(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')
Hoarding 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 of 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 I just want someone to funnel my adolescent attention to
(Because teen movies have taught me that one obviously can't be happy without having a crush on someone at any given time.)
Or 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?
After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans
you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street
she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm
her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands
and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them
where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things
she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?
sure if you think
she'll worry
you said
be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone
ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict
and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station
and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor
and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs
Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said
the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied
and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare
Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside
there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed
and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people
and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty
and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way
and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?
just a creep
wanting a peep
you said
peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful
yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said
what then?
she asked
oh something
he oughtn't
you said
and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew
and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.
Boom boom boom
I’m in the firing range
But how I love this doom!
She’s saying I’m blind
I’m deaf and mute
Her tantrums I don’t mind
I know her heart is cute!
Her words I don’t take
Pretty sure on my part
Her anger is a fake
She loves me from her heart.
She curse me day and night
Says can’t stand my sight
But I can vouch it true
Without me she can’t do.
Whatever she says
She isn’t parting ways
I know it she can’t disguise
Love for me in her eyes.
The evening was awake full of history
wind pressing against warm skin
reminding us
that forgetting would be too long
and
we didn't have a sail
or a boat
or more importantly an anchor
to remove or ground us in this swelling sea
I looked over your head wishing for sunlight
so we could go back to yesterday and the day before
so that maybe we would have never yelled so loudly
on the train tracks
watching humanity tear itself apart
on each side of us
we got lost in that
we lost everything we said we never would
and now these buildings aren't our friends
and their structure is pushing us out like gates
and soon,
I'll become a stranger to another town
walking without your shadow underneath empty street lights
talking to the moon about things only you heard
about why I thought the world is ending
and how I planned on
surviving
(your hand helped the most)
tonight we said goodbye in tangled fists and heartbeats
tonight I shed away the secrecy of humming words I told you while you were sleeping
far away dreaming of me
I grabbed you like it was the last time, the way I always meant to hold you
tonight I sang to you in years
locked behind eyes you so swore chambered the sun
(on couches and floors)
watching you circle around me
like the earth
steady in your footsteps
in cold spring winds
waiting..
but Im already in Portland missing you
walking streets and counting trees I wish I could show you
because you're not here
where I think I need you
Im already reading your book about the sand
and imaging the way you smile in the desert
tickling scars you gave me on a bed
wasted wine and razor blades
(now twisted like metallic woven thread pink and past)
Lucky You ,I tongued my lips
(felt those)
parted teeth
(jesus christ)
that red rust
pain killing love
love killing pain
(circling)
fuck the way you made my thighs sweat
but,
your arms are tied around me now
and Im promising myself I won't forget
amongst the screaming silent trees
your heart is beating faster..
but,
rest assured..
'your emotions are heavy,
I'll keep them inside my chest'
Flowers build the summer air
Flowers bring untold despair
Flowers in the sun do grow
Shatter when the north winds blow
Flowers love not you, nor me
But lust for all the honey bees
Working in their busy way
To glut on all the summer days.
But when the bees are all but done
And Autumn leaves block out the Sun
Who's that in their final hour?
Not you or me-
Our friends, the flowers.
I wish I could erase you
Like a picture off paper
Make you dissapear
Like you were never here
But my heart won't let me forget you
The scares aren't fading
The memories won't stop
When I close my eyes
I see your face
I miss you here
Why did we end this way?
If only I could erase myself
From your equation
I would replace myself with someone
You would love
I see right through you
I know its all lies
Why did we end this way.
She kept me warm
so i gave her my heat
and she re-gifted it
and left
and i was cold.
He tucks me in
with sweet words
that evoke crinkled eyes
and upturned corners
and someone will be lucky
to be his love
someday
She knows the sound
my tears make as they fall
through the ground
because hers have fallen the same
and she knows the taste of pain
when a heart breaks this way
because hers was broken the same
so she indulges me
and loves me
and carries me through the day
and i don’t tell her everything
but she feels my misery
She caught the choke
around my throat when
i didn’t know how to live
and she picked me up
and told me to walk
gave what she had to give.
I’m not fixed,
but I’m still alive,
and she is responsible for that.
He validates me
when i feel i must be crazy
and worthless
he tells me i’m not
without any prompt
and says he’ll always be
Big Brother to me
She sticks around
even though I’m obviously crazy.
She’s already seen me go through my worst.
She just listens and takes it in
and we go for a walk
and another day passes
while she is my friend
If I was given a day
By god
Or whatever force there may be
It would be with you
In an empty room
and you would speak to me
I would ask no questions
Utter no words
Invisible buttons would be connecting my lips
You would speak of it all
What makes you laugh
Favorite memories
Why you're so shy
your weak spots
If you're selfish
what side of the bed you like
hot or cold
sweet or sour
Marvel or DC
I would watch
knuckles cracking
touseling of thick hair
squinty giggles
My heart would grow immensely
With every
Secret. Hobby. Weakness. Preference.
watching your lips move
and your face morph
With every emotion
my heart would reach to you in sorrows
and leap at triumphs
Butterflies would become a typical occurrence
a smile tattooed on my face
that's all I desire
You
I
voluntarily trapped in a room
shedding our skin
specifically yours
in no way is that strange
In fact it's beautiful
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,
The fat
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:
“Counting-Type Mouses
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,
Hopping about
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. '
-John Burroughs
……………………………………………
It all began as an observation,
a mere innocent study,
to watch people in cars,
from cars.
First, the tired workers,
who glared and stared in the road in front,
who slumped in their seats,
who held the steering wheels in a glum manner,
who had dark circles in their eyes,
who had cans of beers at the back seat,
tired, weary, drained, exhausted,spent.
The cheeky children,
who yelled at their siblings,
who wrestled with siblings,
who sat listening to lectures,
who texted with their phones,
who went tippy tappy with their laptops,
who ignored the world; reading,
innocent, busy adolescents.
Of course, there are mothers,
who glance at their sleepy children every few minutes,
who smile at their babies dotingly,
who gave loud lectures to kids,
who smoked cigars,
who was on the phone,o was just driving ahead,
loving, fussy, unleisured.
There were the out-going,
who head-banged furiously to booming music,
who sang aloud to radio,
who chatted enthusiasticly with passengers,
who smiled the whole way through the journey,
who stuck their hands out to feel the wind,
who had nothing to worry about,
free, wonderful, liberated, loose.
Also, some were fretful,
who needed to visit hospitals,
who had their heart broken,
who got rejected at interviews,
who lost someone,
who is obviously in anxiety, who were simply drunk,
worrysome, tired, sad.
And then there's me,
who had nothing better to do,
than to watch and observe,
and felt many things should be changed,
eccentric, weird.
