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Jun 8 · 747
Rite of Passage
SE Reimer Jun 8
(a tribute to young courage;
observations of a father)

~

cutting sharply through the water,
her bow approaches the surf;
the zone where ocean's bottom,
rises quickly from the depths;
where pounding waves,
meet churning sands,
blending pebbles, shells, and
grass into a darkened mud.

standing, squatting, silent,
behind her heavy wings of steel;
young boys, not yet men,
await a sign, whether
from heaven or command;
their lips muttering to no one
but the howling wind.

a brisk sea breeze whisks,
away the cigarette smoke,
that rises from their huddled
masses, scatt'ring heavenward,
with their whispered prayers,
for courage, safety, strength.

then the momentary lull,
all of heaven holds their breath
like a bird she slows,
still rocking in the surf,
a hundred feet from shore,
like a calm before the storm,
as her wings that held them tight
now lower to form the bridge
that to the fiery fury now awaits...
and then,

the surf is filled with boys,
alighting from her wings of safety,
those not ground to blood and bone
by knives of steel that ply the air
and waves, aging, with each
passing second of survival,
by the time their soles find sand,
becoming, at the shoreline men;
leaving behind, their mates-
in-arms, who aged far too young.
from boys to watery grave.

now young men, running,
searching on an open shore
seeking shelter, any means of cover
fron the steel that falls like rain
'neath hidden nests, birds of prey
as far below his courage grows
with every dancing inland step
this rite of passage that
no one's son should
ever need to walk, again.
~

post script.

Yesterday marked its 80th anniversary. On June 6, 1944, Allied casualties were documented for at least 10,000, with 4,414 confirmed dead, yet the Allies' forces failed to achieve a single one of their planned objectives on the first day. And still liberation had begun, as their foothold began to break an evil stronghold

https://www.liherald.com/wantagh/stories/boys-became-men-in-crucible-of-world-war-ii,55692?#:~:text=The%20single%2C%20most%20powerful%20realization,an%20average%20age%20of%2024.
"The single, most powerful realization for me is that the soldiers who fought and died at Normandy were an average age of 24. Of the 160,000 who came onshore, many were just 17 and 18 years old." 

Resder's Comment.   "My mom was a young French girl living a few miles inland from Normandy Beach during D-Day.  She said she felt and heard D-Day before she saw it.  A few days later American and Canadian liberated her and her family. Freedom from evil was restored.

That was the beginning of Huguette Chritien's dream of becoming an American.  Her dream was realized.  She passed away in '83 and was laid to rest on June 6 of that year.

Because of the sacrifices made by so many men on D-Day she lived a brilliant life.  I give thanks to God that such men lived."
Mar 3 · 294
ever an expat
SE Reimer Mar 3
ever an expat

~

i'm ever an expat,
this culture ain't mine;
a trip to my next stop,
a place in my mind.
this soil isn't home,
my soul it's on loan;
just looking for peace,
in a world upside down.

i'm a' travelin' light,
in pursuit of a song;
not seeking permission,
for my heart to belong.
my sole's intermission,
will only prolong,
finding the courage,
to write all my wrong.

surrounded by others,
with tickets defined;
you ask if my home's
at the end of the line?
no, i looked for a non-stop,
a grand destination;
my vocation mistaken,
a search has awakened.

i'm ever an expat,
in a culture not mine;
a trip to my next stop,
a place in my mind.
this soil isn't home,
my soul it's on loan;
still looking for peace,
in a world all gone wrong.

though ever a trav'ler,
and rarely at rest,
enjoying this journey,
my accepted success.
in losing i'm winning,
my end my beginning;
for my pain isn't gain,
til' i lose all the excess!

come fly with me,
in this quest to be free;
i'm prepared to let go,
of all that i've seen.
this my adventure,
a spirited venture;
perhaps solace i've sought,
appears in release!

i'm ever an expat,
in a culture not mine;
a trip to my next stop,
a place in my mind.
this soil isn't home,
my soul it's on loan;
i've finally found peace,
in the words of my song.

~

post script

I once wrote the following words to a dear friend in response to an article about childhood and belonging...

"it is said of men and women alike, one's latter years... those years when eyes betray, as often does one's strength, are years in which a sixth sense emerges, and with it a 20/20 vision; a hindsight that sees in its rearview mirror the beauty and wonder of life, of dots connected with its enigmatic smoke screen stripped away, its majestic tapestry coming into view... a blending of time and place where purpose and intention can become focused.

In physicality, I am 47 years removed from my host country, Japan, but here I am today, still feeling each point of these words, more poignantly than I'd like to admit!! In my more rational moments, I'd say I've moved on... in reality I often still feel stuck, unable to see my childhood as anything but a dream or another life... almost an outside-looking-in experience!"

Ever an expat, perhaps; peace and rest are elusive at best!
Apr 2020 · 354
dream-breaker
SE Reimer Apr 2020
(the knocker-upper)

~

slumber-held, locked in sleep,
woke one morn, late you see;
time rolled back 100 years,
this the era of my dream.
a world gone dark, power gone out,
no microwaves and no AC!
no hydro dams, no Tesla car,
no ’lectric drill... and no TV!
of alarm clocks? who’d ever heard!
the super star of world gone dark?
well, in my dream, tha’d be me!
for a world gone dark still must needs,
to wake at break of day!
needs knocker-uppers ev’rywhere,
the chief of which is me!
for i'm the knocker upper man
you think i knock for free? no,
a knocker upper for my supper
i’ll blow a pea for fee,
i rap the glass to roust the sleeper
my craft is breaking dreams, you see...
for who’ll wake the knocker upper?
in my dream the knocker upper chief,
the superstar of world gone dark?
yes, in my dream, tha’d be me!

~

post script.

in my morning reading, i stumbled on a once-upon-a-time... an age when mankind churned out all manner of product by hand.  this then my muse, a lighthearted glimpse of an era before the alarm clock.  in this i imagine the world before the light bulb, and as in ev’ryone’s own dreams, i play the hero. :). of course, then i awaken to find myself at my true station in life, a server of servers!  a most fitting title for whom i am meant to be!! 😋

“But who woke the knocker uppers?” A tongue-twister from the time tackled this conundrum:
We had a knocker-up, and our knocker-up had a knocker-up
And our knocker-up’s knocker-up didn’t knock our knocker up,
So our knocker-up didn’t knock us up ‘Cos he’s not up.
articles that tell the story:
www.bbc.com/news/amp/uk-england-35840393

lancashireminingmuseum.org/2017/09/07/who-knocked-up-the-knocker-upper/

yes, yes, i know, i have been absent of late. the world has changed though i have not, simply gotten busier than i ever expected to be at my age, my absence from these walls  not one of choices made by me so much as choices made by life. hope this makes you smile as much as i did in its writing!!!

peace my friends
SE
Mar 2019 · 466
fateful scribe
SE Reimer Mar 2019
~

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!

~
Mar 2019 · 884
lover’s tell
SE Reimer Mar 2019
~

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 title...  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.

~
Mar 2019 · 417
Milky Way
SE Reimer Mar 2019
~

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,
“patiently,
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.
Feb 2019 · 285
movement
SE Reimer Feb 2019
~

"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!
Jan 2019 · 520
without me
SE Reimer Jan 2019
~

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.
Dec 2018 · 264
reflection
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.
Nov 2018 · 609
wind song
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.
Jun 2018 · 737
three capes
SE Reimer Jun 2018
~

on a tail of two,
of a west meets an east;
no New York state of mind,
states differing you see
(we're more Oreganic than he),
in these musketeers three.
this traveler’s tale;
turning steed to the beach;
for a sharing of trails;
and of capes... one for each.
words, brisk in the wind,
under skies of azure,
walk on sands of gold,
and though aging in years,
three hearts grow not old.
for a crowning of points,
no, this vista ain't free;
though a highway may close,
or on views juxtapose,
on much they’ve agreed.
tis a free state of mind,
here on westerly breeze;
a binding of souls,
at five & forty degrees.
theirs a latitude free,
a bit shy a quorum,
with much space in-between,
but of this they are sure,
tis a kinship of verbs;
more poetic than words,
links theses brothers three!

