not ten, but three
confess more simply,

I choose thee

when 
I’ve 
forgotten 
my 
song,

please... 
sing me 
the 
melody

Should I not earn another penny,
I am richer far then they,
Who search the world in fervence for,
What fame and wealth can never pay;
In you I've found a friend so pure,
A golden love, immortalized;
In your embrace this poorest soul,
Becomes the richest man alive.

~

bits and pieces,
lines and creases,
dusty shelves
of storied past;
where could-haves
turned should-haves,
make half-lives gone by.
haunt in our reticence,
expressed in our sigh;
they hide in our silence,
betrayed by our tears,
from missed opportunities
     down through the years.

this is no stroll
o’er memory’s lane,
but a ***-holed, hard-roll
on a boulevard unnamed,
     where deepest regrets
          must defend against shame.

~

i make my peace
by drawing a line,
before it can fade
shifting with time.
i say “enough!
this far and no more!”
i give it my heel
and walk out that door.
past the garden,
past the fences,
to the edge of my mind,
resolve saying, “goodbye”  
      to this pain i have known.

then for reasons unfathomed
i turn at the bend,
to see what i'll miss
as if that place were my friend,
yet that house where i lived
so long and knew well,
was standing no longer,
up in smoke, gone in flames,
     now just ashes and bricks
          are all that remained.

~

so homeless i felt,
with no place to return.
no basement to bury
the ghosts of my past;
no attic to wander,
no hallways to creep,
no corners to ponder,
no front porch to weep,
lost without home,
     now no pillow to sleep.

“please turn around,”
spoke, a voice on the breeze
“there's a new life ahead”
and then, to my relief,
“you're not homeless, my son;
you’ve a new windowed view!
square your shoulders
to the pathway,
see the journey anew!
in promising thoughts
so hopefully wrought
of brand new can-be’s
that only dreamers can see
these, are your new life
you're not abandoned, but free.
     let regrets turn to fuel
          build steam from this fire.”

~

as i turned back to thank
the voice offering these words
i found no sage of advice
but here’s what i heard.
"offer thanks to your own heart,
to strength buried within.
the matches lay dormant
’til your heart found its stremgth.
the mere act of leaving
was the spark for your fire;
     for in striking your new path
          your past built your pyre.”

~

*post script.

after much stirring, much wrestling, we are now with anticipations imagining what will change as we light the fire.  i’m excited about the possibilities as we let go.

may
     the
           rich
                goodness
                      of
          ­                  2013 ...

                             .. .pursue
                        you
                 into
      2014!

~

gold-encrusted jewels dance
on sun-drenched ocean stacks,
his rugged rocks etched deep
by her waves from far beneath,
and Pacific’s gusty breath;
his wind-swept islets burn,
aflame in sunset's dying embers,
like a lover's siren call.
his chiseled keyholes waiting
for the ciphered piercing rays
to collide in rushing tidal spray.
unlocking sunset's golden hour...
surging forth then quickly fades,
as sunbeam fingers slowly slip,
beneath horizon's sultry lip;
dusk unfolds in magic hues,
molten rose turns scarlet blues,
night descends as one by one,
we raptured star-kissed lovers
disembark this ferris wheel;
the curtain falls again,
with sea and rocks
rehearsing lines
to play again another day.
this their theatre
of the night,
performed by two alone,
beneath the moon
and starry sky.

~

*post script.

our last time through in 2004 was a blur on our way through to San Diego, an exhilarating ride for certain, with all of its bends and curves experienced top down in a convertible, but hardly doing justice to Big Sur’s stunning scene in mere hours; we told ourselves we simply had to return.  

it took eleven years, and this time we spent a full five days and nights along Highway 1, towing a camper and slow-driving south from Monterrey all the curves to Morro Bay, exploring just about every hike and lookout in between; and in so doing, validating our return in a most satisfying way.  Big Sur is officially off our bucket list!  her sunsets were particularly rewarding, especially two... one enjoyed at sea level, from the sand and keyholes at Pfeiffer Beach day use area, the other delighted us from high above the ocean waves, seated at the picnic table of our cliff-side camp site at Kirk Creek Campground.

a most refreshing time to recuperate and recharge our spirits; five glorious days of disconnection, reconnecting to nature, each other and best of all, life at the speed of sunsets and star gazing; evenings spent round the campfire with no cell, no i-pad, no laptop, only the light of the fire, the stars and that sparkle in each other's eyes!

