curled up, crafty, by the coccyx, where it lurks,
cramped and damp, hopefully curtailed.
And 'p'. Well, 'p' is 'p', just as bad as 's' 'h' with a 't'.
And what about 'f'? Don't worry, I'll give that one the flick, dead quick.
'f' starts a word that's totally perverted.
If you think I'll use the 'f' and add the 'c' 'k',
you'll have to wait another day.
Then contemplate spreadeagled 'x',
the final letter in the word of sex!
These consonants are wanton.
'W' has its legs up in the air. 'w' is wild and wet. Wicked, wicked.
'n' is bent over. Naughty, naughty!
And 'y', why, 'y's the legs together and the pubic area.
Also, be wary of people who like the 'g' spot in there a lot,
also those who roll their 'r's too much
and others who lash out with s and m.
'r' and 'g' and 's' and 'm' end up in orgasm!
I believe the higher incidence of sexual offence is due to the influence
of consonants. It's no coincidence. The evidence is that intercourse
is social as well as sexual, of course,
and there's a preponderance of consonants in intercourse.
Such coitus should be interruptus
before these consonants totally corrupt us.
Now, the only course for moral rectitude
against such a sinful attitude with the grossest moral turpitude
is vigilance. With discipline and diligence,
we must become the moral militants
in the fight against the sibilants,
the awful incidence of decadence,
and the absence of innocence,
that's the evil consequence
of all the cunning consonants.
Otherwise incontinence with consonants
will be forever on our conscience!
Now. Think of every dirty word you can. This sin will be absolved in heaven!
Yes, clitoris has five consonants, testicles has six and masturbation seven!
Gynecological has eight, fresh spermatozoa ten and prosthetic devices eleven!
Repent! Repent! Redemption lies with you.
It's true! Think of it! If you eschew the consonants in all evil or ugly,
you'll be left with the purity of 'a', 'e', 'i' 'o' 'u'.
stripes of dawn sift through the grey departing night,
and in my home, behind those rays of dust,
the freedom i love will soon be claimed by an incessant morning phone.
my heart numbs, longs for the kindness, constant kindness of the night
the music of my pulse already starts to fade,
a weight sets in, invisible grimace of so many trailing thoughts unraveled now,
to bear until the darkness-swilling reach of soul can span again...
would i fly at brightened glass in fractured urges,
bolstered yet adrift in any day's torrential memes?
rage at seeming machination's constant interruption of my highest rarity of living well?
or smile at the herdlike expectation's threat to condescend,
and at least scour remnants of the search undone... throughout the day
insufferable choice of final future origins
the mail arrives,
my forehead stops to wonder at the door,
and at that pang of hunger
running, overrun, the mind churns night in such sweet shadow shifts!
to fall, legless and dissolve into the rising light..
as if a Noh play were being heckled through to end by gaudy ads
to jolt us bridgeless from that subtle world
and wander long on lethe banks of noisome blare.
at times i stroll this nowhere stranding here, pretend, and gaze from hiding,
between a wincing coffee swill
imagined easeful face of signs,
"easy as a gentle summer wind..."
tolerant to all, to blow a "selfless" stillness into me
to wave, and smile --breathe a blanket on acuter truths
with which i meet the day enwrapped.
but quietly i wait... for Time to die:
an hourglass to shatter in the instant of eternity!
and birthe anew each 3 am, create anew--
those kisses, frozen birds of static bliss become
a moulded wax to shape the plenum love as roaming peace,
darkness-rest to calm a pointless labor,
abate the drift into an unwalled corner's only inward exit--
as whisper hands can cradle nescience
such, that grains become a world,
in which invented seas are sweeter than the toxic real
whose bitterness a cherishing of death unveils awry,
or right as winter dust.
i yearn in flight and add to fullness,
find fullness once again
to hover equipoised at love's encrusted center,
where pain gives way to peace i cannot have.