~

post script.

~
from Oregon with love (Google those words), HePo has been good to us, to me, forging friendships, then erasing distance; first word to word, now hand to hand!!!  three capes, three brothers, three poets... that’s a lotta affinity here (Lipstadt, Yocum & Reimer).  of note- Three Capes Scenic Drive- Kiwanda, Lookout & Mears. Closed Highay- Historic Columbia Gorge Scenic Highway (America’s first) due to major fire of 2017.  Crown Point / Vista House- America’s million dollar rest stop circa 1918. Meeting place, a farm just north of the North 45th° parallel, halfway tween equator and North Pole.
Apr 2018 · 596
listening
SE Reimer Apr 2018
(haiku)

~

poetry reveals
its reader’s heart to themself...
if they will listen.

~
post script.

i think i have not listened for a long time; but...
my heart says it is too late, never!
your poetry is beautiful this morning.

09/04/18
from Tavarnelle Val di Pesa.
Feb 2018 · 3.5k
for the birds
SE Reimer Feb 2018
~

fowl flock to a gathering,
exactly why? no one knows.
an unkindness of ravens,
a ****** of crows;
a siege of blue heron,
gather geese in a horde;
seem to come in their sadness,
but stay for the show.
see swan sail in wedges,
jay scoff in their scold;
assembly, their strength,
nom de plume from of old.

ask me why do they gather?
could it be they’re unhappy?
might we also feel slighted,
a disservice agreed;
if our strength were declared
our insufficiency?
why do finches and
hummingbirds meet in a charm?
penguins, get to huddle,
and in happiness, those larks?

the cranes come in dances,
in company those parrots;
to parliaments owls,
in wisdom who-hoo-ing;
flamingoes to stand,
for an eagle’s convocation?
no, a nye’s not unpleasant,
for a pheasant you see;
and benign is a bevy,
quail flush neath a tree.

but, ’tis a bit scary,
lurking turkey in gangs,
hawk’s shadowy cast;
and warblers in confusion,
with buzzards in wake;
a wisp full of snipe,
whisp’ring, “good night”;
yet glorious are pelicans,
a squadron in flight;

and nothing so stirring, as
a starling’s constellation,
while an asylum’s
assembly for loons,
and a quarrel of sparrows,
are entirely drowned out,
by a drumming of peckers,
the wood kind, that is!

while sticks and stones,
may break all one’s bones;
those labels and words, do
leave a sting and a hurt;
all human, one race,
can unkindness defer,
diffusing by choosing,
our union assert!
but slinging maligning,
and kicking of dirt,
by abusers and losers,
let's leave for the birds!

~

*post script.

numerous fellow poets far more skilled than i, have posted a variety of well-written pieces using fowl flocking terminology. this is intended to be an assembly of the sometimes-silly, often-absurd and mostly-always-humorous assignments of those flocking terms, used in an imagined treatise about the hurtful labels we humans use to judge one another; labels that vilify, rather than unify.  for would not a battle that hasn’t any "winner" be far better fought hand-in-hand, than hand-to-hand?

terms for flocking fowl in order of use
(a few fowl have two flocking terms, and some flocking terms are claimed by two fowls)

an unkindness (ravens)
a ****** (crows)
a siege (herons)
a horde (geese)
a wedge (swans)
a scold (jays)
a charm (hummingbird, finches)
a huddle (penguins)
a happiness (larks)
a dance (cranes)
a company (parrots)
a parliament (owls)
a stand (flamingos)
a convocation (eagles)
a nye (pheasants)
a bevy (quail)
a flush (also quail)
a cast (hawks)
a gang (turkeys)
a wisp (snipes)
a squadron (pelicans)
a confusion (warblers)
a wake (buzzards)
an asylum (loons)
a constellation (starlings)
a quarrel (sparrows)
a drumming (woodpeckers)

oh yes, there are many more.  i'd love to see your favorite(s) left in the comments.
Steve (:
Jan 2018 · 2.1k
epiphany
SE Reimer Jan 2018
~

had i not known wrong
i had been the lesser man
had i not sung winter’s song
i had known no warmth to gain
had i never tasted blood
i failed to see fragility
and had i not these understood
life’s tenderness was lost to me.

~

*post script.

for Pradip who shared the only muse these words were wanting on this special holy-day. please read SJR's gorgeous post, but then see Pradip’s after-words here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2246391/gratitude/

Epiphany: January 6th https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epiphany_(holiday)
Sep 2017 · 481
weathered soul
SE Reimer Sep 2017
~

his ropes are worn but hold the strain;
they’ve seen far worse in wind, in rain.
his deck is bare, his winch is full,
his back and arms ache. yet again;
though soon his catch the hold will fill,
with hissing jaws and snapping claws;
reward of toil with traps of steel.
’neath cloud and sun, to dusk from dawn,
with weathered hand he works and sweats;
to bring to port ’fore sun has set,
there’s hungry mouths to feed at home;
a wife whose face his hands to hold.
in years still young, but days too old,
these seas have aged his weathered soul;
and eyes that peer neath bill-ed hat,
have wept as waves stole all he has;
not once, but twice they claimed his lot,
sunk to its bed like fallen stone;
but skill and luck his love has bought,
her prayers from home have brought him back.
of fable and of myth he’s made,
cup of saltiness with pinch of sin;
with baited traps he lays in wait,
yet knows he is the baited one;
for he’ll ne’er throw in these lines,
or trade his trusted trawler in.
a farmer’s life may suit his love,
but this she sees would be his end;
and so she lives each day in wait,
for his trawler's horn to sound.
this too she knows far too well,
one day his horn will sound no more.
no coffin nor a stone he’ll need;
the sea will bear him to that shore,
his lasting gift to her is them,
each child's face, his own imprint.
the sea his final resting place.
his voice to hear amidst the wind;

~

*post script.

an imagined crabber and lobsterman; with mouths to feed and a love he needs back home, owing much to prayer and good fortune, though even this has it limits as the sea's rigors daily tempt fate.  these lines mused from my own castings of traps and nets... of harvesting the sea’s bounty for a mere weekend, with my lover near at hand.  

https://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/05/magazine/a-speck-in-the-sea.html

pss.  i am many months away and life has changed; these changes are still a work in progress.  my goals too have been rearranged... death and hardship have that effect on us, though sometimes change that feels alarming actually takes us to a place of salvation; this being my constant hope!  i make no promises that i am back, only that for now i am here, and have missed you and the sacredness of these walls.
Apr 2017 · 2.4k
pink moon
SE Reimer Apr 2017
(April’s full moon)

~

her beauty always
catches me unprepared
her reflection is
a poet’s muse
and as so oft before
tonight again, i pause
and wonder long...
"who else, my love,
is watching you?"

