I treasure the little things
Things others seem to
I never realized how much i have taken them for granted and how
Fragile they are
Until they are no longer there.
Hence was late upstart,yet states and stars with inspiring arts would find,
When much is tripping unto history's past, let i, gaze to charge and bound
Weld my fanciful world in heaven's muse: new tunes, does brim in pleasure
Sought Desires in Delphic tunes,an antique taste,my quest's could treasure
Phoebes,by whom admired me curious thoughts,so brawn,this Titan's name,
Outshines some vainly stars,when greatness thus partakes very lyrate fame,
Through olympus in majestic car, through souls these music's godly weed
Wrought refined present's towards mankind true poetry, our's dainty need
When of ken does work, here solely mate is brain with hasting beam forth,
Like a lately dawn 'scaped from its father's lap,to natures change's breath
Therewith some awfull embraces feels; wakes this thoughts from dying lyre,
Nah,not death these things,yet generates fast and show its zeal,and dare.
Sieves the verses from darkness,life its golden lark do gladly announce
Lights with gift's from Dorians specular driven tones, far these years,
She spent her whole life dreaming. Everything and everyone she encountered told her
to stop. “It’s a waste of time” “It’s not healthy” “Grow up” they’d say. And eventually she
started to believe the things people said. She wanted big things - for herself and for
others, but it didn’t take long for her to realize the importance of settling. It made things
easier and she had the tendency to complicate them without even trying. She felt
isolated from the world just outside her door but she didn’t know how to change that or if
she even wanted to. The best things in life tend to waste away after a matter of
moments. They pass away as if they’d never existed. Maybe she’d imagined them all.
She began to condition herself to expect disappointment. It worked for a little while, but
hard as she tried to shield herself from the pains of everyday life - the bullet always
seem to ﬁnd her. It always came, without fail and pierced her heart with little regard for
the repercussions. She longed for the day she would be good enough for the people
she loved. Maybe you had to earn it, and she hadn’t yet collected enough gold stars to
pick out of the treasure box.
I don't come here much anymore.
Too many memories.
They say every house has a tale to tell,
Every rusted door jam a mystery.
That window over there, looking pale
And yellowed with age
And dust and yesterdays wonder, I broke
Way, way back before Grandpa had his stroke
And Grandma left her rocker for the last time.
I'd thrown a baseball right through it.
Pa was drinking then, the hard liquor,
And he whipped me raw out back behind the shed
With the full buckle. He reminded me
Windows cost money we don't have.
She was six or seven then.
She was just learning how to ride a bike,
And she was proud as can be.
She would hang out by the hollyhocks,
Pretending they were scarecrows,
Naming each one,
And telling me she'd found a pirates treasure
Buried out there near the windmill that still needed
A coat or two of fresh paint.
She was that shine in Momma's eyes,
The one person in all the world Grandma would tell
Her stories to -
Stories that would bring Eleanor
Into worlds of imagination and wonder
She'd never known before.
And Eleanor would drink it in,
All the color and fire,
That lingered in every word.
And when she wandered that late October night
Into the fields,
We searched up and down with lanterns lit and flashlights, And the neighbors helped,
And we found her come morning in the silo.
I guess she'd climbed in to explore.
You can't breathe when it hits you. It's like it
Sucks the air right out of the little space you find ,
And the weight of the grain slowly drowns out your Thoughts and your struggles, your prayers
And your cries. And nothing's left to do
But feel that terror
Of nothingness pull you away.
So many memories...
And I was angry then. Angry at Pa,
I blamed them for everything and then some.
I learned to smoke , and I did it well.
I learned to swear, and I was good at it.
I didn't stay home much after that.
I left, hitched a ride to New Castle Valley,
And then to Porterville.
I didn't care for schooling,
So I found a job feeding pigs.
That lead to butchering. And I was good at it.
I could lose myself in it. In the thunder of the sin,
Found some satisfaction in how they bled.
I didn't go back til after Dad died.
He'd lost everything, did a bit of drinking,
Spent his time in the county jail,
Did more drinking
When he got out.
I'd learned Grandpa died of the pneumonia,
And Grandma had a few strokes.
Nobody ever told me what happened to Momma.
She just disappeared.
...and over time I grew less angry.
And I'd talk to God at night,
Sometimes I'd talk to Eleanor, cuz I knew
She was up there with God doing angel things,
Probably riding a bicycle real good by now.
Time marched on and I made due.
But I don't come here much anymore.
This place haunts me.
The silo that claimed Eleanor now a rusted heap
Of wood and metal that watches every step I take
...and I hate it,
I'd burn it to ashes if I could.
The porch where Grandma's rocker sat
Is weather beaten and tired.
And the stump where Grandpa would sit
Trimming his fingernails with that pocket knife
Lays on its side, victim to the winds of time
And those echoes that whisper things I thought
And I lose it for a moment
And have to mop away a few tears.
Me, a fifty-six year old blubbering fool,
Still picking at the scars.
I can hear her voice,
As she circled the gravel road on her bike,
Kicking at the small stones to get the bicycle moving
Just a little faster.
And I can almost see her sweet face
And her eyes so wide
They captured the Autumn sun like a rising star.
And there's Momma, hollering "Supper's ready."
And Pa, slamming down the hood on
The truck and wiping the hot sweat from his brow
As Grandma's little rocking chair squeaked its protests
Into the wind.
And there was Grandpa,
Grinning and pocketing that knife
And kicking mud off his
Work boots and heading on in.
No, I don't come here much anymore.
This place holds far too many ghosts for my tastes.
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
"You fall out of your mother's womb,
you crawl across open country under fire,
and drop into your grave."
Not the way you touch my hand so lightly as you speak.
Not the way your eyes ooze into my will.
Oh no, Not that.
Not the way you breath so softly as you sleep.
I cozy up to your face on the pillow savor every breath.
Silently I yearn to share every essence of you.
Not your mouth.your lips that quiver with anticipation
as I draw you close to me. a preamble of what is to be
unspeakable pleasure your eyes twin abysses.
Oh no. Please speak a word. any word.
Now my darling for every whisper is a symphony.
a treasure like no other.Each more priceless than the other.
Your hands were made to hold my heart forever and no other.
Slender fingers serpentine. to slither and caress. Oh sweetheart
My love My dearest your hips they sway a pulsing rhythm that I can
hear, a bossa nova.Cool and warm is your charm.
Have I not loved before?
Clearly,This way is like no other.
I lay awake on endless nights and shudder.
Wipe the silent tears away.Mourn the day
when I have lost your way to another.
I do so love you.
Vindicate the journey.
Justify the placid education.
Give meaning to clamored
Uncommon are the steps prevalent to
understanding. First we trust in logic
~ appending even clever reason, to
enlighten our wisdom. Teaching us by
grace, tenured and wise is the old man.
Second we must conceive the rebirth
of the soul.
And nurture the rigorous energy
As such is the steady old man,
calm in demeanor, and living as the
wise without regret ~ for the rest
of his years. In his mind the past
is marinating within, as a mental
treasure. In idea profound and
willingly he carry’s us to a fashion
so right. These are the lentils of
the presence ~ of the clamored
misconceptions, of the old man.
Thus with little merit to write, I
celebrate those growing old and gray.
Believe in his destiny. Only a mention
to mind his presence and grace. A
thread to celebrate the qualities of this
dumb old man.
The arc of Hyperion's bedazzled sceptre
Issues forth a cascade of petals Rose deep
Laying the path for sweet heavenly Aurora
Chary± Divinity moving in a soft tip & creep ...
Until at last Her eye peers out o'er Terra
A shied face hidden 'hind the crest no longer.
For in her glance abides a treasure
No hallowed hall may contain:
Upon the Mount, within the Spring, Roots of the Tree doth regain!
Fruits resurf, o' Golden Bough undulating
Seeped in kin vital, up the amber vein: 'Ere burgeoned wings do stretch & sing
Rising into Joy's boundless domain!
E'er again, again after!
Yea, be heedless to all fright
Nay, but to a solitary care:
Gallope free, alight
& kiss the silvery aer
Yet if ye be trapp'd in night,
& gaze morose in despair: Thine pleasen only might; --
Pray, cease thine irradiant stare!
± Chary: careful about what is revealed; circumspect.
a couple of months apart
swings me sideways and upside down
your soft and genuinely welcoming embrace
we find a place to stay and keep close our company
we continue to rediscover this love
if just for brief moments with intense memories
time suffices enough to remind us that there are several
for us to forget each other but still ther are infinite irresponsible
reasons for us to keep coming home to find this treasure trove of love
In the back of my mind
Lies yesterday's highlights
And a small pile of shit
You left me to believe.
No reason to hold on,
One man's trash is another man's treasure.
As I wait for this shit to turn to gold,
Going about naive encounters.
The salesman reeks of whiskey,
During his mid-day fire sale.
Belongings on the table,
Everything must go...
Sadness carried on the salty breeze
The waves dance upon the shore
The cool sand feels good to bare feet
Seashells collected in buckets
Horses galloping on the shores
Enjoying their freedom and eternal ecstasy
Golden memories carried in the wind
Forgotten thoughts linger in the breeze
Pristine palm trees standing on the shore
Ukulele songs in the tropical air
Lone tropical girls dancing
To the everlasting song of the waves
Tropical sunsets silhouetted with palm trees
Lighthouses standing on majestic islands
And I'm standing here alone
The sun kissing my brown hair
Its rays reflecting in my blue eyes
And my fair cheeks feeling its warmth
Caressing my face
This place feels sentimental to me
And I treasure it above
The hidden ocean treasures
Buried under the foamy waves