if i would have this other 'purest' love,
and for instance find the meaning once again in wartime's bated negligence--
as in a perfect silence wind can brush the lips with all of life's aroma--
and as a gentle fire smouldered long,
at Spring, ignites within the splay of tender leaves--
so archetypal solitude of being beings manifolded one, i may fulfillment find...
i may go find myself alone now,
or swagger to an ancient drinking song,
or fall into those evening arms,
to find abated also, idols of the heart in each
for what the greater heart amends...
all for yearning better worlds
the pain has sent me reeling prone--
curling at complacent murmurs,
coos of love to torment all without
wherein i wallow, fallen from all heights,
absurd escape, removed---surrounded still
by so-called metalove, abject phantasmal swoon
i grit my teeth against,
as heaving sand would send the shore to sea and drown nostalgia evermore,
as only total extrication serves to quell an everpresence such as this,
ringing in the twilit dew,
or starlight whirl--
or inverse in a heedless curse--
horizons cease in this expanse
surging at the birth and death of things
I bit into the apple’s core one last time before
tossing it out the window. It was just before sunrise
and I was the only car traveling down the misty road
at this early hour in the morning.
5:47 and I hadn’t had my first cup of coffee. I was still
invigorated, restless at best. Sleep had run miles from
me this past eve and all I could do was act in response
to it’s disappearance.
I made my way through the curves and foothills,
pulled forward by the sweet smell of a fresh rain.
After all, it was the first dawn that the sun grew
his color, climbing the source of the sky.
My tires rumbled along the gravel as I slowed to
a still. I was greeted by lyrical birds: red bellied,
brown, and blue. The soft grass felt damp under my
toes, but it was cooling, comforting.
I could smell the sweet hay which was so skillfully
being churned to mulch by anxious, hunger stricken
horses. Whinnies bellowed in rhythm from
the depths of the stable.
I tightened the saddle around her silk coated barrel
and latched the supple leather to her muzzle. She was
hypnotized too, I could sense it. That early morning fresh
leapt forward, exerting her muscles into a gallop.
We ran as one contingent soul stamped with the power
of a strong spirit. The subtle breeze that tickled my nose,
now fiercely pulled at my attire, blowing breathes of
chilled mist down my skin.
My eyes watered as I filled the space between us with joy
and bounteous laughter. Those few seconds—we slowed down.
They become moments of eternity. We were both free. Her
breathes came in strokes, fogging our trail.
We raced against time to meet the sun. Hurling through the
trees we exhausted all innocence. Leisurely breaking from
the strenuous expenditure of energy we waded through
the clear creek. It soothed.
Greeted by the harmonious rays which shined
through the tree tops, we un-mounted. My legs
unsure at the stillness of the ground. I sat on
a tree stump, she grazed.
Our eyes became fixated on the reflection the water
mirrored back at us. Her eyes pierced the depths of the
pond’s surface and so did mine, and meeting us in the
middle was the sun, filling the gap between our faces.
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
I told myself I could walk to the moon once
As if breathing was never an obstacle
? I wonder if they serve coffee & donuts
And giving a piece the title of Untitled is still a title
Liquid courage comes best on the rocks
But she stares at me with a subtle smirk and a twinkle in her eyes
I did shower today-I deserve this attention
The air conditionar always breaks when it's in most need
And Tecate tastes great during a hangover
People believe what you tell them,
I've got to stop talking to the mirror
I believe in this remarkable life we live, that each soul is colored differently. Some have a tone that is bright and vivid and some are deeper hues filled with a passion beyond belief. Some are more easy to pale and some remain ever true in any light. In this story I am yet to weave to you, dear reader, I speak of a boy whose soul had a color that had never been seen before. Bright yellows, subtle earth tones, a crisp orange, but coupled with a passion filled blue-it was unnamable but filled with the mystery of an unmarked novel, enticing and familiar but unknown. Most are unable to see these hues but some are granted with this gift, as I am. And I can say most undoubtedly that this particular hue was as unique as the individual it belong to. This, was the color of ...well-him, and it was truly a soul to match the beauty of the person within, because after all-not everything is as they appear my dear. Not everything is always clear.