~

post script.

along with watching April’s moon grow full these last few nights, Sally’s poem is tonight my muse. thank you, dear sister, and friend!
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1922140/one-full-moon-night/

**“Full Pink Moon – April This name came from the herb moss pink, or wild ground phlox, which is one of the earliest widespread flowers of the spring.”
Apr 2017 · 807
blue's caress
SE Reimer Apr 2017
~

steps beyond his stalwart hedge,
white pickets lined with flowery speech;
’cross a boulevard of words,
the shade of tree-lined poetry;
he’s drawn to her celestial sound,
seeks comfort in her sultry voice.
pandora's lounge, her nightly stage,
in every breathy note she sings.
their presence here he’s prearranged,
respires her palette’s offerings;
each tapestry-a-washed crescendo,
her every soulful whispering,
incites his heart to joyous tears;
his ev'ry sense engulfed, aflame,
her afterglow, like sun's refrain;
to hers, two eyes an opening,
his ears to sounds beyond;
the tongue to taste, a bounty waiting,
her touch too sweet, his blood is racing.
spellbound by her bluesy song,
raptured by her fragrant breath;
to her rhythm his heart beats strong,
he's captured in her blue’s caress.

~

post script.

i make no apologies in the admission that i'm easy prey for a bluesy voice, the feminine variety in particular.  add a British / Euro tone and my soul may just melt.  Norah’s... i’ve a jones for hers!

~

*Come Away With Me
Norah Jones

Come away with me in the night
Come away with me
And I will write you a song
Come away with me on a bus
Come away where they can't tempt us, with their lies
And I want to walk with you
On a cloudy day
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high
So won't you try to come
Come away with me and we'll kiss
On a mountaintop
Come away with me
And I'll never stop loving you
And I want to wake up with the rain
Falling on a tin roof
While I'm safe there in your arms
So all I ask is for you
To come away with me in the night
Come away with me
Mar 2017 · 1.1k
eternal song
SE Reimer Mar 2017
~

a crystal cradle slowly falls,
from an indigo sky;
coyote’s distant howl,
blends his primal song,
with the whoot, whoot of the owl;
desert minstrels, keeping beat,
with cricket and cicada’s chorus.
above, a dark horse grazes,
in a field of ancient stars;
and below, encroaching mists
gather in the waving grasses,
crouching... waiting to devour,
all who venture near.
the endless whisperings,
of the brook, stream of
ageless waters, tell of tales
of distant ice and snow,
far above these thirsty plains.
aurora’s blend their magic,
their enchanting flame,
dancing in the rising ethers;
mesmerizing sleepy eyes,
a shepherdess is lulled away;
transported by her distant dreams.
dawn’s approach she fails to hear,
’til it's much too late;
when songbirds of the desert,
now seated in this orchestra,
sing her sleeping soul awake.

~

*post script.

watching the set of a cradle moon on a late night return from the rolling hills of Central Oregon’s high desert last month prompts just enough lines to keep these images alive, until i am able to give them complete thought and words this morning.  aside from fatigue, i love driving at night.  197’s winding crossing down to the Deschutes at Maupin and then it's descent into The Dalles beside a wide Columbia; these, and my longing to be home beside my wife, keep me from sleep driving, alone with my thoughts and imagination.  though rare to Oregon, there are times of year when the aurora borealis pushes its way far enough south to be viewed on moonless nights.
Mar 2017 · 603
water fall
SE Reimer Mar 2017
~

rivlets form beneath his feet,
where sun-parched dust
begins to weep, as it has
ten-thousand times before;
water’s endless cycle courses,
to the valleys from the hills;
retracing paths from end to source.
how many lover’s bodies
have been washed anew,
in streams of cleansing flow,
in this flood that ever cleans?
how many runner’s skyward faces
turned to welcome cooling rain;
or young girl’s pretty dresses
river-laundered; or young lips
taste of heavenly wine?
how many farmers bent a knee,
to offer grateful homage
for a gentle early sign, of
this whispered blessing,
awak’ning slumbering seeds?
have you e’re considered this...
these refreshing drops so sweet,
distilled in heaven’s winery,
bear every moment sensory;
a show of nature’s finest.
drops and sprinkles carry
every tear of grief and joy,
humanity has every cried.
a cistern gath’ring mem’ries,
like the tide gathers shells;
awash in collected tears,
caught up in heavenly swell.
oh spring that ever cools,
oh well that ever quenches...
to water we are drawn to go;
our immersion deep,
in rainfall’s drenching flow.
to its sound we drift to sleep;
caress to calm and soothe the aches;
lakeside dip for tired feet;
it's thunderous roar the soul awakes.

~

*post script.

water... so many forms, all around us, yet none is really new... only renewed!
Mar 2017 · 404
"veiled" threat
SE Reimer Mar 2017
~

he knew the hour had come,
to keep a promise he had made.
the time to settle up,
and now a note that must be paid.
the price he’d never argued,
the terms... oh, these were clear;
but he’d not imagined this,
the cost of giving up
his freedom he held dear.
in retrospect he could have run,
he surely wouldn’t be the first;
but it was something in her eyes
that said, “boy, this ain't your worst
nightmare!  trust me hon,
to leave would be a downward slide.
best stay and walk this aisle, love,
it don't pay to leave behind your bride.
my brother’s worn his runnin’ boots,
and daddy brought his gun;
his hound dog knows your scent,
try runnin’ boy, you might be done.
if i were you i’d weigh the odds,
and besides...
is it me you fancy on your arm?
or would you wish instead
the jaws of daddy’s dog?”

~

*post script.

not my story, just my wild imagination running down the street. the thought of it made me smile and when i read it to my sweet wife she chuckled aloud. so if you did too, i will consider my work here to be done!  enjoy, my friends!!
(: Steve
Mar 2017 · 4.3k
ties
SE Reimer Mar 2017
~

late winter’s dusting,
on tarnished ores;
a dreamer’s seeds,
these rails once bore.
rain-washed colors,
on sun-warped steel;
their conjured hopes,
an age once real;
oxidized
by rust and time
blackened timbers,
no longer bind;
what still remains
are worn out ties,
a distant memory,
of centuries gone by,
now mere after-sighs.
structures standing,
but just by chance...
a gust may blow them down;
these buildings where
men’s dreams once danced,
now a ghost, this town.
though no soul is left inside,
still a body here resides.
so long ago
her carried goods,
these rails rode,
to distant homes,
built dreams of wood;
like dandelion wishes,
scattered... gone,
tracks going nowhere,
now a fading ode,
just another dusty song.
for advancing progress
never fails to leave
someone's dying dream behind.

~

*post script.

Oregon’s hills and back country hide these relics of a time when a nation’s spirit was fed by the sounds of industry, steel and steam, the whir of saws, and men calling, “timber”... long before the age of wood and rail were left in a saw-dusty bin of history by the sweeping hand of time.  i could easily be persuaded that this change was for the best, yet this can't erase the longing sense, left beneath my breast... advances do not come without leaving something or someone behind.
Feb 2017 · 682
compassion is a tree
SE Reimer Feb 2017
~


~==~
compassion
is   a   towering
tree,       its      roots
grow   deep,    for    that
space to  reach,  in  between
a    rock    and    hard  place.   to
find    its    nourishment    from   pain;
it’s     sustenance      in     life’s       pouring
rain.  for  its  seeds  lie  in  needs;   the  human
kind  of  suffering.  without  which  this  gift
would­  cease  to  exist.  a  grace  of  great
price;   a   pearl   of   bright   light.
well   - nurtured  it  spreads
it's  broad  arms,  to
swallow.   the
s o r r o w,
to  comfort
a   mother,
a   father,
a  son  or
a daughter,
to     give
hope    to
the  dark  of
their   night.
an ointment it brings
not just once or twice, but a
salve to soothe a breaking heart... for life!

