And I've thought,
And I've thoughtfully thought,
With this thinker I have,
As to what I have not.
And I'm growing so tall,
Nearly up to your knee.
And I'm learning as much
As life teaches to me.
I'm thankful for
So very much, it is true.
All the good things I know,
I have learned them through you.
You've showed me how grand
A banana can be.
And those sweet, juicy grapes
You've shared well with me.
Those apricots, peaches,
Sometimes they're quite good.
And those big nectarines
Taste just like they should.
Apples and cherries, they're
Fit for a pie.
And they're all kind of good
For a regular guy.
And, of course, chocolate cake,
Double dutch, I must say,
Can cheer up the grayest,
Most gloom-covered day.
But you know what I found out
Not so long go?
A top-secret secret
You really should know?
A riddle, a mystery,
So well hidden in time,
A secret so secret,
I consider it mine?
It all comes down to pudding.
Oh, it's grand as can be.
It is a treasure of measurely joy,
It is the finest ambrosia,
And that smidgen of joy,
Strong enough to turn a man
Back into a boy.
If it isn't asking too much,
If it's all right with you,
And your Motherly touch,
Would you ever so kindly
And properly see
How much fun my world
Of pudding can be!
Let's have puddin' for breakfast!
And puddin' for lunch.
How about puddin' for supper,
And puddin' for brunch!
Let's have puddin' for Easter!
Now that sounds like fun!
Let's have puddin' on Christmas!
Can it be done?
And Apricot too!
Red Ribbon Puddin'
That's bluer than blue!
With the bilbobs inside,
And I love 'em, those bilbobs
That hickle and hide -
Right where they're crunchy
And scrunchy as new.
I'm sure I don't have to
Explain them to you.
Oh, and Pimple Plum Puddin'
That Gran likes to make.
It's hidden so deep in
Her own puddin' cake.
And it's silky as lemon drops
Left in the sun.
Nothing quite like it when
Grandma is done.
Mom, you have to love puddin'
When Winter is here!
When snowflakes are falling
And Christmas is near!
And you surely love puddin'
When Springtime sneaks in!
You love it so much, Mom,
You want puddin' again!
And again, and again,
And again, 'til it's Summer,
Oh, jello's Ok,
But there ain't nothing funner
Than a bowl full of puddin',
All topped in whipped cream!
With a glazing of Caramel
There's Applesauce Custard,
And there's Strawberry Duff,
Even Toffy Raspberry
With marshmallow fluff.
Oh, and Chocolate truffle,
It tastes like a dream!
And there's Butterscotch Ripple,
And Cookies and Cream!
And that can't be so bad.
What did Dr. Whiff say?
And I quote: "A boy should eat pudding
At least twelve times a day."
And he knows what he's saying,
Because he wears a hat.
Don't you want me thinking
And acting like that?
So, I'll have puddin' for breakfast!
Because it can't be beat,
It's a pleasant delight,
And a most scrumptious treat!
And it's healthy, I say!
And in the very best way-
It'll help me with learning
My lessons today.
It's filled with those itchin's
That make a kid smart.
I'll be better at baseball!
I might understand art.
Mom, It'll help me with homework,
Because my head's super thinkin',
Oh, I'll bet you'll even hear
All my thinkin' gears tinkin'.
I may learn to speak English,
Or Russian, or Greek.
I'll be fluent in something
I know how to speak.
Soon I'll be smart as a wick,
And so very clever.
And I haven't figured anything out yet.
I'll pretty near be a genius,
I'll be running the show.
There won't be a nothing
That I do not know.
So fix me some puddin',
I'll be greatful as tea,
And I'll make you as proud
As a Mom ought to be.
Copyright © 2013 Richard D. Remler
"A balanced diet is a cookie
in each hand."
Spring teaches us
About innocent romance
About unsated lust
About a lover's warming embrace
About the art of smoking cigarettes slower
For humidity tends to fuck up tobacco's flammability.
