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SE Reimer Sep 2013
searching he finds her, wounded daughter, his wife

there on a wind-punished coast

at the edge of an ocean, some call “despair”

bruised and torn, lost and alone

heart at the edge of eternity’s precipice

he calls to her as she lay

only lifting her head, too feeble to rise

he kneels at her battered side

her dress is in tatters, 

with soil and blood spattered
 
he reaches gently to touch her cheek

his smile reassuring

like harbor to her storm-tossed ship

voice quiet and soothing

he beckons her weary soul

strong arms now surrounding

cradles her heart pounding

love, his potent elixir 

fuels her smoldering lantern

the light of his spirit

enveloping, warming her

healing, transforming her

breathing life into her darkness

stirring her soul

kindling a fire long cold

his life-giving water 

he whispers, gently calls her

refreshing, awakening, re-fueling

she drinks deeply as he pours himself out

then slowly he gathers her into his arms

"you’ve been sleep walking, my love

let me hold you, my dove"


he carries her back to their bed

where murmuring softly she says

"dark i’ve been dreaming

i awoke myself screaming 

i was lost and alone, 

all bruised and torn"


drawing her close, he’s stroking her hair

*"i know, darling, he whispers
 
i was there"
to my love, my only, forever and always!!
SE Reimer Dec 2014
~(by Joanna, "The Backroads Girl")~

Somewhere between the millions of years
it takes for light to reach earth
and our first glimpse of the stars
there is a promise.

Somewhere between the humility
of a young girl's heart
and her baby's first cry
there is life.

Somewhere in the passing
of precious oil and gold
into a carpenter's rough hands
there is obedience.

Somewhere between the bustle
of a small dusty town
and the stink of its stables
there is a miracle.

Because somewhere
between the heavens
and our small, open hearts
love came
no, love still
comes down.

~

Postscript:
This is not my poem; it‘s arrival in my Facebook inbox a few days ago was a welcome event and I have read and reread it countless times since.  Some poems are just too precious to keep to ourselves… this is one of those.  I am publishing it here with the author’s permission for all of you to enjoy.   (I prefer to not post nameless poems, so in that it was posted without a name, I took the liberty to give it one.) 

Joanna, thank you for letting me share this with my Hello Poetry friends.  I have no doubt that I speak for others here who would welcome more of your writings here on Hello Poetry.  Consider this your invitation.

From Joanna’s Facebook bio- “I am on a journey- I travel with a suitcase full of of outrageous blessings. I'm an artist, a writer, an explorer...”
https://www.facebook.com/BackroadsGirl/info
SE Reimer Feb 2016
~

her tidal forces pull me in,
her halo soothes my soul within;
illuminating, ether's glow,
to my cheek her kisses blow;
lunar whispers draw me deep,
beckon softly, bid me sleep!

~

*post script.

tonight's moon, a waxing half, wears a halo full,
above a thin marine layer in my
Pacific Northwest sky.  
difficult to photograph, yet so easy to love!
SE Reimer Feb 2015
~

he sings to her
in floral bloom,
melodic language
all his own;
his magnolia
blossoms heralding
the rays of warmth,
his utterance to come.
its shyly spreading pink,
and softly budding green,
proof enough
to her aching heart
that winter's cold
cannot for long contain,
within its icy grip
any life that
from their union came.
for deep within
these roots,
yet he lives again
in breathing form;
that every year
til him she holds,
winter's loss
must yield to spring.

she beholds
this heralding;
as with slowly,
warming heart
she tilts her ear,
listening;
waiting for
this dearest voice.
for to her ears alone
and to her heart only
a rising medley,
tender melody,
a lullaby returned,
to her...
for her...
he begins
to sweetly sing,
unmistakably,
recognizably...
his magnolia lullaby.



.

~

post script.