~

*post script.

please, for one moment consider this... the human emotion of compassion does not, and cannot, exist without suffering!  compassion is in many ways like a mirror image of pain, and a man or woman with a well-developed gift of compassion knows it's great value is in its ability to enlarge our capacity for selflessness, for in sharing compassion we absorb another’s pain.  yet we must also remember that many kinds of pain are incurable and are destined to be borne for a lifetime.  therefore, equally important to that thought is this... compassion is not a “one-and-done” cure.  instead it is an ointment and salve that must be applied, as often as needed, even for a lifetime to those who we love.  and is not this the greatest pain reducer possible?  ( and what’s more, it also does serious damage to narcissism! imagine that... two for one! :). it is only then in this context that i say these words, "pain is the gift that awakens our compassion!"
Feb 2017 · 904
craquelure
SE Reimer Feb 2017
~

she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.

she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.

she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.

she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.

her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.

this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.

~

*post script.

cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.

this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss.  for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it.  we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer;  pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix.  unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it.   yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.
Feb 2017 · 1.4k
juxtaposition
SE Reimer Feb 2017
~

as she poses
for the boys
her irony is
on display.
the naked truth
not easily deduced,
it’s not just they
that's being seduced.
her looks they’ve bought,
no heart nor touch,
a stage, a pole,
for them disrobed;
“just leave your
money please!”
mum says, “ladies
don't act that way!”

but mum ain't seen
hard times like these;
“com’on mum,
let’s get along...
you gotta know,
its juxtaposition!”


behind bars,
for driving cars;
stolen sweets
were such a treat;
“com’on Judge,
rich guys got
more cars than sense,
what the difference?
if i take just one,
for just a spin,
the only joy
i'll ever ride...
and besides, he
left his keys inside
my valet shack.
those miles and dents,
that i put on, surely
ain't deserving this.
sweet fruit was
hanging far too low
for my resistance.
not my fault, you know;
it’s juxtaposition!”


he sits high atop
a silver tower,
set beside the ocean fair;
existence storied for
he climbed every floor.
they call them shares,
it's what he sells,
but this brand of
sharing ain’t
what his mamma told.
it's a shell game by
a different name;
for it's more his soul
that he has sold.
you could say,
“for a song his soul
sells short sales
down by the seashore.”

or, you could say
just what he says,
“it's juxtaposition!”

~

*post script.

what prompted this?  the city in which i live has the dubious and insidious distinction of having the greatest number of strip clubs per capita in these United States; not exactly something to be proud of.   and yet i realize there are many ways to sell one's soul.

truth doesn't have many sides; if something does, then we can't call it truth; for truth, like gravity can be called many things, but under any name we still fall...
and come up short!  

but then... that's just-my-position!
Feb 2017 · 329
stir
SE Reimer Feb 2017
~

may you hear words
that stir your senses;
may you know touch
on supple skin,
that fills your eyes,
not with pained
or bitter tears,
that make mascara run,
but with the yearning,
gentle rain that wakes
your soul to sing again;
and most of all,
may you know sight,
to see the blush
of sunset as
it slowly fades,
from molten rouge
to indigo of starry night,
and know the warmth
of lover’s arms
that hold your heart
’til morning light.

~

*post script.

to Melissa’s muse who inspired these words, thank you!
Feb 2017 · 360
finding new
SE Reimer Feb 2017
( lose the kid )*

~

in the summer of
his sixteenth year,
somewhere o'er the
continental shelf
off California,
while still at
thirty-thousand feet,
he threw him out.
without a suit
or parachute
he left him naked...
drowning in the surf.
i suppose he should
have thanked him kindly, or
said goodbye at very least,
a'fore that final shove;
he admits it was
a brutal move, and in
hindsight kinda rude;
yet sometimes a kid
must simply choose,
knowing that a better
time may never come.
and so the boy that
held him back from change;
impulsive child that
in the dormitory
no one friended.
the kid who spent
more time in trouble
than did he not,
just got up-ended.
yes, that kid who stole
his mother’s tin, full
of fifty yen pieces;
with which he bought
himself a treat
(or maybe two or three);
the one who on the long
train ride to school,
placed his chewing gum
between the closing doors,
then watched with evil grin as
morning masses poured on through
when they opened once again.
yes, this impulsive one with
boundless energy to scheme,
was deliverer to three
sweet, older sisters, of
spiders, snakes and countless,
blood-curdling screams.
one who stole the Lord’s name
Alfred Tennyson, that is,
who for a few days called,
another’s words his own,
(that is until another
set that record straight).
who terrorized four older
siblings and one younger too,
for sixteen diabolic years.
this heartless, evil twin
who always seemed to hide
some twisted humor deep inside.
becoming stuck, in the past,
like some old chewing gum
stuck between the doors.
and just growing older
wasn’t going to change
anything at all;
for you see, change within
requires an exchange without...
people, that is, who accept
the new, throw out the old.
but you know what's crazy?
no sooner had he lost the
weight of that old estate,
and pushed that kid aside
this thief, liar, cheat...
troubled kid and now...
a killer too ( and yet no
less would even do ).
no sooner had he landed in
these United States, his past
entire was left behind.
new and alive inside out
and he began to find,
to thrive... anew.

like a butterfly from
dark cocoon emerging for
his migratory transformation;
his trans-Pacific flight,
from East to West alighting.
thus began a future
full of blank pages;
a slate swept clean inside,
like that swift jet stream outside,
carried his 747 on
to brand new opportunity.
all for his rewriting, words
he’d never thought nor dreamed.
and although nothing else
had really changed,
on the inside he was
nearly,
mostly,
all the very same...

nothing that is,
except...

everything!

~

*post script.

though no blood was shed, all lines herein have some degree of truth; it's quite ok to laugh, to cry, to smile, or decide this is the worst you've ever seen. it's my life... well... the beginning of the new beginnings of my life.  

in reality we do not typically, when at the time of crossroads know it is at a crossroads we are standing, such being usually more readily evident in the rearview mirror. and yet somehow this sixteen year old knew he’d just been handed a new identity, and without any witness protection program.

because...
sometimes a kid just needs a new start!!
Feb 2017 · 795
captured
SE Reimer Feb 2017
~

coniferous forms
dance in the umbra,
flickering oranges
of molten tongues,
of yellows and reds,
bathing the night;
its hungriness fed,
in the softened light.
like fingers it reaches
across the deep snow,
long shadows are creatures
in ember’s glow;
devouring consumption
as flames turn to ash,
like ravenous huntsman
his prey in his grasp.
a ghost in the darkness,
’neath a sliver of moon;
a howl in the stillness,
a shivering tune;
in patience awaiting,
straining to see
a dark horse arising,
’cross a bright galaxy;
the fire now low as
he aims and he shoots;
an eye for his target
ends a night of pursuit.
his prey is now captured,
his work here is done;
the camera now loaded,
his drive home’s begun.

~

*post script.

the astrophotographer’s task is almost always lonely and usually cold during Milky Way “hunting” season. from the vantage point of Watchman’s Fire Lookout overlooking Crater Lake, a friend spends nights in a tent (or even an igloo), his only companion perhaps a campfire in the deep snow, chasing his dream of shooting the night sky.  his reward for his labors?  incredible videos and stills, caught in the lens of his camera... and our praise.  Matthew’s motto is simple - “capturing the light in the darkness!"  and what heavenly light he captures!  interested in seeing some of his work?  simply Google his motto!
Feb 2017 · 629
burn
SE Reimer Feb 2017
~

i recall the ward,
smell of antiseptic
and new paint blended,
with the stench of
dried on bandages,
the smell of
rotting flesh,
the cries of men
too old to cry,
faces now, too
burned for tears,
could only wonder why.
the clang of
stainless steel
bowls that held the
closest thing to soothing,
unquenchably thirsty skin.
for these,
souls sent off to war,
though i was
but a boy,
my father,
was a preacher,
sent to save
these men from hell...
i knew already then
hell was...
a place already known,
seen and felt;
and flames...
these men had walked.
and when asked to pray,
believe you me,
pray i did,
that these images,
and these men...
would all go away.