~

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

~

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.

~

magnetized, i stand,
muse of far off lands,
as for nourishment i reach,
these remind of thee;
reflections each are we,
soldiers all... sailors,
tossed about on stormy sea,
thirsty souls in paper boats,
as, in need of simple hope
each the other read,
you... my poetic anchor be;
as another’s soil i dream;
like magnets on my fridge
your words on page, my bridge
doorway to the heart of thee.

~

*post script.

to my poet friends, both known
and unknown with most un-met... yet,
this rambling spilled
as i reached this morning for
nourishment from my refrigerator
after reading your many wonderful
and uplifting writes.  
my new profile pic
helps to tell the story.

wishing you peace
on this Memorial Day weekend...
may those lost to thee,
ever rest in peace!

(Memorial Day- a designated day
in the US for remembrance
of those beloved souls
whom we lost too soon.)

love to you...
each and every one,
old friends and new!

~

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?

~

i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?
did the drawer have a brother?
or perhaps a sister too?
what did it fit inside,
what was it meant to hold?
a little boy’s toys
or a girl’s shiny shoes,
a box full of crayons
or an artists tools,
a father’s colorful ties
or a mother’s sachet,
did it hold the silken threads
of her childhood ballet?
did it hold a sister’s hopes
or a brother’s pride,
a woman's negligee
for a very special night?
did it even hold a key,
and was it to her lover’s heart;
or maybe like the broken drawer
those too were shattered dreams?

maybe we are all
just discarded drawers!
the trinkets we hold,
things we need to let go;
the words we can’t forget,
the whispers that grow old.
we paint by numbers,
we color with words,
a canvas full of thoughts,
tumbles out from our heads;
words we’d like to recall,
lines we’d like to forget,
the words never said,
ones we later regret;
perhaps at the time
to us did not occur,
one day we’d hope to be forgiven
for offending with our words!

don’t let me feel useless
without the rest of the frame;
don’t cast me aside
or leave me in the rain.
take this broken old drawer
some nails and some glue,
help me find the answers;
i know i fit when i’m with you.
slide me in a work bench,
i can hold the tools;
slip me in a bureau,
i will not feel used.
place me in a vanity,
or kitchen cabinet,
in a chest so full of hope,
dreams not come true... just yet.
just don’t leave me here
where I've been thrown,
where i’ll grow cold and die.
i’m not designed to be alone,
left here on the side;
what good can come within my frame
if i’m not made a part,
for a drawer without a purpose
is a man without a heart.

i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?

~

*postscript.

truly...
i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?

my wife breathes life into old wood furniture.  with each bureau, hope chest or buffet brought into her workshop i wonder what it held... because everything and everyone has a story to tell. what would these old pieces tell us if they could speak?  and what do they tell us about ourselves?

~

do you embrace
as ambiance,
the thrill of
winter’s chill?
or does the
blustery blast
of bitter breath
a rush in you instill?
do you let
his frigid fingers
longing linger on
your cooling cheek?
or to the doorway,
to the shelter
do you wince and sprint
as warmth you seek?
i stand here
at the window
watching passers
bustling by;
in my dreams
upon my pillow,
to the islands
i may fly,
but never to
the sea at dawn
will i walk
the foam alone;
no…
this i’ll dream
of longingly
and leave for
summer’s thrill.

~

*post script.

word play with winter,
besides, its way too cold outside.  
will leave the walks for
warm summer’s breeze
and simply bundle up inside
on frigid days like these.

Re-written today... dusted off and delivered, to our beautiful friends, the Chambers...

Ron, Nathan, Ian, Jill...

We know... you can't see us... but you are not forgotten!!  The Reimers remember... we are here... with you in this room, now... as is your Margie!!  

___________

remember her with us, as you read and hear these words.  it is good to remember... to never forgot... a cycle of life, brought full circle, best in remembrance.  and this makes remembering perhaps the most important facet that defines, sets us apart as humans, best captured in this thought, "in forgetting the past we cease to be and bring hope forward for the future. and so we remember... for we must never forget!” this is why we line our shelves, our walls with them, and visit inscribed stones behind fences.   you are not forgotten, Margie Chambers!

~

posted first in the Christmas season of 2014,  the original post script remains and speaks of my original motivation in writing this, but events this year prompt my re-post, if nothing but as a reminder to all of us to look beneath the surface with intentionality and to see the pain that many walk in daily.  though they will shield it from uncaring eyes, they are likely to let in those who show they truly care.  and is not this, the truest, the finest, the greatest of Christmas gifts we could give such a one?