*inspired by a dear friend's photo and accompanying caption...
"Logan's magnolia showing her first winter bloom."
a remembrance of her title bequeathed at his birth;
a reminder of his legacy that has not, will not ever end.
SE Reimer Oct 2013
a dear friend asked just yesterday
how does your marriage last
thirty years and counting, friend 
would have to challenge even the best
two words said i
that's all it takes
“making love” a marriage makes
but please consider my definition
before you reach the wrong conclusion

they call it making love
but when synonymous with
one night stand
a party grand…
really?

inflicts only a world of hurt
a soul bruised and burnt
call it what you want
but for certainty
love making it is not

you may disagree with me
but you’ll not disagree with this
the objectification of
our dear and fairer gender
never built a civilization
a community
or a family
only a heartache

love making then is work
love making begins
by dating those we love
not just for the win
but for life

more parts are we
than only one
love making it cannot be
until all three
a body undressed
a soul vulnerable
a spirit transparent
are undone completely

love making
the complete package
the whole enchilada
it’s a full meal deal
and inseparable from
talking
walking
working
calling
sending cards
touching
cuddling
holding hands
tender whispers
kissing softly
hugging gently
need i go on?

because when done right
amazing are the nights
but oh, even so much more
are the days,
the months
and the years!

now...

**go make love!
a couple of words added, and credited to a man with Soul!

Post Script:

to any naysayers...
please know that i know this is an opinion rendered by this writer
it does not reflect the views of the sponsors, advertisers or management of this station
furthermore, while i may feel sad for those who believe otherwise,
i neither judge nor hate anyone who calls it something different.
i merely hope to challenge those beliefs and suggest
that a less painful path lies just over yonder hillside
SE Reimer Oct 2016
~

black marks
on page white,
the start alone
does not seem right;
and so i arrange these o's and x's,
my meager attempt
to unblemish.
my ugly imperfections!

~

post script.

soiling an otherwise clean page means a writer's every start is a deficit to overcome!
SE Reimer Nov 2013
recently a writ appeared
a read between the lines
a tale i found on Huffington
or was it New York Times?
it was one of those captions, 
you know the kind, that 
just slightly raises the eyes 
gives only mild surprise.
about an Adam’s words to his Eve.

“i’m so sorry honey; 
i truly didn’t know, 
marriage isn’t for me, dear.
sorry, i just realized now
what i should have long ago.”


(pause...)

so what would you think
as you read between these lines?
what would we care
its just another one of those
shrug the shoulder moments, right?  
not his thing, apparently.
but read on I say 
because there’s far more here
to this story than meets the eye;
before you judge too harshly
put yourself in the shoes of this guy.

here the story begins to unfold
seems son had been to talk with dad
about depression, about regret
about his attitude, and
like any dad that's worth his salt
well, dad, he talked of gratitude
said, “son, marriage isn’t for you, see”
and then he went on to explain

it’s never for you, 
yeah... it's for she
it's for the children
for a family
it's for a future
it's about giving
it's about sacrifice.

so, when you throw all that in the mix
there’s really little time left
to think about you.
marriage is never about getting
it's always been about giving;
and here’s the twist,
it’s the best part of all...

in all of your giving
in all of your loving
what you’ll receive 
what you’ll get back in return
is everything you always wanted,
anyway.
so i’ve decided, yeah i can learn
i can be as smart as he
i can change like he and say,
*marriage isn’t for me... dear!
Post Script:  
although i truly do wish this idea was my own, alas, i cannot claim it.  though the story line is not mine, this poem is and is my translation of what Seth Adam Smith wrote in a blog that is going viral. see it for yourself here...
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/seth-adam-smith/marriage-isnt-for-you_b_4209837.html
seems people really are interested in relationships that last after all.
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?”
SE Reimer Feb 2015
~

beside a warm fire on a late winter's morn,
with the help of three midwives their baby was born.
wrapping him gently to shield from morn's frost,
hearing his first breaths while holding him close.
singing a lullaby, they rock him to sleep;
cradled in their arms, they watch him dream.

twenty five winters; good years, though some long,
as a man was being forged in their little boy.
in many ways wise, encourager and friend,
the tenderest heart, persevering to the end.
through illness, through setbacks, he always believed;
and opening their arms they watch him dream.

beside a warm fire on a late winter's morn,
alone with the angels their son was re-born.
closing his eyes as he lay down to dream,
his last breath watched lovingly, he drifted to sleep.
then carried so gently to a new home above,
to awake in the arms of the many he'd loved.

today by the fire on this mid-winter's morn,
they find themselves still letting go of their son.
surrounded by memories wherever they gaze,
this earth seems clouded, though they see through its haze.
they find themselves longing for their loved one above,
and dreaming of holding this son that they love.