Photographs by Avedon
This was written in a friend's home in the Berkshire Mountains, on a Saturday morning, a few years ago. Up early, I went exploring their bookshelves and found a book of Richard Avedon's photographs of average Americans out west. Google "richard avedon photos of the american west" - then read the poem. Please, for without seeing the faces, for this will make all the difference. In the Berkshires, it is always chilly there, even in the summer sun. This and other obscure references are better detailed in the notes.
Join my warmth and
as the nine o'clock sun,
a 45 degree steeplechase
but still not
of the prior eve,
that hides in,
deep wooded hillocks
Join my warmth
and my chill!
head kicked awake,
entranced and revolted,
excited and repelled,
emotive, yet, stilled.
For oh so casually,
this heroic city dweller,
brave and fearless
retrieves a book,
to find a new route
thru time and space
to the center of his brain.
Photographs by Avedon,
of my fellow Americans,
the Have Nots,
These uncommon people
with whom I share
these drifters, the carneys,
the would-have-been cowboys,
busted blackjack dealers,
rattlesnake gut n' skinners,
coal and copper miners,
the hay truck drivers,
dirt so deep in
their pores ingrained,
colors and bloodies their souls,
browns their veins,
are the ones that
go off first to
in my name.
In this far corner of our
shared contiguous space
United States of America,
top of the line here
secretaries and maybe even,
But their eyes,
oh their eyes!
Words I do not own
to fair share with you,
the clarifying gaze
of measured dignity and
that marks and unites
these disparate and dispirited
vessels of humankind.
the noon suns finally,
raises my body temperature
browns my surface...
Yet, nothing eradicates
this god damn chill
in my soul
or calms my consternation,
as black and white
my comfortable existence,
as I ponder
All photographs are accurate but none tell the truth
The Evil Son at Passover
asks ever so sly,
what have they to do with me?
It is the Sabbath.
We luxuriate in our rest.
Rest is the greatest luxury
What is this Sabbath?
Heschel's cathedral -
in space and time,
and one enters
when and where
Do my distant,
(both in space and time)
share my Sabbath?
Are they allowed
or is it endless exertion,
severity and deprivation,
all and every day
of their lives?
Constant risk every day.
Who cannot fail to see the
precipitousness of life
edged in the lines of their
hearts and minds?
Day to day hardens them
and teaches the
Is the prudence of
their morning bitter pill
they must swallow
to carry on?
Among the resolutions
to claim a
life fulfilled is this:
How to end this poem,
close this can of worms,
accidentally kicked open.
Will sunset end these
of which you have
more personal variations?
(what about the ...)
Perennials flower everywhere,
along the Tigris,
even in Kabul and Somalia,
along the highways
to the mecca of
Perennials flower everywhere.
In warmth and cool,
in time and space,
they flower in my heart and
my brain and in
my prayerful tears.
flowing down my cheeks,
as I lay me down to sleep,
to dream these of
even celebrated tween
holy and common,
light and dark,
the six weekdays
between sacred and secular
between me and
my American Brothers
of the American West.
just one thing
to be true:
The Sabbath Cathedral is
open to all,
you choose to
I await you,
my American cousins,
with wine and bread
holy of holiest words
of comfort and sooth.
I will wash your feet and
lay you down to
in my heart.
we will be joined,
in warmth and chill.
August 29, 2010
* "In The American West" by
** many of the phrases in this stanza were taken from an article "The Few, The Proud, The Chosen" in Commentary, September 2010
^ Abraham Joshua Heschel, a modern Jewish Philosopher. Elegant, passionate, and filled with the love of God's creation, Abraham Joshua Heschel's The Sabbath has been hailed as a classic of Jewish spirituality ever since its original publication-and has been read by thousands of people seeking meaning in modern life. In this brief yet profound meditation on the meaning of the Seventh Day, Heschel introduced the idea of an "architecture of holiness" that appears not in space but in time Judaism, he argues, is a religion of time: it finds meaning not in space and the material things that fill it but in time and the eternity that imbues it, so that "the Sabbaths are our great cathedrals."
^^ Havdalah is the ceremony to celebrate the end of the Sabbath, and realize the distinctions between the holy day and the workweek, the day and the night, light and day...
Its a funny thing
Not being able to sleep because of the thoughts in your head
The memories, the guilt, the shame
Its funny how we always remember when we fuck up
When we were at our lowest and did the things that make us disgusted to look in the mirror
You ever done that?
We are who we are and we do what we do
I am the way I am because of what I have done to myself and had done by others
Even your devil wasn't always bad...
Just goes to show you, there's more to a person than what you see
Everyone has a past
Can't say I'm proud of mine
But does that make it right?
...Or does it?
Problem is I can't tell you
I can't tell you if its okay for me to be the way I am
Or for you to be the way you are
I cant justify all that I have done
I can't say that I used to fight or drink for a reason
Not a good one at least...
But then again
Neither can you
But who are we to judge?
A sins a sin
But what is a sin? A feeling or an action?
Wrath, greed, sloth, pride, gluttony, envy, lust
Sounds like you
Like its normal, and normals good right?
That's what school teaches you
Teaches you fear
The fear to fuck up
The fear to be seen
The fear that little Tommy Shitforbrains is going to hurt you if he sees you
Or that you'll get in trouble if you aren't like every other kid
They teach us acceptance and tolerance
We are the way we are for a reason
We weren't born broken
Scarred, jaded, hateful, hurt, lonely or sad
Its just who you become when your heart is numb
You stop caring
You do what you do because you have to
Nobody's perfect so expect to fail
That's all life is, either you failing or someone else
I just hope its not me for a change...
All our lives we strive for success
To be liked, wanted, accepted
But at what cost?
Lose yourself and become another drone
Another forgettable face in an endless tide of assholes and douchbags
Forsaking who you were and wanted to be
And people wonder why our society is fucked
It's as fake as the people who run it
They already sold their souls
Would you sell yours?
But oh well... That's just how it goes I guess
Try to make a little sense of your mind and only end up with questions This whole thinking things a real pain in my ass...
Damn it I need sleep...
SELFISH EDUCATION MINUS POETICAL WISDOM
MAKES THE WORLD LAME
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; email@example.com)
Nothing is wrong with selfish education;
Career is an important part of a good life
Much of human life over the years
Is devoted to career acquisition
In oblivion of poetical wisdom
Philosophy does not make it any easier,ok
For apothecaries to remove a prostate gland;
Apothecarical education is long, arduous and dear in cost
Never temper it with apparent irrelevance
But poetical wisdom soothes the tools
Helps apothecaries to volite in dilemma
Poetical wisdom is essential for apothecary’s work
Without it; apothecary tells a mother-to-be
Your baby will be a dwarf dwarfishly
The apothecary explains the mother’s options yet in fault
Since it takes more than just knowledge of genetics
Since it requires an understanding of suffering,
Of disappointment and puerperal attachment
Apothecary tell a daughter but in sham; that
Your mother’s life support needs to be removed
It takes more than just knowledge of physiology
It too requires an understanding of emotional loss
A casualty room apothecary goofs to avoid despair
When faced with a baby battered nearly to death
By its own zinjathropus father
Such horror requires a faith in humanity
That cannot be learned in the selfish education
It’s not just apothecaries absolute
To benefit from a broader learning
It is but entire humanity
Studying drama would no help financiers
Devise capricious financial parasites
That doomed the world into financial mire
But, if they were familiar with Faust,
They may have thought twice about
The consequences of their vice,
Being able to sing from Shelley’s poems
Will not help politicians get elected
Carousing Ozymandias might make them more humble
And thoughtful about their accomplishments
Rupert Murdoch might not now be shaking his head
And whining; how I wish I new
Instead, he were to echo Shakespeare’s words
About how easy it is to be; done to death by a slanderous tongue,
I sing this poem in a crouch in the twilight
Around the world as my audience
Behold poetic eyebrows of my comrades,
A generation of humanity familiar poetical kingdoms
Of history, philosophy and literature is a wonderful vision
Doubts not that reading Goethe
And Shelley and Shakespeare guarantees wisdom
You are correct, kudos to you,
Reading, by itself, won’t make anyone a sage
Experience is a pertinent Florence
As Odysseus learns on his journey back to Ithaca,
Important lessons can only be learned the hard way
Through bitter experience, perhaps has a change,
Youth start out with sex, drugs, rock and roll
With experience they eventually emotions decadence
In calm appreciation that; nothing to excess,
Tragic exceptions like poor Amy Wine house;
Only serve to prove the rule, there is a problem,
Ergo, Experience alone cannot guarantee wisdom
Any more than reading books can
The lessons of life are only available
To those who are ready to learn them
If wisdom is the goal, then humanity must walk 10,000 miles,
To read 10,000 books
Said 17th century Chinese philosopher, GU Yanwu
Becoming wise requires more than set of adventures
But a cultured mind that is open and liberal
Readily able to absorb the lessons that experience teaches
Pasteur famously said that; Chance favours the prepared mind
Our job as learning humanity is to take his words seriously
Prepare mankind to learn from experience,
Humanity is to go beyond selfish education
To learn colours of hope in the poetical wisdom;
Life, death, tragedy, love, beauty, courage, loyalty
All of these are omitted from selfish education
yet, when it comes time to sum up our lives,
They are the only things that ever go places,
Catholic priesthood ever admonishes the flocks;
Thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return
A salutary reminder of what we all have in waiting f
Like the Preacher in the Ecclesiastes;
We spend our years trying to find some meaning in our lives
It is easy to fall into the bottomless pit
Life is tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing
But before humanity reaches Macbeth’s conclusion,
We must provide with the poetical glory
Musing fortunately as all humanities is anxious
There is a thirsty for poetical wisdom
Which parochial selfish education cannot quench,
There ought to be a list of great poetical works
From east, west, north and south of the world
Globalectically Nursing poetic urge of the earth
With which every piece of humanity should suckle
In wisdom that Books have the power to convey wisdom,
From these poetical sources that humanity learn about love
And loss, about memory and desire,
About loyalty and duty,
About our world and love-bound universe
And about what it means to be a human being
In the silence of my heart, my soul calls on you in shouts;
Under your care, the true meaning of love is found in me;
When am weak, your love is what uplifts me;
Indeed, I am in love with you;
The world teaches no reason to love forever in abounding life;
Your Faithfulness to me, teaches love in all conditions;
It’s a command; it’s a rule; it’s in me – in you and us of all;
No wonder, I am in love with you;
Until your love came to our rescue, we’re materials for hell;
Until you made the ultimate sacrifice for us, we didn’t know love;
Until you reconciled us to the father, we’re orphans in groans;
You’ve taught me love, and I am in love with you;
Now, your love has lifted me above all storms of the earth;
Am still because I know that you are God of all the earth;
Neither depth, nor other creature shall separate us from God’s love;
I’m more than conqueror because I am in love with you;
Between the good and the bad
The moon and the stars
There's is always a doubt
A question to ask
Between what you like
And what you hate
There'll be always something
A struggle, a confusion
That will make you change
There's always something
Someone or somewhere
the way you feel things
That changes your perspective
It makes you think
Maybe a person you like
Or that you hate
Maybe a place that you went
Maybe something that you gain
That "thing" not only changes
It also teaches
Little details about life
That makes you grow
Every day from now
THE BLACK FAUX ALLIGATOR LEATHER briefcase was accidently left behind in the taxicab which James Riley was riding in. A junior Professor at a prestigious New York college. Luckily for him he held on to the receipt the cab driver handed him and with a little intuitive work, he was able to retrieve his briefcase in a matter of a few hours. He met the same cab driver who had dropped him off earlier that evening in front of his apartment building and shamefully begged the driver to take the few extra cash, he wanted to thank him with for returning back to the scene of the "crime," if you think of it in that sense. The driver however was not swayed at first but reluctantly drove away with the extra cash in his pockets. He briefly stood standing there in relief. For not only getting his briefcase returned back to him undamaged, but that more importantly all its contains were still intact and equally the students papers were yet to be graded.