~

it is a storm approaching,
not the tempestuous kind;
of driving rain or whirling wind,
but a storm all the same;
a mingling of sorts,
a marriage that blends,
my joy with my tears;
my hopes and my fears,
of life and of death,
of all that has come,
with what has not yet;
where photos and albums,
and letters and cards;
are all we can touch,
of what has gone by.
 
yet there's a tree to light,
there are gifts to wrap,
there are cards to send
to loved ones dear;
while the hug that we wish,
the one we most want,
it's the one we can't give,
caught... in its grip;
this our loss has us,
ties us in knots.
for memories and laughter,
their kindest words,
and shouts of joy;
these are fading away,
and yet... are all that remain.
uninvited to the table,
these call in the park,
at Sunday Mass
and the post office,
but especially the back porch,
when it is quiet after dark.
these join us at parties,
where thoughts of our missing,
join the gay, happy greetings;
and on Christmas morn,
when gifts lie unopened;
their chair empty still,
at dinner... a space,
no one ever will fill;
in their place is a candle,
a scent we know well,
a light we'll not crush;
it's the closest we'll get,
to their presence we so miss.

the storm on the inside,
one that no one else sees;
as they stroll down the street,
as they shop merrily;
our hearts beat... quietly,
inside we are breaking,
this storm threatens to drown;
but no one will save us,
because no one's around;
who ever would notice,
or  knows how to care?
its the cry of our heart
that no one can hear.
our tears brushed aside,
hoping no one can see;
this storm it is raging,
raging wildly in me.

i looked for a card,
my thoughts to express,
but the cards in the store
say nothing like this,
no words such as "weeping",
or "anguish" are found;
no topics like "lonely" or "angry",
in the Christmas card aisle.
so just how to reconcile,
my juxtaposition?
how can I quell,
this sense of foreboding
that i know all too well?
truth is...  i cannot!
i must go through
with this marriage.
and pray that some day,
soon... i can hope,
that i will awaken,
to see sunshine again;
and consider these memories,
not nightmares, but friends.

~

post script.
"blessed are those who morn, for they shall be comforted"  Matthew 5:4

*these are so many among us who mourn, in particular at what are otherwise joyous occasions.  for these ones, Christmas only adds to the acuteness of their pain.  for them, Christmas is a storm they know is coming, a time when they must prepare for, battening down the hatches of their soul, so they are assured their grief does not leak out on the joy of everyone around.  my advice for us all- know who walks near you well enough to reach out to them, give them a shoulder to weep on, share your tears with theirs. assure them you have not forgotten.  repeat the name of their loved one, a name they long to hear others speak.  for most of us, this name is one you cannot say too often. speak in the present tense of their loved one for they are not lost, they are still present and very much a part of the grieving one's life.  as just one of many examples, remember... a mother who has lost her only child is still a mother.  it is a title that she still bears, coming with all the burden, yet without any future benefit, these having been stripped away. love her, hold her, be shelter for her heart in the coming Christmas storm.

~

coffee kisses

'tween mister and misses,

sharing... life's tastiest wishes!

~

*post script.

my profile reveals a tiny secret
(: Steve

(: no... its not 10w Tuesday, but Sunday seemed so much more appropriate for this :)

~

she shows her loss
in conflagration,
her death in
varied coloration;
in life support
of beautied kind,
she displays for
all mankind
her burst of
brilliant orange,
of rusty red,
and deep magenta,
of richest shades
in burnt sienna.
all are losses
soon to be,
loosed from limb,
and fallen...
from her tree,
to the earth
for all to see;
master of
this burning fire,
fulfills the eye
to heart’s desire,
she makes sweet love
with dying breath,
she breathes her last
with heaving breast,
and summons all
to watch her death,
to bid adieu
in living color,
and thus fulfills
her yearly drama;
showing loss is
more than death...
tis cold winter’s
icy breath
that breathes
anew each spring,
and thus the
cycle filled
she the chosen,
she the one,
to bring new life,
awakened sun;
renewed to us,
and thus,
the rays of hope
again, begun!

~

*post script.

my inspiration for this creation is simple... the posting of a dear HP friend, K. Mae, who wrote these simple and profound words here...
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1435498/see-through-loss/

thank you K, for helping to open these eyes to the riches that lie before us... even in loss!