Even though we're worlds apart
Even though I think you're too crazy
I still find myself smiling when I look at you
Laughing your heart out over the silliest things
I never know what colour your hair nor nails will be
The tight slacks and nose-ring you love so much
I would certainly curl my lips and pull a frown
When I Contrast those with my shirt and tie
Your love for life just shines through
One look at you and the world's a nicer place
It's people like you who make others smile
That deserve to be happy contented and blessed
What I see is what you show the world
I don't know what goes on behind the lights
I don't know how you are when you're alone
I don't know if you ever carry a surly look
I sometimes think it would be nice to see you
Without the leggings, the painted nails, the crazy hair
But then I also think I don't want to
So I can always smile when I see you :)
There’s a man on the ice-cream van.
Choices galore, one can’t want more,
vanilla, strawberry, chocolate…
But on the hot day his fate
is to lie in stupor,
he can’t have one!
The poor man is sleeping on his ice-cream van.
Though dazed with the heat
he can’t retreat
with a cup or a bar,
He sells the cold
all pieces must be sold
he mustn’t have one!
The guy dreams on the ice-cream van.
Flavors galore, as he opens the door,
vanilla, strawberry, chocolate…
He mustn’t lust
must overcome thirst
let others have fun,
he mustn’t even have one!
The Minute passes me by
quite disgusted by my wailing.
Leaving as quickly as it came,
I hardly think it stays the full sixty seconds.
The Hour sinks its teeth deep into my skull
pushing shards of bone-like-regret into my ego's soft, gray matter.
There's no surgical thought to remove such an irritation.
Oh those god-damned Days.
They see me confused and so seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
Now begins their fun!
The Months form gangs called 'The Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled, creaking,
I want to give up.
it gets worse.
A dark shadow hovers over me.
I look up as far as I can lift my heavy head
and I see coming down on me,
like a fat man resting his rump on an ant's back,
The Decades with their massive, soul crushing weight
squatting their hindquarters;
upon my twig-like spine.
This is a merciless beating!
This is the beat of time.
And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low state close to the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"
With this pen
I slit my wrist
Let it bleed on this page
Release the sadness and rage
Let these words
Pick the lock and let me out if this cage
Paint a smile for those I love
They don't need to know
So I do my best to hide
All the pain that's deep inside
Writing blood and tears
In this little book of mine
No, I don't want it to show
I don't want your attention for this
It just brings more pain
If blood on the floor
Is what it takes to say my name
I'd rather hear silence
At least it's honest
So I write these words
Just for me
To keep Death away
I scribe its name
And hope one day
The pain that fills my pen
Will drain away
And I can put this blade
for my Aunt Shirley
Fervis F. Ferville
Of South Street, North West
Could count, count, count, count
With incredible zest!
He was a very good counter,
And he would not hesitate!
For he would get up real early,
And he would stay up real late
Counting everything that could
Be owned by a Mouse,
As long as it could fit
In a little Mouse House.
And with his Shadow as Witness,
He would begin every day
Counting each little grain
Of his Bucklewheat Hay.
He would sound out each number.
That’s just what he’d do!
And he would always begin
All of his counting with “Two.”
He would count every minute
On the clock on his wall.
He then counted the hours,
The Seconds, and all
Of the in-between moments
That we never admit
Have a smidgen of good
Honest counting in it.
He then climbed very carefully
On his ABC blocks,
And counted each button
Safely tucked in its box,
Which came right to twenty-one,
All quite safe and sound.
The Greatest Button Collection
That a Mouse ever found.
Then he counted his fingers,
And he counted his toes,
His counting-type eyes,
And his counting-type nose.
He counted his ears,
And he counted his knees
And he smiled with pride,
For Fervis was pleased.
He had counted two eyes,
And one counting-type nose.
He had counted two knees,
And two stringy elbows.
He had counted two ears
That hung over his head.
And he counted the stripes
On his little Mouse bed.
He had counted each whisker,
And every brow of his eye.
And then he turned his attention
To his french fry supply.
There were twenty-two long ones,
And thirty-four short ones,
Ten busted-up ones
And eighteen athwart ones.
And there were his books,
Lots of books on a shelf
That he hid,
For he wanted them
All to himself.
With his vast and unique
Set of Counting-Mouse Skills,
And the speed and agility
Of trained Whippoorwills
He counted and counted,
And counted them all,
Every book he could find,
Every book that he saw.