~

*post script.

some chuckle when i, born in 1960, tell them i remember Vietnam.  yet i still weep when i remember.  Vietnam was to this young boy watching formations of fighter jets taking off for a battlefield he could not know; accompanying his father to visit with and pray for the GI’s in the burn ward of Sagami-Ono’s US Army Hospital near Yokohama, on the main island of Japan, a few minute’s drive from what we then called home.  the sights, sounds and smells of Vietnam are etched forever, without having ever set foot on it’s soil.  my five siblings have no such recollection, leading me to believe... either they were never invited or... their prayers were answered.
Feb 2017 · 699
battle lines
SE Reimer Feb 2017
~

so long ago, the
battle fields he’d left;
the foxholes where
for many nights he'd
lain his weary head.
together ’til a victor
named they’d daily fought,
then parted ways as
shell-shock bonded,
comrade friends,
brothers, arms-in-armor.
few survived and
those who did,
wore battle scars
that most can’t see.
left behind
the fallen proud,
their darkened images,
etched like stone.
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
this searing pain,
like smoke in eyes...
these bayonetted memories.

older now,
so much has changed,
those mem’ries live,
though rearranged.
new battle lines are drawn
in hopes of
absolution carried,
heavy, deep regret...
emerald valleys,
blood-stained volleys,
full of memory;
the un-forgiveness buried
in fallow soil ’neath,
but few inches shallow,
the forgetfulness of
daily toil in grief,
for a life lived full
while others died.
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
seared painfully,
like smoke in eyes...
those bayonetted memories.


now autumn falls
upon his land;
as winter’s blade
is sharpened thin,
he marks time by
raking leaves,
like fallen comrades,
he draws battle lines
on grass of green;
like photos faded
now too his memory,
takes him back,
to that smoke arising,
soldiers charging,
more wounded crying,
with each rifle’s crack,
the fear of dying,
so soon exchanged
for sting of living on.
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
a searing pain,
like smoke in eyes...
his bayonetted memories.

yet still he tries
to turn this scene
into a work of beauty,
even sculpted art;
he changes battle lines,
with these bleeding leaves,
in hope of different end.
as he wishes in
his beating heart,
all his foxhole
friends and brothers,
lost upon these hills of green,
had gone home with him
to fathers, mothers,
living on to tell,
a story all their own.
instead ’tis he that
holds their story in;
’til his dying breath,
this his only sin
in living on...
etched like stone,
from sharpened knife,
runs deep regret;
seared in pain,
like smoke in eyes...
fading bayonetted memories.

~

*post script.

this comes from a short i came across years ago by an older writer who tells this story of his father, a WW1 veteran, who after surviving battles on the European front, returned to raise a family, while privately dealing with wartime anguish, accompanying survivor’s guilt, long before "shell-shock" was diagnosed as PTSD.  he, the son, observed on many occasions his father raking leaves into columns and rows, then moving and rearranging them. not till years later just before his father passed, did he ask and learn the profound meaning.  

i am a fan of veterans, foremost my father ((Korea) and my son (Iraq), and also a huge proponent of CAMP HOPE, who "provides interim housing for our Wounded Warriors, veterans and their families suffering from combat related PTSD in a caring and positive environment."

(the original author of what inspired my words above i looked for
that i might provide provide proper credit here, but failed to find.
any suggestions would be most welcome.)
Jan 2017 · 483
broad brushes
SE Reimer Jan 2017
~

broad brushes
are unsuitable
instruments
of box-making,
group-judging,
individual-assassinating,
of any group
or citizen,
becoming
wall-building
words that bite,
that wound,
that ****,
all that is
loving and genteel!

but they are
the perfect
implement,
for painting
the most beautiful,
sea-to-shining-sea
landscape
works of art!

~

*post script.

collectively, undivided, are we not better than this? and need we wait for others to become the mortar for city-building-on-a-hill activities?
Jan 2017 · 560
heavenly bodies
SE Reimer Jan 2017
~

will the sun forgive us...
will the stars and moon
forget to shine, because
we slipped away before
the sun had slipped behind
the mountains tall?
or did they care at all,
that we had found
the deepest colors
in each other's eyes,
and uncovered.
earth-bound
heavenly bodies and
ev'ry softened edge
of two-body's heart's
fore'er entwined?

~

*post script.

if heavenly bodies could speak
might the tales they tell
uncover much we thought.
hidden so well?
Jan 2017 · 943
like wind
SE Reimer Jan 2017
(... she plays with words)

~

like wind she plays with words,
shaped sand upon the beach;
building castles to the sky,
where tide her walls can't breach.

the combinations countless,
she untangles any stumbling lines;
in tapestry-flowing fountains,
her words to us, our sip of wine.

with nary but her hands she crafts,
poetry 'neath the noonday sun;
ceasing not except to watch,
a seabird as it tends its song.

in subtleties she stirs,
her adjectives like riffs;
nuanced dance in every verb,
a song that rises 'cross the drifts.

words that rivet every reader.
lines that wile a way with rhymes;
stanzas frame a photograph,
her free verse plays along in time.

combers rendered speechless,
marvel her poetic ways;
high as terns can fly she reaches,
as with every term she plays.

her muse in song delights
in ev'ry crashing wave she's heard;
her phrasing light takes winged flight,
like wind she plays with words.

on sands that ripple 'long the shore,
like conductor's arms at final score;
crescendo builds... she stands *****,
then fades to black when sun has set.

~

post script.

today she was my morning muse... a delightfully brilliant poet who knows how to play with words in a most riveting way!  i only just found her beautiful.work.  please allow me to introduce you to Chelsea Rae in these lines:  http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1861530/shine-your-love/
Jan 2017 · 437
night light
SE Reimer Jan 2017
~

darkness needs no chasing,
and hate requires no erasing;
neither needs a fight,
when we only need
to find the light.
(and love) switch.
see...
it there upon
the wall?
its been there all
along.
see?
reach...
deep inside your heart!

for darkness in light’s
very presence ceases
to exist when light can
shine in to all the reaches.
all the hidey holes and creases.

you'll not find a child.
who on a cloudless night.
will gaze into the sky.
and exclaim with all their might,
“wow, look at all the dark!”
no! they’ll see but stars,
a myriad points of bright
no need to curse the dark
when you can simply
find the light.

so bring a flashlight.
bring a lantern.
bring a love light.
to your corner
of the world.
pay no mind to
all the darkness;
turn the light on,
let love harken!
its so simple
you will wonder,
why you had to read
these silly words,
for that inner
switch inside you
like the light bulb
just turned on.

;-)

~

post script.

imagine asking for a dark bulb at your local hardware store.  far too much energy is being wasted trying to run around and chase it, when its just a switch away.

“And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also."  Gen 1:6

*i know, we both want something super profound... but why?  because it feels like more?  no!  come on... let’s stop complicating what really is that simple!!
Jan 2017 · 1.1k
two faces
SE Reimer Jan 2017
~

he is a stone...

one side
polished smoothly;
the tumbling years,
the pain of tears,
in currents swift
cannot resist them
water’s unyielding flow;
to pain the edges
falling,
yielding slow.

yet another side exists;
a side so deeply etched,
with thoughts contrived
for sole survival;
where words belie a depth
in soul's arrival;
made whole, a step removed
from hope bereft,
for in the naked light,
of bleating heart's
interrogation room,
a bottom lies
of darkest night...
here beginnings of
a ressurection,
a will to be
so long as there is
air to breathe!

which side they see
is of his choosing;
his composure rich
a brief exposure is,
just the smallest glimpse,
but for a moment
what he shares.
for he has learned
that rocks are not
so hard as he
once thought;
and fissures deep,
can be revealed,
as cracked and broken,
if to all in this
unfeeling world,
he bares his truest soul.
and so he hides
the other side,
unyielded to
outside control.

with certainty,
his stone has
two faces.

