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SE Reimer Mar 24

of her are
countless stories told,
ancient face angelic;
some think she a
seductive mistress,
while some see none,
but lunar cold.
but others find
her gaze majestic;
never sleeping,
memories keeping,
always watching,
ever seeking... as the
world below unfolds.

eyes that
never turn aside,
her tidal draw,
that ne’er subsides;
and flows within,
her mother's pride;
for even when
we see her not,
unbroken gaze,
men's deeds engraves;
of ev'ry tribe,
the fateful scribe;
she the keeper
of this race!


post script.

since childhood i have found the moon to be entrancing... both beautiful and mysterious. surely i am not alone in conjuring mystical theories and fantasied metaphors for our lovely lady above!

as the ever watchful eye in the heavens above, do you, like me, wonder if just maybe it is she who metes out justice, who deals man's swift reward?  and what if, just maybe, those who to our eye, seem to escape the consequence of their actions, who seem to skate along unscathed... what if their consequences are simply too great to unveil in this realm, and instead, she, the fateful, faithful scribe has rendered and reserved for them in the next, their recompense and just reward?  i shudder to think of it!

SE Reimer Mar 17

when eve’ning calls
the day to end,
and steals away
beloved friend;
naught for holding,
naught for love;
only yearning,
for what was.
once where pillows,
cradled heads;
swallows tears,
wept on their bed.
once the soil,
on paths two walked;
turned to dust,
beneath a rock.
within each tear,
the salty sting;
a silent sob,
the daylight brings.
lips that spoke,
in loving notes;
that kissed each dawn,
with healing hope;
mem’ries now,
a silent voice;
whispered prayer,
a stifled choice.
these the trail,
of loving well;
leavings of
a lover’s tell!


post script.

“brother-in-law”... when a beloved sister loses her battle, what becomes of that word?  do the words drift apart as the hyphens are disbanded?  and what of the light that once added brilliance?  is it forever fractured?

thirty-nine years is a trail long walked; a tale colored by hues both light and dark.  a loss such is his, is to me inconceivable; i believe i would choose death instead.

SE Reimer Mar 12

like an old man,
tired and cold;
weathered trunk,
bent and gaunt;
shouldering the
weight of years,
yet ever leaning
toward the stars.
these the promises
of days gone by;
his heavy eyes,
gaze to where,
the pinpoint lights,
are strewn across,
a darkened night;
beckons of what lies,
above the Milky Way;
beyond the distant veil.
hope unwavering,
in his ear;
still gently
from the stars
she’s whispering,
i am waiting
for you here;
again together,
soon, forever,
never parting,
darling, dear!”

post script.

he leaves behind the warmth and comfort, and a snow-shoed path; he presses through the night, looking for the perfect frame, to deliver light and hope amidst the darkness.  i am smitten by his passion; my awe of the eternal, renewed by his endless pursuit

a talented and dedicated astrophotography friend posted a photo of the Milky Way framed by a bent and tired, old tree, against a frozen lake.  he’s got skills i only could wish for... so i let him simply be my muse.
SE Reimer Feb 10

"did you know,” says he to she,
“that present act, as in music,
current status is a movement?"
the space between transitions,
afore its alteration,
from a time and place,
to a new dimension;
before a score becomes unsettled,
and shifts to lilting melody,
amidst the rhythmic cadence,
like phrases ’tween the beats!
sheds new light upon one’s moves,
invites my claim what looks unchanged,
is too in movement’s midst;
despite the strain of rat’ling chain,
that bind one’s present to their past,
lies this inspiring thought!
perchance they'd call it something else
were turn from overture to arias
a movement changing naught.

post script.

conversation with my sweetheart, "did you know, ’a movement is a self-contained part of a musical composition or musical form. while individual or selected movements from a composition are sometimes performed separately, a performance of the complete work requires all the movements to be performed in succession.’?" (from Wikipedia)

this unusual use of the word “movement”, a word that for most of us conjures images of moving trucks and status relocation, in this instance implies the present status between transitions, rather than the transition itself. thus, like the swan that gracefully floats on the lake, with nary a ripple nearby, neath the water its feet are steering and rapidly moving.  which reminds me to accept that change can indeed be occurring, even when none is visible on the surface!
SE Reimer Jan 31

she made this trip without me,
just last Sunday afternoon;
embarking unexpectedly,
she her leave took far too soon.

her kennel still is in my car,
here her spirit lives in part;
’neath her throw, her bed... my heart
my hopes she never wanders far.

comfort comes in many shapes,
in sizes... unpredictably;
a heart entwined will skip a beat,
her absence leaves me incomplete.

i knelt beside to offer comfort,
her sleep’s relief came far too quick;
once protector, now deliverer,
for this my heart is ill equipped.

yet she, my loss a need fulfilled,
now her pain my bitter pill;
and so i lean to say goodbye,
my whispered thanks, a lullaby.

comfort comes in many shapes,
in sizes... unpredictably;
in presence fills a hole unique,
yet mem’ry's loss, is bitter sweet.

post script.

a six-pound, furry ball of love, she was a god-send after our son’s loss, and her warmth filled out hearts.  almost eight years with us, we are not resentful of her departure, only all the more mindful of the tenuous nature of life and grateful for heaven-sent comforts in every form.
SE Reimer Dec 2018

on days the sun forgets to shine,
on me its warming grace;
discouragement is prone to call,
in hopeful dreams that seem to fade;
’tis here i seek its pure reflection,
on my lover's face; its
shared maternal gift of love,
wrapped within her tender embrace.

post script.

walking up a downtown street, a blus’try, autumn day, and suddenly aware of a blue-sky-break in rain-laden clouds overhead.  looking for the sun, i realize it is hiding from my view in this valley of towering urban sky-scapers. yet though its face unseen, on glass its visage mirrored, the brilliant gaze of solar rays reflecting! and even its warmth is felt on my cheeks as i walk in its radiance; the parallels to life and love musing these words.
SE Reimer Nov 2018

along the golden sands she runs,
swinging arms, matching stride;
crashing waves bring seagull crumbs,
deposit treasures with each tide.

sea shells scattered on the sands,
like incantations on the wind;
she gathers them amidst the strands,
blending voice above the din!

each gusty wave of her baton,
the wind is maestro to this band;
from cockle’s flute the highest pitch,
to conch’s cello, deep & rich.

the tulip’s voice of brass cornet,
of scallop’s rippling clarinet;
the kettle drum of florida’s cone,
and hammered strings of angel’s wings!

instrumental simplicity,
ancient chords, rehearsed refrain;
her call to join each voice unique,
each grain of sand, each clapping wave,

leaping toward orchestral stage,
calling forth their joyous praise.
till mistral bows in whispered hush,
a thunderous crash, their glad applause!


maestro -
a distinguished musician, especially
a conductor of classical music.

mistral -
a strong, cold northwesterly wind
that blows into the Mediterranean.

post script.

i walked upon the sandy beaches,
my lover’s hand in mine;
from ev’ry step ’cross rippling reaches,
flows their song from ancient times;
a song with every crashing wave,
of every ghost these waters claimed;
fills the air with hopeful longing,
song of love, their chorus haunting;
for each body held in depth’s repose,
each soul in song is lovingly released.
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