All the big ones
And small ones,
And the tall ones,
Every green one
And blue one
Each old and
Each new one.
He counted his Nickets,
He counted his Nukks,
He counted every one
Of his Poppletoff Pucks.
He counted his ear lobes,
Then counted his keys,
And recounted every one
Of his ones, twos and threes.
He counted with such
A fine skill and finesse
That he proudly turned his attention
To Checkers and Chess
And he counted each Rook,
Every Bishop and Queen,
Every foul little Knight
That tormented his King.
Every Pawn en Passant,
Every possible move,
Oh, he counted them all
If only to prove
That he, as a Mouse,
Could indeed hold his own
When it came to a fine
Game of Chess in his home.
The very next thing
He would count were his socks.
He took great care of them.
So he unlocked all the locks
On his Secret Sock-Drawer,
And he counted each Two.
Then he seemed rather puzzled
When he was finally through.
For yesterday’s count
Came to Thirty-Eight pair.
Which meant that one pair was missing!
Yes, Missing! But where?
Now, this called for a re-count,
Something a Counting-Type Mouse
Does all of the time
In his little Mouse House.
So, Fervis F. Ferville,
In his perfect Mouse timing,
Counted and re-counted
Without even rhyming!
The Two and the Four
And the Six and the Eight!
He counted each sock
Until it seemed rather late.
Then he sighed as he sat
In his little Mouse chair.
And he took a deep breath
With a haunt of despair.
And he thought:
Never lose track of socks.
They never forget their neckties
Or popcicle blocks.
They do not misplace their Hourglass,
Or lose track of the time.
And Counting-Type Mouses
Are on time
All the time! ”
He fuddled and fudged,
And scratched at his ear,
Took a deep breath
Just to let his mind clear.
And he spied at his Shadow,
Who had nothing to say,
Who simply shrugged long
In its shadowy way.
So, he counted again,
Very slowly this time,
Sounding each number out,
Every succinct little rhyme.
Every four, every two,
Every ten, every eight.
Every twelve, and each twenty,
Until it was later than late.
“This simply does not make sense, ”
He mumbled to himself.
“Where could they be?
I’ve looked on every shelf.”
He searched through his house,
Very high, then down low,
Every place they could hide,
Every place they could go.
He looked deep in his cupboards,
And inside every jar.
He searched as close as he could,
And then he searched far.
He looked in his freezer,
And then in his hat,
On nights such as this
Mice will do things like that.
He hunted deep in his closet,
And then in every shoe
That he kept always ready
Underneath his canoe.
He searched up the small staircase,
And then down through the vent.
He hunted inside his chimney,
And above the bell tent.
He looked behind every picture
That hung on his wall.
And then he decided
To check behind his baseball.
He searched through his Bob-Bobbers,
And inside his fly sheet.
And, just to be safe,
He looked down at his feet.
And his eyes peered so narrow
He bit down on his lip,
And he twizzled and twozzled
Every single toe tip.
There were his socks,
Safely there, rightly put
As well as can be
On each little Mouse foot.
He hadn’t lost them at all,
And they hadn’t lost him.
They’d been there all the time
Very proper and prim.
And Fervis F. Ferville
Jumped up with a snap,
He sang out a “Woohoo, ”
And he let his toes tap.
He danced with a jig
And a biggillowigg,
With his toes hanging out.
He looked at the clock
That hung high on his wall,
And he stretched out, refreshed,
Like a porcupine ball.
And Fervis F. Ferville adjusted his tie.
And breathed deep the evening air.
"Why-ever have I been so distraught?
This simply does not seem fair."
I have every toe, every ear, every sock.
I have every number that ticks on my clock.
I have every whoo that has ever said hey.
It is a grand and new, wonderful day.
And wonderful days, as the story is said-
Are filled with those numbers that dance off the head,
And tap tap tap wonders of yellow and blue,
Wonders that shimmer much newer than new.
And he smiled so warmly the evening shined,
As though Fervis had one more adventure in mind.
He spied his fine Shadow, on the dash of a whim,
And his top secret Shadow spied right back at him,
And then Fervis F. Ferville so calmly called out,
"I've counted one hundred eleventy-two!
And that's a very fine count, an impressive amount.
I am certain I've counted much higher than you.
But his Shadow just leaned against the far wall,
Unwilling to join in the foray.