~

*post script.

if we are honest with ourselves, do we not all have two faces? and is not this honesty our impetus... become our empathy... for others?
for me,  it is this honesty that allows me to love what i would not otherwise love in others.
Jan 2017 · 613
fairy tales
SE Reimer Jan 2017
~

her coach, like Cinderella’s,
was what brought her to his side.
but what she'd failed to see,
is that a good man may not be,
quite exciting as the bad boys way back home,
so she packs up all her shoes n’make up,
headed home where she can wake up.
now its coach that takes her,
and all he sees are fading lights;
as that red-eye in his mirror is roaring,
down the runway then is soaring,
off into a stormy night.

he used to think that
fairy tales were promised,
that all a woman really wanted,
was a knight in armor shining.
but now he knows that love can't grow,
when all its seeds are tumble weeds,
that roll on down the open road;
just looking for a good time man,
a handsome cowboy and another rodeo.

now all he’s left with is,
trying to make some sense of this;
all her lying to him,
why she left him crying for,
all the good he thought she’d brought.
but sometimes it takes
some time in silence
to see what damage has been done,
to see the cold side of a woman,
that all her prettiness and fun,
is a terr’ble substitute for love.  

he used to think that
fairy tales were promised,
that all a woman really wanted,
was a knight in armor shining.
but now he knows that love can't grow,
when all its seeds are tumble weeds,
that roll on down the open road;
just looking for a good time man,
a handsome cowboy and another rodeo.

this i promise, know it well;
good-time girls can’t cast a spell,
that lasts a lifetime, when a fellow
needs a love line, nor can they
ever heave a lifeline, when
all the chips are down. 'cause,
when someone else is drowning,
and everybody's yelling ’bout
a fire the house is burning down.
that’s when she does
what she’s best at...
running out of town.
no, a good man needs a woman,
who will always be around.  

~

*post script.

please don’t ask where this one came from... he does love country music and it may just be one too many catastrophes he’s had to watch; it’s certainly not about his own woman, for she has been his privilege to love and care for now just shy of forty years.  no, maybe it's so many lives exploding, love imploding... sometimes it feels like so few know what love really looks like anymore!
Jan 2017 · 1.0k
crafting poetry
SE Reimer Jan 2017
~

from the dock he calls her name,
now beside he grasps her rails,
deftly steps aboard her frame,
to loose her lines of mooring.

leaned o’er, he shares his secret hopes,
ocean breeze her mast is callling;
then wings are spread with hoisted ropes,
the call of ocean’s blue alluring.


he guides her through the shallow drafts,
gliding faster, hull and ballast,
like seabird’s cry on wing, her craft,
his touch responding in devotion.

she heels about now, lunging forward,
together ’cross the waves;
he, the author of this poetry,
keeps rhythm with each changing motion.


they float above the salty spray,
white sails, her wings, a swan of grace;
in fading light, ’cross waterway,
her highway now a full moon bright.

his bearing set for emerald isle,
she tacks to follow compass lines;
together tame the ocean’s wild,
in flight as one to form their rhymes.


from high atop her outstretched form,
he guides her body through the night;
shifting lines to feel the storm,
like bedsheets thrown, arched and open.

then far above this watery bed,
her canvas flows with watercolor,
of sapphire, jade and ruby red;
a sunrise o’er bejeweled ocean.


sailing on,
in stunning sight;
as one they sigh,
in heavenly flight.

~

*post script.

unwinding from the first work week of the new year and a chaotic Friday night commute, these out-of-the-blue, out-from-the-blue lines strike me as i hear strains of Chrstopher Cross crooning his 1980 classic, “Sailing”, from my dear wife's Pandora station, aptly named.  

“Well, it's not far
down to paradise,
at least it's not for me.
And if the wind is right
you can sail away,
and find tranquility.  
Oh, the canvas can do miracles,
just you wait and see.
Believe me.”

the song takes me back to a simpler time in our marriage, but sailing... this always takes me back, all the way to childhood, and a carefree state of mind.  and no wonder... for in my pre-teen years, i and my brothers helped our father build a small, eighteen foot, sailing sloop, crafted after plans he found in a Family Circle magazine.  thereafter, childhood summers were spent freshwater sailing at the foot of Fuji, sometimes alone, sometimes together.  it is no surprise that today i am most at peace on or beside the water.
Dec 2016 · 807
eviction
SE Reimer Dec 2016
~

in a realm of change
a state of constance
yet lives where
flux and flood
in lucid flame burns,
a rock of hope
lies beneath.
wings of strength
are mother’s arms,
our safety from
malaise and harm.
yet even here
with deepest love
an eviction lives,
awaiting...
imminent.
this nest of love
would turn to rust,
if from its grasp
of comfort
could the eaglet ne’er
himself rid.
throw out the old,
he must.
to usher in the new;
and serve this
comfort-become-his-death,
a notice of eviction.

so good bye to
this old year,
hello to
newness’ cheer;
thy usefulness,
once new to us
is gone, and
with it goes
thy uselessness.
for more than e’er
we need a
renewed spirit of
youthfulness.
fresh arms and legs
to bear the weight,
with eagerness;
to stretch with
widening gait
toward change;
an ever fluid-ness
made possible
by willingness
to serve this
ever-grey-and-old
-turned-year,
an annulment
of a marriage,
its annual
notice of
eviction!

~

*post script.

reading all your poetry this fine morn,
the final day of a well-used year, this tumbled out.
credit to you each for thoughts and snippets,
adopted and infused here into this notice of eviction.

happy new year to each, to all,
who within these HP walls read;
who lovingly inscribe their thoughts
on posts their own, as well as others;
who breathe such wondrous words
that take our very breath away.

hugs and warm wishes
as you evict the old and cheer the new!
Dec 2016 · 463
seeds
SE Reimer Dec 2016
~

the purest
possibilities,
in my hand lie;
kinetics in
miniature,
these what-can-be,
packages of dna;
manual of direction,
a manuscript precise,
compendium of
instruction;
these gathered
strands like
silken rope
not easily broken;
pre-known,
pre-programmed,
to be all that
can ever be
pre-planned,
pre-destined,
yet before
living must...
die!

carnation, corn
posey and peas,
happiness, hope,
love and peace,
in my palm
all possibilities,
e’en seeds
of change,
sown so long ago,
dead and buried,
warmed and watered,
nurtured, tended
sprouting now;
what will be...
may already
be determined
completely,
but...

their height,
their health,
their breadth of
wealth,
their depth of
beauty and
band of
fragrance...
these are all
within my hand
to cultivate
perfect,
and bring
to fruition;
like poetry
in motion,
all like seeds
within my grasp.

~

*post script.

"unless a grain of wheat falls
into the earth and dies,
it remains... alone;
but if it dies,
it bears much fruit."

and is this not the most exciting,
the most compelling part?
watching one’s seeds grow,
and bear much fruit...
the becoming of,
great beauty?
Dec 2016 · 950
a Christmas present
SE Reimer Dec 2016
~

the mercury is falling brisk,
large flakes of snow are drifting fast,
her blanket heavy on the limb,
as ice paints frosting on the glass.
winter’s tapestry is forming,
street lamp’s light reflecting;
strands of pearl stretch out, adorning,
as fir transformed by snow,
become a white angelic host.
a fire burns brightly in the square,
hands and cheeks find warming here;
sound of bells festoons the evening,
children dance along in time;
’round a village Christmas tree,
bedecked with lights, the smell of pine,
a whistle heralding the train’s arrival,
a burst of steam floats on the breeze;
her clacking wheels grind to a halt,
and like treasure’s journey from afar,
one by one, her most precious cargo
laden down with parcels, disembark.
excited voice, in joyous welcome,
warmest hugs, wet kiss on cheek;
familiar sound of families greeting,
newborn babe grandparent meets.
here my heart on Christmas Eve,
to us though distant memory;
for snow globe wishes,
and angelic kisses,
each as magical as these,
a hopeful prayer, a song for peace,
on earth for all who still can sing
who long... who dream,
of Christmas yesteryear;
though even if a different scene,
it's ember’s spark...
it's wistful call...
this is Christmas present,
its gift love-scribed,
on ev'ry tender heart!

~

*post script.

as Christmas arrives for you and
your family, may you be present,
reflecting, not on what is missing,
but on the joys of all that is not!

Merry Christmas to each of you.
who still dream!
Dec 2016 · 543
winter’s terror
SE Reimer Dec 2016
~

her stealthy cold awaits,
her legs are gathered ’neath,
and in bitter gusts she crouches,
waiting...
as innocent i venture out;
and as i step outside the door,
she pounces on my frame,
nearly knocks me to the ground.
she begins in subtle nibbles,
biting sharp at ears and cheeks;
and then deep her fangs sink in,
to draw my unsuspecting warmth.
my bones she chills;
my blood is curdled,
swiftly rising to the skin;
my eyes are robbed of any tears,
my gasping breath she steals,
to leave a burning in my throat;
my fingers and my toes slowly
lose their fight to feel,
and though around my neck,
is wrapped a scarf to shield
her bitter cutting wind,
my chest is filled
with winter’s frosty grip.
my hands begin to fumble,
my thighs and calves draw tight,
my feet begin to stumble,
to outrun her breath i try;
but fast in winter’s grasp,
this terror has an edge;
a sharpened knife she holds,
hard against unwitting skin.
no match for she am i,
her ruthless ways,
have all but won this round;
’til then my feet find footing,
and up the stair i fly,
my hand upon the latch,
i hurl my frame inside;
and as i slam the door behind,
her icy voice, i hear it rise,
high above her roar outside,
"next time, lover,
i will win;
i will make you mine!"


~

*post script.

brrrrrrr... few things i hate,
but this for sure,
her biting cold i do despise.
Dec 2016 · 413
ode to 'tis
SE Reimer Dec 2016
(and 'twill and 'twas)

~

if e're there be an ode... a dirge,
if e’re procession for a fallen word,
’tis, for thee that we,
this day in silence stand,
to grieve... nay protest,
this thy sudden abandonment.
see, my head on chest,
hear, 'midst sobbing tear,
i lift a toast to thy sweet company,
thy brotherhood, of yesteryear.
’tis, to thee we offer,
these few words of praise;
’tis... to thee in homage,
in salute our hand we raise,
how and why, hast thou gone away?
and when did thy embalmers
so sudden fall upon
thy eternal form of grace?
surely, they that decreed thy death,
hath dealt to us a wint’ry breath;
for n’er hath so small a form,
so satisfied and warmed,
a poet’s lonely bones,
as this friend known as ’tis.
long shall we remember thee;
the grace by which you lived!

~

post script.

my spirit was broken and
my heart wept at this news!  
may he e’re rest in peace!
RIP ’tis!
( i believe in offering credit where credit is due and invite you to read the inspiring comment by Lance Jencks in the after reading of:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1823769/this-river/)
henceforth let it be known by all,
that hereafter these beloved titles shall be called,
“It Is The Season To Be Jolly” and
“It Was The Night Before Christmas"
for tis and ’twas lie in repose!

lovingly yours,
(; Steve
Dec 2016 · 993
her garden’s gate
SE Reimer Dec 2016
~

she is woman of softened beauty,
like the sunset’s molten hues;
yet rugged as the rocky crags,
that from afar are mountain’s blue,
and which each night at even’s call,
the sun behind will slowly slide.
she is timid as a doe,
’neath a canopy of green,
feeding by the quiet waters;
yet fierce as timber wolf,
among the limbs and leaves
her young from prey she hides.

within her soul she bears her secrets,
without she is ten thousand verses;
as waters trickle to the stream,
and have no voice until,
they join in gathered current,
to fall in thunderous cascade,
as majestic waterfall.
she is a being... light of spirit,
yet bears on dove white shoulders,
pain endured from cruel world.

in the dark she is a light;
in an age of growing grays,
she robes herself in dazzling white.
to each who calls her friend,
she is to them a heroine;
an angel ’midst the darkness,
she works beside, yet out of sight.
of many thoughts, none spill careless,
from her tongue to cross her lips;
yet all her words are weighty,
a bond of promise, made and kept;
these in secret places dark,
in a foundry, hot with sweat;
her long and dusty journey,
leaves on her soul a branded mark.

loyal friend and steadfast mate,
she brings with her a hope eternal,
yet she alone accepts her fate.
she is peace and love maternal;
within her an oasis rare,
few have found, and fewer see;
for all its hidden beauty lies,
behind her softened hazel eyes,
these she guards, the secret way,
the stair beyond her garden’s gate.

~

*post script.

these words christened in celebration of her life, her birth.  she entered the world in the year Camelot began, and though we would not meet til we were both sixteen, she became Camelot to me; a castle of hidden fragrance and beauty.  of these few words she is all, yet so much more.  she is everything i didn’t know i’d want or ever need; at every turn more than my equal, she is the sum of all my parts.  at a glance some judge her simple, yet she is rogue complexity; a woman who discards little, except barriers to those she loves and who love her in return!
Happy Birthday, Darling!!
Dec 2016 · 11.0k
this River!
SE Reimer Dec 2016
(a tribute; if mere words could be enough)

~

the life of this River,
'tis an unending stream;
is an unpublished book,
its current fast at flood;
a flow that washes clean,
all the gathered debris;
its words like diamonds,
sparkling neath its lapping
waters at its river bank;
a sound refreshing,
hushes the rush in my mind,
calling to my soul.
where does the river go at night,
and whence flows its waters
when hidden, out of sight?
its flow is eternal to the sea;
a place of waters gathering,
of floods heaping,
of reflection's seeking,
where still waters lie,
where the hand of friendship
holds and lifts all who venture
to its depth where feet
can touch no longer
the point where most
would flounder
become a place of calm
of peaceable retreat without
and deep within
a flow of tears for thee!

~

post script.

a heart on sleeve composure,
for he who knows the River best!
who's breath is water deep,...
who's heart beat its very current!

added 12-13-16
my dearest HP friends, i want to thank you for this Daily and for your generous words, though i cannot truly claim this credit for my own.  those of you who have walked these halls with me for a few years will read between the lines and will know precisely for whom this tribute is written.  he is become to me one of a small handful of poetry mentors and it was a moment of great appreciation for his artistic talent that inspired these words... words that tumbled from this pen as a rush, and in mere minutes.  such is he, that he inspired this spill of words; a flood that i would not claim for my own.  to he who knows, thank you, my friend... this River... these and this belongs to you!!
Nov 2016 · 485
the key
SE Reimer Nov 2016
~

is this not a gift...
this the simple state of mind,
one which frames the past,
of all that's gone behind!
is this not the lens...
through which but few will see;
this the door to hope,
all but... invisibly!
a doorway scant will find,
for it hides within the shadows;
is shrouded in life’s mists,
and to e’en the mightiest foe,
this door is proven to resist.
yet those who find this state of mind,
these the few of simplicity’s kind,
prepared by life for another view,
these the ones who hold this truth;
for with a heart clothed,
with but a longing and a prayer,
an adornment of thankfulness,
this doorway to hope will appear;
as a lock that finds its key,
to the one who is clothed,
in an attitude’s raiment,
the door is already ajar;
and with only a nudge,
it will swing open wide,
beyond, to a pathway to love,
and the key to this future,
this doorway to hope...
this is gratitude’s garment!

~

*post script.

there is no secret
to what opens this door;
a heart of gratitude is key.
Nov 2016 · 829
the price
SE Reimer Nov 2016
~

may you ne’er reach
wealth without a struggle;
may you ne’re grasp
success without the pain;
for ’tis life’s struggle
that purifies one’s soul,
and ’tis his pain
that will make
the broken more whole.
but a silver spoon feeds
the want of one’s ease,
and a deep-cushioned couch
gathers only the
lazy and thieves.

for...

wealth is the great insular,
and money is a magnifier;
the core of one’s heart
that beats deep within;
success is the incisor,
that lays bare the soul.
place one the other afore,
regret will sorely follow;
for it magnifies a fool!
but the one who earns,
by grace discerns,
virtue’s voice to listen learns,
attains a stage from which to lead;
his a stature most uncommon,
by wisdom’s mere simplicity
were his mouth to ne’er open
his footsteps and his life
would surely, loudly speak!

this the cost, the
elusive expense,
this the price
of un-common sense.

~

*post script.

i am no philosopher;
these are but a lifetime
of observations made;
and mine are mere shadows
’midst an elusive sun’s shade.
the precise formula
i profess to know not
but of this i am quite certain
wisdom isn't given
to any without cost.
yet she is less elusive
than one might think...
for,
“wisdom calls aloud
in the open air
and raises her voice
in the public places.”
Proverbs 1:20
Nov 2016 · 532
sowing hope
SE Reimer Nov 2016
~

over the edge of tomorrow lies,
either an uncertain surprise,
or more of what yesterday wrought;
but if one’s seeds are well sown,
either is a priceless flower...
a gift that cannot be bought!

~

*post script.

seeds sown wholly well sew the holes in one’s well.
Nov 2016 · 1.6k
before and after
SE Reimer Nov 2016
~

“i’m loosing my before,”
she says as she peers
o’er her morning cup,
she struggles to recall,
to separate before and aft,
it's a place where blurring lines,
become blurred memories.
where BC and AD intersect;
that place within her mind,
where she drew a line
’cross sands of time,
’til the winds of living
blew her line away.
of life before this Cancer,
living before this Cost;
of silence 'fore the Call,
that told her all was lost.
his voice no longer lingers,
in her dreams he used to come;
now he's just a vapor,
but a ghost of what he was.
for now it's only after
Dreariness, Decay and Death;
now it’s sleepless nights,
while in picture books he rests.
his footsteps all but gone,
and only cards and photographs
to remind of seasons once upon,
a time of laughter and rejoicing,
replaced by cup of bitter tears.
the after-date of endings,
of after-hearts were pierced;
after-leaves have all decayed,
the after-disappearance,
of joy that he defined.
these the after-leavings,
the dregs from life distilled;
left to wonder, life to ponder,
the “why” a heart stood still.
of a BC and an AD,
a BC time, Before the Call;
when life was torn in two,
leaving shredded remnants;
and now the AD, After Daniel,
a time to pick up tattered pieces,
to find the peace in what remains;
this the place where legends born,
when all that’s left is but a name.

~

*post script.

there are few events in one’s lifetime that mark time, a before and after, like loss.  whether death, divorce, or deep disappointment... each a BC/AD moment that our human condition can so easily let define what remains; our after.  yet too, if we do not rush it, there can come a time when we are able to redefine our losses into legend... an AD that is an after-definition of sorts; where a crown of beauty replaces ashes and the oil of joy is exchanged for the bitter wine of mourning.  (Isaiah 61:3)    

to my sweet wife and to each of you, my friends who grieve, whatever your “AD”, know this... while the heart beats, there is yet hope!  hugs, hope and health to each, to all!!
your poet friend and lover of your posts,
(: Steve
Oct 2016 · 674
bowmen
SE Reimer Oct 2016
~

i know, you thought it just a bow,
a pretty band from blues to red,
’cause that’s all we were told
in sunday school for kids.
think it myth or truth or mystery,
the story’s incomplete,
if outside the lines of childhood
we cannot grasp or think.
for a bow is but a weapon,
’til its hung upon the sky,
but its symbolism's lost,
when we take it down to fight.
its band of colors make
our band of brotherhood;
its peace in men entrusted,
to lead from strife to good.

in colors of the spectrum,
in bow, all skin is on display;
a creator’s ev’ry wish,
let peace on earth remain.
so next we see the bow,
that follows after rain,
consider love and harmony,
a life laid down for friend.
think of laying down the weapon,
the feud, the fist, the fight,
no need to strike the darkness,
we can simply turn on light.
consider colors are all needed,
yes, each and every one;
apart we draw our boundaries,
but blend together, makes our sun.

so be a hunter, be a fighter
be a bowman... every one
but be light dispelling darkness;
we need all colors in this hunt!


~

*post script.

this is likely the first of a few pieces i hope to post about our nation’s color-war; a matter my wife and i have been deeply contemplating with growing consternation as time goes on.  having worked together in heavily, color-blended environments, we are broken by the walls that are being built up, rather than being broken down.  i do not love my sweet wife in spite of her differences; no, i love her dearly because of them!  thus, racial accord doesn’t mean we need to be the same. it simply means we need to learn to love and appreciate what makes us different.  color blindness is not the answer some once thought it; but color awareness without prejudice is a start.
Oct 2016 · 384
memoirs
SE Reimer Oct 2016
~

til just now
i never understood...
why his memoirs,
a man might
to page inscribe,
his own on stone,
an epitaph write;
for far too oft’
“historians”
will resurrect,
dots the decedent
never did connect.

which leads those living
to believe,
our story isn't
what we think to leave,
but is subject to revision,
with no defense
nor cross examination,
posthumously changing
legacy to fallacy,
one’s heritage
to poverty abject,
and of
character bereft.

for the dead
can tell no tales.
so if the story
isn’t written down,
and e’en at times
when it is,
the living tell
what e’re they
wish to sell.

so write i say...
of the truth,
of certain quell
any question to dispel,
to thine own
thou must be true;
thou alone
canst know thyself;
so write your story,
and write it well!

~

*post script.

watching a documentary this weekend on
one of our nation’s founding families
made me realize that our deeds
and our words are recycled
like thread into a loom
of another’s making,
weaving a tapestry of
someone else’s interpretation;
any rebuttal thereto being
either useless or impossible.
which begs the question,
if the old adage then is true,
“dead men tell no tales,”
did they leave off the ending
“but the living sure do?”
Oct 2016 · 1.6k
a case for i drops
SE Reimer Oct 2016
~

prelude.

did you know that English stands alone as a written language requiring the capitalization of the word "I"... yet makes no similar provision for “we” or “us; a sad statement of self inflation.  it was after learning this that i abandoned the rule in my own poetry.


~

my i’s averted,
lowered, diverted,
reduced in size,
an exercise of
large proportions;
breaking down the me-isms,
finding room for we-isms,
to take the larger place;
create an i for seeing,
the case for simple,
smaller being;
no need to punctuate,
instead eliminate this
compulsion to inflate;
’tis my i-drop moment,
my i-reducing ointment,
these pupils are dilated,
deflating i and me,
enlarging we and thee;
finding that in i-reduction,
the eyes are widely opened,
thus to better see,
what i really need to be.
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