~

post script.

written in January of 2011, two years after his goodbye.  dusted off just a bit this morning with a few of its wrinkles ironed just for posting.  

this time of winter, these cold, blustery days with blue skies overhead, it seems to bring the out melencholy. might be its time to head out to one of his favorite trails not too far from here... maybe we,'ll try the Columbia Gorge's Eagle Creek trail up to Punchbowl Falls... he loved it out there away from the city.


Steve
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.
SE Reimer Feb 2016
(10w)

~

experience is the best teacher…

so long as it’s another’s!

~

post script.

happy ten-word Tuesday, all!  

that’s the thing about clichés, we tend to choose only the part we like… usually the shortest point between A and B, or the one that affirms our chosen conclusion.   (truth is, i really dislike most clichés!)
SE Reimer Feb 2015
~

these words from a friend
jar me from my glass-eyed read
"even if we are not aware,
we live in memories" 
and in response i write,
"i often feel watched
by my loved ones passed on,
as though they are aware
of my every movement and deed,
peering over the portals
of a nearby dimension
as one from a portico"
watching what before them lies.

fellow members of a "club"
you didn't volunteer for,
didn't sign your name to,
you know firsthand
the longing, the aching,
the wishing and the wanting,
the praying and the begging,
the "take this cup" imploring,
remove it far from me,
the "i'm down on my knees
begging you please" plea.

grief...
a mournful response
a saudade for
what will, what can
never be again.
a shadowy wood,
where the seekers lie,
where lovers come
when lovers die;
where hope once lost
can still be found,
where signs and wonders
from beyond abound.
where man can touch
the face of God,
where the path to freedom,
with all it twist, its turns,
brings new meaning
and opens new doors.
within this forest
there lies a pool
from which to drink
and be renewed.
healing waters
in abundance here
to wash away
the bitter tears;
the lonely hours
here spent bring peace,
its lovely flowers
are rarest sweet;
the dancer learns
her steps again,
the singer finds
his inner voice;
here hearts unfold
and bare the creases,
here anxious thoughts
and anger ceases;
and psalmist's soul
here finds relief.

~

post script.

*thank you Bala, for stirring my morning contemplation time and helping me to reflect on what i have, as being a part of what i have lost. 

"saudade"- though sharing no English equivalent is best understood here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudade

as apples of gold are wise words... indeed!  my fellow poets, you are a grace to me, a gift i did not heretofore know of; the door to a contemplative.forest i had not previously known.  thank you, to each who stops in to make a kind, a generous comment and sometimes add a very thought-provoking word. i am grateful today!!
SE Reimer Apr 2015
~

in drops and drips
her palette tips,
a mem'ry full of
kaleidoscope tricks
its tumbling skips;
this is morning glory
at their best.
once at attention
she stands now
at color-filled rest,
unfurling her glory,
tell her your story;
she’ll drink in your weeping
sharing with others
in manifold colors
all of these losses,
your sorrowful world,
spreading her palette of tears,
colors a'running astray.
those tears can't really
be wiped away;
there's more where
that came from, dear...
a boat load of color
to drown in and smother;
beauty-filled dripping,
til finally the
balance is tipping
the other way;
and for just a bit
there as she sits
the river that ran
in colorful brilliance
is dried up,
and *******,
and only then is she
able to stand up
another day.
she is mourning glory!
still here on earth,
her feet firmly planted,
but awaiting the end
of her color-filled story,
and wondering...
will she ever
again
find that treasure
she once held so close,
this side of heaven?
she may have to settle
to weep with the flowers;
passing her hours,
one sunset closer
to her forever;
her bouquet of scent
drifts away... spent,
one flower fading
slowly is trading
at color-filled dusk;
she’s mourning glory,
her colors returning
to dust.

~

*post script.

this, these lines, are not quite as they started out,
not what i thought it was meant to be...
but then life... it never is, is it?

"with hope" by Steven Curtis Chapman:  
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=OfQ4TlYh3ik
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!
SE Reimer May 2015
~

headline.
a middling's meddling muddled the mathmatical mix, messed up the milling, marring the miller's marriage merriment.

