You're present
when I hear this song.
As if the moment in time and unknown
simply belong.
One hears the sound of water
that you hold so dear.
It washes away regret
and all that you fear.
Its rhythm flows across thresholds above time.
As you ebb from your story's past
and to climb.
The tempo is upbeat, strong and urgent.
Much like your insight,
sharp and brilliant.
The tone is carefree,
abundant and light.
Much like your sweetness
tender and patient.
The song takes its time
to bring us through.
Much like your significance
in everything you do.
C. . .
I hope you
like this song,
this poem,
Oh, I hope I got it right.
I felt your presence,
heard this song,
wrote this poem,
just tonight.
You can still be
What you want to
When you first met me
Ever get that feeling of being cheated
Of being forgotten and excluded
Just because of your past?
I'm sure the blacks in this country
Feel the way I feel
Slip out from beneath the covers
Land on the floor,
Be stepped on
Time and time again,
People are creatures of habit
They slip a lie here
Put in a lie there
Hard to tell the difference
Now a days,
I just stick to myself,
Knowing what could've been
I have this ache, Doctor. And so far, no amount of drugs or drink have been able to cure it. Where does it hurt, you ask? Why right here, Doctor. Right here in my chest. It started feeling odd when I saw HER for the first time. It was a Thursday; August eighteenth of two thousand eleven I believe. I remember her perfectly, for I had not, and have not, seen anybody more beautiful in my life. Her auburn hair was streaked with red and waterfalled perfectly over her delicate shoulders, that were on that day cloaked in a blue jacket. Her long graceful fingers bloomed from slender palms and were crowned with and elegant black nail polish with a cracked silver finish. To this day, I have never so much as imagined anybody more perfect than her. So what's my problem? Well Doctor, she hates me. I can see it glint in her dark eyes every time she looks at me. Why is this? Why I have not the slightest idea. All I have ever been was polite to her. All I have ever been was kind. When she shivers I give her my jacket, regardless of how cold I am at the time. When she is hungry, I use my last dime to feed her. I do everything in my power to make her happy, make her laugh when the pain adds weight to her shoulders. But I guess it just wasn't enough in the end. What do you prescribe, did you say? An entire bottle of pain pills and a slash down each wrist? That sounds about right. Thank you, my dear Doctor.
how do i say
one last good night,
after that day
of our last fight?
how can i give
you one last kiss,
and tell you i love you
in pure joyful bliss?
how will i hold
you one last time,
and feel my cold
wrapped in your warmth?
how can i see,
your beautiful eyes
shining under the moon,
so full of glee?
all the stupid arguments--
mean nothing now
it's all too late
and you are gone.
now i'm left with
these last wishes,
to say, to give, to hold
to love
just. one. last. time.
......................................................................
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
Are 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
................................................................................
"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
.................................................................................
a little piece
of my soul dies
every time i see
some poor girl
who thinks that
she is everything
but all she does
is throw herself
to the dogs of this world
i wish they
would realize
they are not wanted
in a year from now
they will likely
take to the streets
because that is
the only place
left for them
A Little Fall of Rain
That song hits me
HARD
every time
"If I could close your wounds with words of love"
"Just hold me now
And let it be
Shelter me
Comfort me"
"She essayed to smile
again
And expired"
And his fabulous work
Les Misérables
Including
But not limited to
This wretched soul
Éponine Thénardier
She loved with
All her heart
And died as she lived
Loving a boy
Who never saw her
For who she was
Fingers
tap,
tap,
tap,
against the smooth desk,
tracing the swirly curvatures in the wood,
mind desperate for an escape,
time is but a small door,
patience is the key,
body swaying to non existent melodies,
hoping for a distraction from the inevitable.
-cc
Rain, rain, rain
My friend
Child of the heavens, that falls upon the earth and vast oceans
Rain
Rain upon the green leaves of trees and wet their trunks and barks.
Rain upon the flowers that have blossomed
from your mother’s bosom.
Instill life on lakes and river beds, their streams
that dry when you don’t come.
Catch a couple holding hands, and rain
Shower them
Closer they will come, under his umbrella they will hide
Where their hearts will touch.
Let him smell the aroma of her silky hair
That will drug him like cocaine
Full of love and passion he will stare
At the sparkle of her stare
Drag them closer even more,
Pour.
Sprinkle a droplet onto her nose,
And let him wipe it softly with his thumb
And kiss it gently with the lips of his mouth
For now, here your job is done.
Rain, rain, rain,
My friend,
Rain.
Rain enough to make a paradise,
But wait for the old man that plows his fields
Wait till he gets home
Then, rain at your will
But don’t bring ice, and much less snow,
For spring has been cold, and winter even more.
That, the man especially knows
Alone he’ll sit on his chair on his porch,
With a rubber ball that he used to throw.
In the summer and in fall his dog would chase it,
But that was long ago.
Do you remember?
You got both soaked last November,
before the man was left alone.
But do not weep, just rain
My friend, Rain.
Rain in big and small droplets on the earth and floor
Wet my bare feet and jump in between my toes
I want to stamp on the puddle of water that you’ve formed
Soak me and join me
Rain and accompany me
Let us form a camaraderie
We can tell each other stories
You can tell me of your journey as you fall down from above
And I’ll tell you of the plants and flowers that in your absence will bud
Don’t be scared, for I’ll be your friend
When people go inside when you come,
I’ll come outside
You will make the puddles and I the mud
Even with my fading eyes I’ll look up
At the sky to welcome you as you rain.
When you leave don’t leave too fast,
Else the rainbow won’t show up
And please, don’t say goodbye
Farewells are too sad
Instead, say an “until next time.”
But for now rain, rain, rain,
My friend,
Rain.
I know this story
Two broken toys
Lives miming parody
Cruel tragedy
A girl behind glass
We can't touch our
Hearts live in the past
We could press up
Against the pain of glass
It doesn't matter what we want
When your broken you just can't
I know how it is
Fate whispers tragedy
It can't be I want to die
Living dead presently
I see the world through glass
A world of people to see
They're mouthing words I can't hear
I scream but they can't touch me
I'm disconnected and distant
Shadow soul ghost echo
Ephermal intangible animal
Easily confused by what's real
Surviving starts this prison feeling
Crying staring at the ceiling
With every fiber of being
Longing to feel anything
I could sleep with you
Never touch soul just body
Fickle fates heart is a tyrant
One of life's little ironies
So you'll always be
The girl behind glass
Pretty snowglobe to stare at
Cold winter dream untouched
Secret hidden heart hurting enough
Find enough snowglobes
You'll learn to let go
We only have what we hold
Was it you we'll never know
But I'll remember you fondly
In your time of winter and trees most
Memories of hope I'll keep close
The last time someone touched my heart
These days I don't have many of those
We're throwing flowers at glaciers here, with all of the corresponding efficacy you'd expect :-) Sometimes it's not what works but that you're still capable of trying.
What you walk away with is something like hope, rescued from tragedy and you cherish that momentary happiness until it collapses and time elapses and you walk away dazed and confused with pleasant if misguided memories of having your heart touched, even if it was for the briefest of moments.