Shadows never re-count a good count,
Not when there's still time for Shadows to play.
And Fervis agreed.
For a fine Mouse was he,
Oh, there was so much more
To counting young Fervis could see.
And he smiled a wide smile, fine as any wise Mouse,
And returned to the joys of his little Mouse House.
Copyright © 2010 By Richard D. Remler
'I still find each day too short for
all the thoughts I want to think,
all the walks I want to take,
all the books I want to read,
and all the friends I want to see. '
sometimes, we want to throw our hands up and surrender. But I say, "throw your hands down and write some goddamn poetry, because that is what will keep your emotions alive and well. That is the remedy to never give up on yourself".
(I think I've lost the ability to start things, so please forgive this poem for not having an attention grabbing genesis)
I've been twiddling my thumbs for almost eight months now
Putting off all that I care about
(And especially everything that I don't. Here's lookin' at you, AP World History)
Sitting around amassing a booklet of words to use in the future for novels and whatnot
But only using them in essays so I seem smarter than I am
(For example, susurrus means 'a whispering or rustling sound; a murmur')
Hording anything affiliated with Ben Folds because he makes me feel things on occasion
(I currently have 189 songs of his on my iTunes library; No one understands me.)
Making dick jokes at lunch while masking the thoughts of substance ricocheting around in my head
(Also your mom jokes because no one would think that you're crying internally about the uncertainty of the afterlife whilst making lewd stabs at their mother's integrity(and vagina. Ba dum tss.))
Apparently craving the lingering feel of another's touch
As illustrated by my subconscious through the medium of dreams
(I had a dream a few weeks back that Ben Folds licked my hand; My stomach folded (hahahah, folded) in on itself.)
Thinking that my feelings of misanthropy and apathy and everything else I can't find the words for yet are mine alone because everyone else is too stupid to have thought them themselves
(Even though I know that I'm not particularly special and I should stop being so elitist and stupid)
But I've finally found a light at the end of the table in the last place I'd expect--
(I meant to say tunnel, but hey, the source of said light does sit at my lunch table.)
A cherubic Presbyterian boy with an aversion to all things perverse,
(Which includes my sailor's tongue and occasional tendencies to want to put it on a member of my own sex, thought he doesn't know about that)
A spec on cleanliness on the grimy waistcoat of humanity who makes me want to be the best I can be
(Today when I saw him, I only swore once; I was very proud of myself)
But maybe I'm just jumping the gun
Because what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me who isn't even sure she believes in God?
Maybe his prolonged contingencies were merely contingent and I'm just overreacting because of my few and far between incidences of human contact.
(Seriously. Don't touch me.)
Maybe I just want someone to talk to for hours about everything and nothing at all.
(What with me being relatively antisocial, it's hard to find people with similar mindsets.)
Maybe it's just because the way the Bible quote on the back of his t-shirt conflicted so humorously with the way he shook his hips to a J-Lo song on "Just Dance."
(Seriously, though, it was hilarious. I was dying.)
Or the way our fingers brushed when we were catching frogs
Or the way he blushed when I stepped out in my bikini
(I went to a pool party today.)
Or the way he held me momentarily in the delirious confusion of the flashing strobe lights
Or the way he got one point higher on his research paper than me a month ago
(He was excited; I was upset.)
Or the way that he does everything nearly to perfection.
I could go on..
But I don't know.
Maybe I'll get over him in a week and slip back into myself.
Because, like I said, what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me?
My unknown love,
Did you see the rain gather in puddles?
Or were you too distracted by the city life?
Watch the headlights as you run across the street
Or focus on the light turning red,
Did you see me drink that glass?
Or hear me cough
Do you like the way it turned out?
All the pieces fit perfect
Or, are you like me,
That this is what you want
how is it that life goes on?
the sun keeps rising and setting,
people continue their busy routines
nothing has happened.
but today you have stopped loving me,
how can strangers not see it is the end!
how is the sorrow in my eyes not enough to make the world stop turning?
how is the immense hole in my stomach not big enough to make the waves stop crashing against the shore?
how can I go on, if no one has even noticed my heart is so completely broken.
how do I eat or sleep, knowing you no longer want me?
how can i go on if no one has even noticed something's wrong.
dew drops glisten
in the night
set on fire,
and thunder cackles
like a far off,
in the breeze
but I do
not want this
my heart reaches
in her loneliness
for a something
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat
upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby."