There must have been millions of raindrops falling
Loud drops plummet from the place where the sky overflows
The infinite pitter patter is painfully counted one by one
These moments are that rainy night
Splashes splatter, showers flood,
Shards of water blind the fogged windowpanes,
Catching the candle light’s dull flicker on the dancing trees
Waves of sentimental silent reverie grasp a fragile heart,
Only learning to sing the soul’s most poignant sentiment
Eyes wide open to see you walking in my dreams
Broken silence filled the aching moment with a boisterous sigh
The daunting fading hush of unspoken breath exhaled
Marks a secret place no one else can go,
One drop at a time…
I know this story
Two broken toys
Lives miming parody
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
Through a haze of gray the ocean foams,
Its thunder set against the sea,
Waves that play tag with the shore,
And then reach out to beckon me.
They raised me here, the sand, the sun.
How I loved the wind against my face.
It haunts this white and sandy shore,
Its clefts and crags, with curious grace.
A scent of cocoa butter in the breeze
Twists its way through willow trees,
That dot the boardwalk to the Bay,
And oh, so gently drifts away.
I can taste the salt within the air,
And hear the children playing there,
Tossing their Frisbee in the salty foam,
As starfish climb the mossy stone.
The crabs along the jetty sneak
Through stony clefts for one brief peek,
And hide again when we pass through,
The seaweed and green waters blue.
And this welcome wind, so warm and dry
Whistles soft against my gray-blue sky.
Reminding me of their golden glow,
Of treasured times so long ago
The gulls, like thieves, are never shy,
As they swoop, roll, dart, screech and cry,
And dive for scraps left on the dock,
By the fishermen now out on the jetty rock.
Oh, bring me back to my wild sea!
Fill my heart and soul and more
With all the wonders blessed to me.
I think this is what memories are for.
Copyright © 2004 Richard D. Remler
half a dead pigeon has indented itself in the gravel lot next door
and every day at dusk, when i run my sacred shower,
(with the lights off and windows open
and otis redding echoing through the empty house)
i have to watch the black static tide of flies
swim around one of it's upward bent wings.
the first time i saw it my jaw dropped and repulsion choked my throat closed-
disturbed by it's total disgrace,
i slammed the window shut
and preferred to gaze at tile grime to pass the time.
but from the days that followed,
i managed to muster up respect
and acknowledged that this
battered half of a bird
was now a variable in my scenery
(praise be to impermanence)
the sunset drowns everything in it's hazy blood orange
and the wind floods the trees and fills the underside of the bridge with sound,
and i stand naked in the warmth,
singing boldly out of key, twisting hot water out of my hair,
as the summer breeze politely invades my privacy.
so i salute the pigeon, say i wish you the best.
and embrace the weight and fullness of my happiness,
and know well i am more than body and voice,
and watch it sink further into the arms of the earth each night.
grateful to know that death doesn't end life.
Lacy white snowflakes hit the ground
Drifting from the grey clouds
Snowflakes kiss my cheeks
The snow catches on the branches of pines and firs
Evergreens and majestic trees are sleeping
In snows cotton blanket
So lovely, pure and innocent
Are the snowflakes that fall
To the ground in muted silence
And in pristine beauty
They silently fall
With every thing changing at once
You don't know what to do
Trying to find a path that will help
But all you are now is confused
As you see in the distance
The land underneath your feet
Feel the wind in your hair
Hear the sound of the beat
The beat of nature
Water rush down the river
Your heart racing
Not knowing whether this is a dream
Seeing nature and peace all around you
Surrounded by the most beautiful flowers you've ever seen
It all vanishes....
As it slowly turns into darkness...
The nightmare of all
Hearing the screams....
Seeing the tears....
Except the razor blade against your skin
The sky is blue the
trees are green the ground
is brown-how do
these colors clash?
The colors have more
meaning to what we all see.
The sky is gravity,
the trees is the life
of nature and humans,
the ground is the beginning
of a new life and new end.
These colors are the meaning
of all life and things
Do not be ashamed,
it could be the
rebirth of a new age.
-Sign LINK THE HERO OF TIME-
The swing set was an old thing
like the brittle bones of an elephant
so worn that it had started to forget;
that's what her Gramma said, at least.
But Calpurnia Gray loved it
sat in it
till the seat sagged before she sat down
inviting her to rest.
Calpurnia Gray preferred the city
but the suburbs were what she got
and the swing set looked over some deep gulch of the woods
where even the suburbs ended.
It filled her with such strange fantasies
of leaping through the trees like an ape
tearing off her clothes
and chasing down game
like some odd Tarzan with cobalt blue painted toe nails.
That would be the life for her if only she could go back
to the wilderness on the other side of the suburbs.
To the place where concrete monoliths lit up the sky at night
and rivers of asphalt carved always changing paths
for some intrepid explorer
to find a new bookstore
or something strange.
But Calpurnia didn't have either.
She had the suburbs.
And the swing set.
The swing set that always sat there, that never got away
the swing set that was crumbling with time and stagnation
but at least it was what she knew.
There is a train running through my head,
it goes so fast it's almost a blur.
The whistle is screaming,
But I like it.
It sounds like the sizzle of skin pressed up against something hot, like when you take
an iron and gently touch it to your skin.
As the pain grows, you wait for the right moment to release.
And you are left smiling in the mirror at the beauty of your new mark.
It sounds like the stillness after a long summer's rain, when the earth is drunk and the trees smile.
As you lay on the ground begging to be apart of it.
It sounds like a home, when mom is cooking your favorite dinner while dad's watching tv.
And you are left gutted on the floor, lying in your own pool of blood.
At least it's warm.
Praying to anyone that can hear you, for a painful passing.
It sounds like an addict on the street with no shame in his eyes, asking for help.
He doesn't really want help, but he will ask anyway. And he doesn't know why.
The whistle is screaming,
I used to be a mover.
I ran, and danced, and climbed trees.
If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.
I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass.
I did not question, I just did.
I used to say things.
I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity.
I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.
People were constantly telling me to be quiet. I made them listen.
My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real.
I used to laugh more.
Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee.
It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.
It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room.
I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed.
I used to get lost in things.
In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books.
I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there,
and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one.
I felt so disheartened when I found my way again.
I used to create.
I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time.
It just poured from my fingertips. It was only completed when the smile came.
A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me. I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster.
I believed the only things you own, are the things you make.
Now I am uncertain.
Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent.
Now I only move with a destination in mind.
I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.
I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.
The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words.
Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time.
Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around. Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed.
And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you.
Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought.
The Mover awakens within me. I smile and crave company.
I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn.
I will not sleep tonight.