"What a careless fool I am," he said. "No more after work happy hour for me!" he declared. James bid the streets a goodnight and headed back inside to the comforts of his apartment. Once there he was feverishly texting away on his cellphone with a pal he had recently met at a local coffee shop near the school where he teaches. I could only assume that he is informing his pal Carlos Saldana about the events that had occurred with his briefcase and while patiently waiting on his takeout dinner to be delivered. He places the cellphone down on the open files laid out on top of the coffee table, walks over to the fridge for a bottled water and on his return back to his seating area, the intercom buzzer comes alive for a brief moment. James's dinner has finally arrived.
I know myself and at times I believe that I am a superhero and can manage a full works schedule, friendships and that of being a semi partying young working professional. I just as well don't find much joy in the latter: romance. It's a complicated order I'd say. But by all accounts he manages to carve out a decent amount of romantic dates by years end. He does really enjoys the life of a bachelor's lifestyle and the no strings attached policy. Let me state that by no means is the clean cut grayish-blue eyed tall handsome James Riley a mere promiscuous gigolo. He readily engages to reunite with the company of others for leisure or an occasional sexual hookup. James in this regard prefers to meet up with an online randevu at a midtown hotel for the sake of his privacy and sanity. One should never be as foolish and carefree with one's own secrets, he once thought.
He is no fool by any means and woke up the following morning to a blurred October autumn crisp sky. He quickly checked his mobile device for any overnight signs of life from the outside world (which there were a missed call and 4 text messages) and to see the time. Before joining his head with his pillow, he had placed his cellphone on silent mode. Therefore, giving him a well-rested nights sleep and blocking out any unrested souls from seeping in into the night. He reached over to the nightstand, fumbled with the cable television remote control and clicked onto a news network channel, where he then realized that Margaret Thatcher was dead, the former British prime minister.
"I see that old B.P.M. has passed on today," James texted.
"Oh yes, I heard" replied Carlos. They always seemed to know what the other was talking about, like an unhidden code between them. "I bide her a farewell." He concluded.
"Brunch in 20 minutes?" asked James.
"Yes. I'll meet you there," Carlos had replied.
"Butter" James texted.
"Yes, I gotcha" Carlos responded back.
Butter is an Italian eatery restaurant nestled in the Greenwich village neighborhood that they both enjoyed very much. Salvatore Bellino, the owner is like a papa figure to all his patrons and treated anyone who walked through the doors like family. The average build of James's body frame carried no weight to the amount of food he can consume in one sitting. Carlos looked on in awe and amazement. This guy can really devour all that up he thought. He had hastily scanned the menu and ordered two breakfast platters because the first one would not be as fulfilling as the second one, which consisted of a western omelette, hash browns, maple sausages, crispy bacon strips, pancakes topped with blueberries, strawberries and whipped cream. He then wolfed it down with a large glass of mimosa or two. Carlos simply enjoyed a plate of two egg whites, sautéed asparagus with strawberries and kiwi and a simple glass of orange juice.
"Wow! That was delicious," James happily proclaimed.
"I bet it was," Carlos said with a half smile.
After that marathon of a breakfast which mostly James endured, it was clear that they were both relaxed, fulfilled and slightly eager to move on with their day. It was Saturday and it was clearly evident that they really didn't have any solid plans. They just sat there sipping on ice water with lemon slices, waited for the check which they both split and chatted a bit about their respective work, life, wanting to go on vacations and a little tidbits of politics. Carlos Saldana made his living as a political writer and authored two books on the subject, one becoming a National Best Seller. He then landed himself a lucrative deal with a major political Internet magazine, has written many articles for newspapers and blog sites. He mainly works from his home office which he shares with his four year marriage to his wife Yvonne.
"And your wife how is she?" James asked, genuinely.
"Oh, she is good, I assume," Carlos answered. Yvonne's job kept her away from home a few months out the year. "You see, she's a senior representative for a large biotechnology company and she is barely at home," he quips.
"I- I see." James hesitantly replied. That last tidbit of information instantly lead him to believe that the young marriage is probably brewing with trouble. "Do you guys ever Skype?" he added.
"Yes, but its not the same as in person," Carlos reasoned.
Salvatore Bellino came over to their table to greet them, but he had taken an instant liking to James and would let him use a corner table as a brief work stationary, as long as the restaurant was not busy with eating patrons. James introduces his friend Carlos Saldana to Mr. Salvatore Bellino, who came to live in the United States as a young child with two older siblings and his parents from their motherland of Italy. He already had an uncle who owned a restaurant in The Bronx and he worked his way up from waiter, manager to semi-owner to finally becoming a restaurateur and owner of his own eatery Butter, which has afforded him a dulce lifestyle and in the same token, has bought him numerous food awards from the culinary world and featured articles in newspapers and glossy magazines. The exterior of the restaurant was once featured in a romantic comedy film.
Salvatore Bellino was accepted and attended a prestigious culinary school in France to become a chef. He then visited and studied even further under the watchful eye of his successful chef maternal grandmother in Italy and then later he gradually started stepping away from the kitchen to front of the house in his own restaurant, and often times he did both, while employing chefs equal to his standards. Salvatore's age could not be disrupted even though he lives and looks like a guy in his mid-thirties such as James and Carlos, but whose real age is in his early sixties.
"I am pleased to see you again bambino and to meet your friend," Salvatore said.
"Yes, thank you," James replied.
"The food was delicious and you have such a beautiful place here, Mr. Bellino," Carlos injected.
"Thank you. But call me Salvatore, as you are among friends bambino," Salvatore stated.
"I am honored," Carlos replied.
"He shall bring his young bride the next time he's in the neighborhood," James proclaimed.
"Oh wonderful, I would enjoy meeting her, yes!" Salvatore said.
"Yes. All in due course," Carlos said with a half smile.
Once outside the restaurant they noticed that the clouds had shifted to a somewhat darker vortex and the air a bit brisk as they hailed a cab. Carlos had earlier in the day sent James a text message advising him that if he had any free time, if he would be inclined to visiting the Picasso exhibition at the Guggenheim museum. He had unhesitantly obliged and off they went inside the taxicab they headed towards that direction. Carlos fiddled with his cellphone to send a quick text to his wife Yvonne. 'Just saying hi, hope you're great, brunch with James and now off to the museum.' James's attention lingered out the view of the cars window. He looked over to see that Carlos was tucking away his cellphone in the upper inside right side jacket pocket.
"You are very dutiful," James inquisitively said.
"Say what?" Carlos asked.
"Dutiful. I mean with your wife!" James cleared.
"No, I heard you. But I am just puzzled about why would you come to that conclusion?" Carlos asked.
"It's nothing bad. I just noticed your role as a dutiful husband to stay connected to one's wife," James carefully explained.
"I see. I am bound by the vows I took years ago," Carlos said in a more relaxed tone.
"I better understand now," James said.
The cab driver pulled up to the front of the world famous Guggenheim museum to the surprise of its back seat passengers. They both wore a daunted look on their faces and the driver was beginning to lose his patience, as they both just sat there in silence and the driver repeatedly saying that they had arrived at their destination and to pay up. Carlos Saldana a Puerto Rican born and bred New York native, with the looks that resembles a young leading Hollywood star from the golden age; dark hair, brown eyes and caramel skin. Who was the first to attend college in his household and go on to journalism school as he won himself a fellowship to attend.
"James, we're here, my friend!" Carlos wearily voiced, as he awoke from the unnatural spell.
"Yes, you're right!" James said, as he himself shook off the cloudiness of the spell.
As they both regained their composure while exiting the taxicab and paying their fare, one thing struck him to be a little odd. Carlos wondered at the scope of James's inquiry into his marriage? I can't believe to fantom the notion into why people would marry rather than to stay unmarried, James fought to understand, but please do forgive my ignorance. The car drove off behind them as they both stood there eyeing the massive work of art with its swirl dome structure. James had once before visited the museum to attend a black tie event which the museum had played host. But never in a personal capacity such as now. However, it had been a bridge in which Carlos had ventured too once to many times, but loved every minute of it every single time he visited, for both work or leisure. He often times boasted that it was his favorite museum to visit in the city.
