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SE Reimer Jul 2016
~        

of late he finds
his muse asleep,
with none to waken
none to stir;
slows the flow
from drops to drip,
his secrets deep
are held with her.
yet he endures this
momentary dearth,
knowing soon enough
the seasons change;
again will come
her joyous rains,
she will return
with current rushing;
drought adjourned,
her torrent gushing;
to wet his dry parched lips;
satisfy the cracked red earth,
nourishing the fallow ground;
restoring flow, reviving hope,
his muse rebounds to life.

begins a simple trickle,
blossoming of ’er fine mist;
touch of muse on every droplet,
silver prose in golden goblets.
calloused hands,
though not from fields,
smith no less in words.
spinning yarns in terms
tell of tales unheard;
in spilling words unwritten,
life discharging burdens;
though too late for some,
with many suns to go
he is slow learning,
heart yearning,
softened saudade
to a past unchanged
but head now turned,
heart re-affirmed
stepping to-ward,
to the forward...
again a future taking.

now they’re churning
forth like water,
each formed thought
a droplet breaking.
once free from all confines,
springing from prolific mind,
a garden fountain’s constant flow;
a hillside’s floral spray disrobed.
conceived behind these
quiet, hallowed walls,
his muse gives birth,
her cries of pain
with joyful echo ring,
clearly down these
ancient halls, and
out across the wooded hills.
this child is free,
no more this need
for silent screams, or
coloring between the lines.
breaking from entrapment,
unfettered and unwrapped;
responsive reading’s call,
believer’s whispered
prayer is heard...
his muse has been restored.

~

*post script.

fellow writers have told me
their words most often
arrive in torrents. i share
this view... this experience,
where for days nothing, until...
the mind writes faster than the pen.

- saudade-
sau·da·de /souˈdädə/
a word with no English equivalent;
a sense of wishful longing,
melancholy, or nostalgia.
(Portuguese)

though a bit melancholic,
this is yet a hopeful song,
for after the dark...
the storm, comes the dawn.
SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

we are the sum of our whole,
though the soul until death,
is largely unknown.
our words and our deeds,
whatever our needs,
outliving, outpacing
our to-the-end racing,
until all has been
thought, said and done.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all the dear ones departed,
when distilling’s begun.

i believe Antony was wrong,
for the good that men do
lives after them long;
and like sickness, any ill
is interred with their bones.
misdeeds are forgotten,
harsh words set aside,
remembered the kindness,
the love and the pride.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all dear ones departed,
here distilling’s begun.

when the fallen lie in repose,
what’s given in secret,
done deeds not for show;
words gifted are sifted,
here goodness is known.
a life time well-lived
remains hidden not long;
here defeat is forgotten,
only victories won.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all dear ones departed,
then distilling’s begun.

within twilight’s stilling,
begins the distilling;
the good left behind,
in loved ones instilling.

~

*post script.

“travel light; enjoy the journey”  
words a son lived by, distilled,
only in death.
we are still...
learning,
still...
distilling,
the depth and the breadth of his life.
  Jul 2016 SE Reimer
beth fwoah dream
i.

dark curves, branches of
a tree caught in a valley wind
of tangling breath.


ii

everything unwinds
summer pools into corners
weeps for
forgotten love.

iii.

this is a dark valley
no ocean, no sky of song.

iv.

night intercedes
lets its other-worldly nectars
dissolve, unclasps me from these
breaking seas.
  Jun 2016 SE Reimer
Nat Lipstadt
~

<>


nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees

Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)

poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence

compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...

the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.

a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious

the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty

bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips

a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example

listen, see!

silently presenting,
this,
this!!


a day that demanded perfection
  Jun 2016 SE Reimer
spysgrandson
I carried you
through a minefield, past ***** traps;
though the mortars lobbed their lethal loads
and the rifles spat speeding streams of death,
all was silent, until we reached the end of the field,
and I lay you on the grass

you thanked me, and asked me
to hold you--you were so cold, you said
I put my arms around you, and looked back
across the field--a stretch of fire now, blazing
the night sky, casting eternal light on you and me,
two young brothers I spied, prostrate,
still, on the other side of the field
we had crossed…still

on the other side
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