Once inside the gallery of the white walled museum they lingered about taking in the views and then headed to the Picasso exhibition. The museum was quite light with visitors, a mere unusual for this time of year, on a Saturday afternoon or perhaps the threat of rain is what may have kept them away. However, it was an utmost exciting opportune time for Carlos to enjoy it without the burdensome interruption, which he disdained with a crowded house. It always felt to him as if having a bunch of roaming wolves everywhere and no time to soak it all in with the wolves taking away from the stillness and enjoyment of the experience.
Meanwhile, James was besieged and quite smitten with a painting depicting an old man in despair, along with a young boy by his side, which tugs at the human heart both visually and reflectively as well. You never know what you'll encounter until its right there in your face, like a spotlight shining from above. The painting gave off as he was feeling a haunting sorrowful cry for help and empathy.
Giorgio, the coal gray Persian cat, sat upright perfectly still on a white upholstered armless chair, purring away unobstructed and freely. He was recently acquired by James to be of comfort and company. The bright bubble blue-eyed cat squarely looked at its masters direction as he himself sat on a white sofa, eagerly reading an article which Carlos had written...
Thankful for my
Closet friend, she
Keeps me together
Teaches me strength
And promises better
Things, better places
Molly, I love you.
Laughing ~ tears drop wet as the clouds that mask his memories.
A tent made for tears of laughter ~ prepares us for a visit,
a ring and a riddle.
Like a clown dresses in a fancy of colors ~ we color for his fancy.
Without fear a clown steps to stage.
His stairway of paints, a mask for his face.
He stands quite as brail ~ until he fortunes you out of laugh.
Painted face, for our amusement.
Finally attention the lights follow,
he opens in wide shoes, he stands steady with a red nose.
Riding a circus of lights.
Undressing in the darkest of rooms,
dancing his way in a glow of streaming bulbs,
a picture for tonight.
Pleasured in funny mannerisms.
Cordial to the ringmaster, he waves.
Clamoring with anticipation, the lines carry in ~
parading in for a sight.
The clown finds himself a mirror before a show,
he shudders sublime to his appeal.
His humor is clever ~ as an elder who leans in for a joke.
He inspires, teaches, all the while timely in character,
leads us into his show.
Blinded by the lights, he sits upon a tire.
Then glitters a throw ~ a wink ~ a smile ~
turns off the bulbs on his queue.
Knowing character is all the essence he needs.
But in watch, amusing as any.
A wavering laughter. Now he is free.
Well played and confident in a forum of fun.
A man at night dressed unmatched, draped in patches of cloth.
No truer a character, a gentleman in makeup.
A basket case of comedy.
Yet entrusting him to the child’s eyes ~
all in attendance.
Wide and open they hardly blink.
Justified by bowing in the lights.
And bravery ~ taking in firewater while in a funny dance.
Posture perfect, never tell ~ clothes larger then the tent ~ that shelters him.
Mindful ~ alert ~ unbuckled with a grin, he amuses.
A gesture, a laugh, center to your attention once again...
Humbled by his work ~ justified by ones pictures he pleasures before us.
A smile of a season vet ~ a titan for a photograph ,
enough for a thousand words of measure.
A father son tandem, standing beside him,
grins ear to ear, but listen ~ the bulbs culminate in a glow ~
flashing again before his calm ~ peaceful ~ tenured eyes...
I sit here dressing him clever ~ as he undresses our ways ~
a joke ~ a smile of hope ~ benches of cheer ~ colorful sketches
and a theater to close.
Without regret he shudders ~ ending another show ~
a raise of his hand ~ a wave of good bye a sigh to behold.
Simply a clown ~ but also a man,
respected for his principles in the day &
in the presence of a crowd...