~

translation.
baker's assistant trying to help, triples only half of the ingredients in his boss's wedding cake.  result... fail!

just imagining myself a news editor and having fun with word play. :)

(: Steve
SE Reimer Jan 2014
finger pricked, its running blue,
because the oxygen i breath, is pouring out of you
SE Reimer Aug 2016
(Polaris)

~

a dark night sky,
horizon to horizon,
see countless stars,
some call it billions,
i count by myriads...
cast an upward gaze,
in any direction,
so stunningly beautiful;
and though so many nameless,
and so many faceless,
are they not noteworthy all,
still each and every one?

yet, but a few,
like Sirius, like Schedar,
like Regulus and Rigel,
in number a few dozen more;
in all are counted fifty-seven,
star sisters, sun brothers
thought bright enough,
placed precisely, just,
to be among those sought  
between clouds by ocean sailors;
with squinted gaze perused
by desert navigators;
in constellations scanned,
relentlessly pursued,
by travelers the globe across.

you, my love are such a star
your rising luminescence
far too brilliant to ignore;
in present station,
your presenting position,
not merely making bright;
for tis you, my love,
who makes the night
alive, arise with life;
for without your zenith,
my bearing is lost...
take away my north,
no others align!

in this darkening sky.
i could n’er visualize
your brilliance gone dim,
nor being without
your guiding light,
beckoning my hand;
for it is by you
that i set my compass,
and in you that
i lay my course.

Polaris...
high and afar,
my true north;
and for’er you are,
my sight-guiding,
night-lighting,
heart-binding,
northern star!

~

post script.

terrestrially speaking... yes, i do know that those beneath the equatorial center will use a navigational star guide list different entire, but they and theirs are not within sight of these eyes. no offense intended; i can but write of mine.

celestially speaking... navigators of old knew the fifty-seven stars, plus one (Polaris) by which to plot their course. one wonders if the art has been entirely lost with today’s extensive dependence on satellite navigation and global positioning systems.  the time may come when we will wish for a return to the sky for direction.

ethereally speaking... tis but a metaphor to paint a horizon-stretching tapestry of the binding and guiding power of one light to another, one heart to another’s.  yet the truth is, no metaphor will suffice, and no language has words enough to describe the mysteries, the intricacies, and the ecstasies of true love!

maritally speaking... it is thirty-seven years ago this week that we made vows; swore our faithfulness one to another.  she has been the core that held me, even when for a season our gravitational pull grew weak, yet she held firm.  neither has ever betrayed the other, yet i owe her my life, because i am the impetuous and she the more gracious.
SE Reimer Dec 2013
oh, rising sun on east horizon,
shine your light through purple hues;
sunbeam fingers reaching long,
spreading warmth ‘cross mountains blue.
awake, oh towering pine majestic,
for deep below your roots flows pure
crystal liquid falls in dance, 
fills each pool with nature's mirror.
this my Oregon, i call her home,
where skies of grey and winter long
chills milder souls to the bone,
yet hardy stock from which i come
know her best, still to be sung.
her rocky crags where eagles soar,
her mountain lakes, her breaking shores,
her rapid’s ripple, current strong,
her open skies and painted rocks,
from each she springs alive with flame,
floral tapestry, her fields ablaze,
here streams cascade through canyons tall,
tumbling long in waterfall,
through rock and mountain, a gorge cut deep,
a bridge to history, the gods they speak  (1
a people weary, journey long,
struggling forward they sang their song.
first the solo, small band of men
discovery's chorus, brave brethren;  (2
a choir growing, families joined, 
came for land, they stayed for joy 
by beauty smitten, they wrote her lore.  (3
today her wonder, her majesty
sings to her young, *“come, walk with me,
come ******* bounty from forests green,
from lakes, from streams, from ocean deep,
from waving fields of amber grains,
abundant yields, endure my rains.,
come sip my wines, my vineyards flow,
come drink my waters, winter’s snow,
drawn from my wells, my streams below,
my plains and valleys, my hills and dales,
i offer richness within my veil.
when journey’s burden becomes too great
find respite in my sunset’s slate,
my star-kissed skies they offer thee,
my arms, my breast, thy comfort be."
Post script.

i am hardly an expert on this subject, projecting here only my viewpoint and perspective garnered since my arrival in my late teens. hidden meanings tied to Oregon history abound here. for some reference i invite you to join me on a quick journey: 
(i am blocked from supplying the full links below, but am certain this will not deter your uncovering of these snippets :-)
(1  wikipedia.../'Bridge_of_the_Gods_(land_bridge)
(2  wikipedia... /Corps_of_Discovery
(3  wikipedia.../Oregon_pioneer_history
SE Reimer May 2015
~

“can a mother forget her child..."
though separated by the grave?
the son she bore and bathed,
the one whom life she gave,
the one she nursed and fed,
whom she carried on her side?
the son she taught to love,
to give, to walk, to pray,
him she watched with pride?
no, never... and a day,
not ever in one thousand years;
though the earth go on forever,
the son who was her babe
she'll not forget him, ever!

~

*post script.

celebrating my dearest wife, loving mother
and doting grandmother on this Mother’s Day!  
sons she gave us, three she bore;
two with us... one gone on...
awaiting our arrival, home.

Isaiah 49:15
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!!
SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

a mortal can no more free himself
than can from ravenous spider,
the frail and struggling fly;
nor from ferocious wolf,
can flee the helpless lamb.

a mortal sees his frailty,
feels his utter weaknesses,
in mind, in sprit, and in frame,
weighted ’gainst the task at hand
can raise his head no more again.

for to lift, to build, restore, forgive
these no mortal man has ever done.
but ask a man who knows his ilk,
the kin of whom he is,
the stuff with which he’s made
the cloth from which he’s cut...

he is no mortal man
who knows the dust
from which he’s plucked;
who’s hands have molded his;
who’s very chest has heaved,
with breath from giver,
this his gift.

tis his, the bugled call,
on longing ears that falls,
gives answer to the sound;
this the one when wisdom cries,
in streets she gathers round,
calling voice to one to all...

“let your weeping cease
and from the void,
the darkened corners creep.
no more you are
oh man, oh woman,
no mere mortal thee!
you breath the very wind,
with forward vision see,
graced with strength and
robed in immortality!"


immortal one, to him ordained,
to raise his voice above the fray,
beyond the strife, through the pain;
of mortal man the lot, the whole,
none can raise his mortal soul;
but gift him immortality,
a mortal man is he no more,
immortality has set him free!

~

*post script.

in believing himself wise enough to know all,  mankind settles for only shreds of truth and dismisses his immortality as impossible fairied tales and *******; embracing mortality, he dooms himself to an endless spiral of hopelessness, closing his mind to the hopefulness that lies so closely nearby.

believe me when i say, earth’s gravitational pull became no weightier after Newton explained it to us;  DaVinci’s sails filled no more fluidly after we knew how wind was formed.  long before her forces were understood, mankind built towers and harnessed nature’s forces for good; understanding where it came from was not only secondary... it was  unnecessary to its function and its employment.  (any who might suggest i am dismissing knowledge as useless would be missing my point). we can act immortally long before understanding it origins or fullness.  the healing of our nation requires those who can act with immortality; not as mere mortals.

words from C.S. Lewis in his, ’The Weight of Glory’, “you’ve never met a mere mortal… nations, cultures, arts, civilizations are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. …it is immortals whom we… work with, marry, snub, and exploit.”
SE Reimer Apr 2016
for the love of pejorative poetry*

~

i was minding my business,
the tending of words,
assuring they’re watered,
they’re grazed and they sleep;
dividing the ewes,
from the yous;
sadly, all shepherds have
one runaway sheep,
who needs for more tending
than attendance has thyme.

(there... see that?
see what just happened
to this story of mine?)

of course dinner is calling,
and it's not so appalling,
for we all need something
to serf on the palate.
and a wandering iamb
will serve up just fine,
yes! this palette will please
at this dinner of mine!
you tell me, “that’s mean!”
“no never!” i repeat,
for i say it’s merely
the culling of words,
... so to speak.

having far more to learn
than having been taut,
i tend rather high strung,
using all manner of phrases,
and words where ought not.
for instants...
i didn’t know,
to drive them to market
can drive one to drink,
if one isn’t careful
one can end up a shrink
(or was that need one),
or even worse,
wind up like Ms. Muffit,
who i’m told was last scene
eating her whey
through the curds...
(or was it having
her way with words?)

but back to my story,
the tending of verbs.
all I can say is
while minding my business,
as good reimer’s do,
in broadening horizons,
in pushing the boundaries,
one little poem
put a kink in my foundry;
all this to say, that
she struck a nerve...
(so is that more
like striking out
or striking it rich?)
but no matter,
for the world hasn’t
been the same since.

life's little questions
are now up in my face,
my wife doesn't speak to me
i’m losing grace,
and the more that
i wonder, i ponder,
(or was it wander and pander)
for does one miche in a niche,
and can one skulk in a sulk?
my point being simply this...

discovery or uncovery,
here’s what i found
poetry is simply,
it's so plane to see;
it's quiet oblivious
for someone like me,
she ain’t no noun...
no, i say “poetry” is a verb!
she’ll never be more than
a do-it-to-yourself project!
no, this tending of words
won’t make you a prophet.

so now, dinner is over,
they’ve served just deserts;
if you’re not gonna eat that,
would you mind very much,
if i had the last word?

~
post crypt

all for the love of pejorative poetry... and after reading
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1617957/poetry-has-ruined-my-life

where he left these words In the after reading...

“friend, this is a most brilliant rendition, though with slightly different escapades, mine being escapings no less, for you have found a nerve... have struck the word... because poetry is no noun i say; no, poetry is a verb!”
SE Reimer Oct 2013
Today I write an ode to Joe’s
Procurator, seller, and trader 
For my better half it is your coffees
For me, your store entire, for
Your bounty fills my refrigerator
Treasures spicy from India, Japan
Brought to us by your Trader San
From south of the border 
Travel goodies galore-a 
Compliments of Trader Jose
Then there’s Trader Giotto from Italy
Without a doubt, his yummies call me
There are Jo-Jo’s, curries, oh cho-co-late sweet
And did I mention lotions for feet
There is Pilgrim Joe’s and Trader Ming’s
Who bring to us the finer things 
The wines, the drinks, the healthy oils
I dream at night of all your spoils
By way of mention, I cannot forget 
Baker Josef who serves to us
Tasty bagels, delicious baguettes
Arabian Joe’s and Joseph Brau
Bring us falafels and rings in our beer 
Oh, Trader Johann's and Trader Jacques'
For bodies clean and lips that are fresh
Your Joe's Kids keep mummy's happy
Trader Darwin's help us all stay healthy
Did I, could I, miss anyone? 
Don’t want to leave out even one
Your marinated meats, your frozen treats
From Diner Joe’s there are lunches quick 
For us working stiffs, his heat-n-eats
Oh, pumpkin scones and cereal O’s
I should not forget your sample bar 
Where tastys await to test for my plate
And did I say how amazing you are?
While others sell just fluff and stuff
Of your yummy goodness
I cannot get enough
So if one day soon the Joe’s disappear
I’ll not fret, no i’ll not fear
On me for sure you can count the cause
Right down to your last breadcrumb
For shelves will be bursting in my garage
Where I'll be holding them all, without ransom
Post Script

Dear Trader Joe’s, 
I assure you I am no threat, quite harmless really; this is merely poetic expression. I promise I would never harm your traders for that would make me a traitor of another kind, a sin second only to harming Santa Claus...
and what peace-loving, child-hugging, lovable lad would ever do that.
Yours Truly,
Steve 

Dearest Reader,
If you don’t have the Trader in a neighborhood near you, I truly feel only the deepest of sadness for you, for I say eat Joe’s...  or do not eat at all.
A TJ’s Fan

for those interested:  http://www.traderjoes.com/
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
SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

we the people,
long have known
the write of
passages and poems,
whether bellwether,
envisionist or revisionist,
too oft have thought
this journey long,
and weight of hope and change
to another there belongs;
yet i subscribe
that we as scribes,
can right this ship,
not merely write it's wrongs;
for we it's pride
with hearts ascribe,
and note-by-note,
as carpenters and soldiers,
we its authors and its poets,
in words, in deeds,
writers, of a patriot’s song;
with deepest definition,
and inner soul reflection,
it's stanza, chorus, bridges,
we must lovingly inscribe.

~

*post script.

i know i am but one of many, who disillusioned, feel alienated, and could just as easily choose withdrawal as my reaction to our nation’s political plight. this then my belief, my plea, my hope we’ll see, withdrawal is not an option, that our words, deeds and even our writings carry weight, and bring with them hope and change to each community within which we each serve.  we are not merely writers of our history... we are authors of our destiny!  

if you are not an American, hope and pray for us, please, for we desperately need your support!!   if you are, pick up the pen... pick up the charge... be the change!!
SE Reimer Oct 2013
oh, san juans, your riches beckon
your wealth, your beauty calls
your waveless, salty waters blue
my heart since childhood draws
your waters lap at darkened rock
'round islands, bays and inlets fill
with returning salmon teeming
your breaking waters thrill
your tide, oh ever river changing
charges muddy oyster flats
your thriving pods of orca leap
o'er spray in mid-air acrobats
from seabed swift, cold and deep 
the lushness of your green hills rise 
your sun falls fleet like shooting star
your sparkling waters mesmerize
sailing craft from ’neath horizon
angels spread their wings of color
skirt your shoals and ply your straits
find safety anchored in your harbors 
oh, san juans, your wonder waits
your treasure and your magic calls
your waveless, crystal waters blue
my heart since youth still draws
calls me to return each year
to dip my paddle deep
when life averts the journey there
in dreams you beckon while i sleep
Post Script.
 
Twice in my early childhood my family vacationed in the San Juan Islands.  I say vacationed, when it was really to visit some of the dear church folk that supported my parent’s missionary work; but to me it felt like a vacation to another world!  
 
I recall being smitten by its ruggedness and remoteness, the enchantment of each island we passed; a world where a wave-less, salty, blue ocean laps the dark rock of the many bays and inlets of green forested islands; and the novelty that a ferry was the only way we could make the trip.  I remember exploring the tide pools with my brothers.  I remember crabbing with our father and gathering oysters from the rocky shores of Orcas Island.  I remember shucking oysters and our father frying them, something that outside this experience we rarely saw him do.  I remember fishing for flounder and cooking them up on the grill back at camp. I recall a time when we landed a pregnant ocean perch instead.  Were we ever surprised to see her give birth to a few dozen live babies among the floor boards of our little dinghy! We scooped up as many as we could reach and released them back to the ocean along with their mother.  One catch for thirty; a catch to remember for an 12 year old and a good lesson on the cycle of life. 
 
As I grew old enough to understand where this enchanted world was I determined to return.  Once married I made it a mission to share the beauty of the San Juan Islands with Becky and our children.  Our first visit back to the islands as a family was back in the late 1980's; she and I and our three sons.  Today, my children remember it for many of the same things I recall thinking as a child- they remember its rugged beauty, the adventure we took as a family, and yes, the novelty of the ferry ride across a waveless, salty, blue ocean.  

We’ve returned many times since then, and each time we’ve explored a little deeper and farther, and still we have yet to find an end to its richness.  Nowadays it's mostly just my wife and I; our tandem kayak accompanies us on the ferry ride over and begs for the taste of blue water and the hunt for a glimpse of one of the resident pods of Orca. On one particular paddle, while enjoying what we call a sunset cruise (a kayak paddle in summer twilight) out on Haro Strait, searching for Orca we didn’t find that night, we instead were mesmerized by a rather spectacular sunset and as she set she became a star, giving us front row seats to a star show. You’ll see in black and white on my home page banner what was a stunning show.

I wonder sometimes, if we lived among the islands, would its enchantment fade?  I’d like to think not.  For us, like a pilgrimage back to yesteryear, the San Juan Islands of Washington’s Salish Sea, a place that never fades or grows old.
SE Reimer Sep 2013
i ponder with wonder the posture created
when tripping forward brings me to my knees
how it allows me to rise up, my body less scathed
so much more quickly reconciled
than when a fall sends me tumbling
to my left, right or backside
perhaps the message is…
*"fall forward, my child!"
‘tis the season to be on a fall kick.  

post script:  the "falling forward" concept is not new to me;  i shared this message with my own children when they were younger, and since with many of my peers.  its just that recently it seems it has taken a whole new meaning.  perhaps it is that as I look back I see the glaring contrast between those times when in falling my knees were the last place I found myself, as compared to those fewer instances when a posture on my knees brought me more quickly to my senses and to the gracious solutions offered by our benevolent Father.  it is He who says to me in a soft gentle voice, "fall forward, my child... I will meet you there"
SE Reimer Dec 2024
~

a gateway approaches,
from just  'round the bend;
in this march of months,
that are nearing the end.
here autumn's shedding,
of its shimmering gown;
from sun-kissed warmth,
under broad leafy boughs;
where in shady spaces,
summer's solace is found!
but now comfort is sought,
in gazing within, and
in harvesting thoughts,
'neath sun-starved skin;
where if we are wise,
care will be taken,
to channel our musing,
into gratitude's music.
carefully shaping,
the sum of our notes;
stringing our lines, in
a score full of hope!
preparing the soul,
for the wintery chill;
compelling the spirit, to
see life through goodwill!
a courageous knowing,
finds a way to be still; in
the altitude of gratitude,
an antidote to winter's pill!
for in the zenith of night,
come the sounds of lullaby;
and in the absence of light,
whispers of a coming cheer.
solitary voices blending,
to the rythmn of a beat;
a heavenly choir singing,
a chorus growing strong;
opening the season's door,
illuminating advent's song!

~

in post script

these musings represent muliple seasons of observations, soul considerations in how to articulate what my heart knows to be true. so with every year that ages this soul, i become more convinced that the season of thanksgiving may in fact be the very greatest antidote for selfishness, a precursor for advent, the season of giving and receiving; and that if approached properly, our hearts are best positioned to embrace the truest meanings of the coming season of light!

sending peace and love to those who embrace these walls as sacred space!
SE Reimer Mar 2015
~

          it is a poignant thought...
          that in this life
          we often know more of a thing
          by its absence
          than by its presence;
          that we do not know,
          yes,
          truly know…
          love,
          in all
          its ins,
          its outs
          until life
          ends…

          

         for they who pass over         yet for they who remain
          to the other side,          on this other side,
       love to them becomes          love to them becomes
     a love transforming          a love of mourning
        an all-surrounding,         an all-surrounding,
             unconditional,          pained condition,
      a love ever-warming          a love ever-wanting
         and more perfectly          and more palpably,
         touchable, immutable,         touchable, immutable,
     and in its presence is         and in its absence is
more contentment          more torment
   and happiness         and distress
       a one belonging         an ever-longing
       love          love
         than any         than any
       theretofore         heretofore
        known;         known.
  
        ~

post script.  

this musing is the result of reading your beautiful poetry
this morning and seeing how many wrote of heartbreak…
whether through death, divorce, break-up or misunderstanding,
each lends to the knowledge of what love is not
and therefore to what love is.  
this plain is such a broken place, it is truly a wonder
any of us ever experience any love at all…
and yet thankfully we do.


*(creating columns on HP is at best a difficult proposition.  of course the format changes from device to device.  after much work this looks acceptable on my laptop, my ipad, and on my smartphone in landscape view only.  my smartphone in portrait view... not so much! :) however you choose to view it, enjoy!)
SE Reimer Mar 2015
~

living well,
it is an art.
life...
it comes to us
a canvas white,
but in the early
light of day
begins to add
the palest grays,
the hues from this
begin to change,
transforms in
colored shades
the joys,
the glories
and the pain.
painted in most
ardent strokes;
the boldest lines
from artist’s hand
from palette knife
his color band,
its composition
each displays
in full array,
the loving well
of ones we’re given.

though death,
it hovers
its distant border,
it frames life’s art,
and wraps its gift;
our words in ink
are painted black
our spoken love
in paper back,
cradles it
from dawn to dusk,
enables it,
displays for us
the life of it,
it adds the soul,
the why of it and
makes exquisite
art of it.

yes, even
this our end
explains the how,
the when to make
the best of it,
to live amidst
the zest of it,
and thrive though
when bereft of it.
that in the knowing,
and the viewing,
the vowing,
and the doing,
we behold
the wonder of it;
and we can say
while yet in
mortal frame...
we loved our best,
and gave the rest
...away!

~

*post script.

the art of living well is all in the preparation... for our passing.

death, like a frame around life, makes it stand out in exquisite display; helps us to appreciate every life and every moment as art.

there is beauty in the desert... for suffering is not an absence of beauty, but an opportunity to understand love on a deeper level and behold the glory of the gift of life.

http://www.aholyexperience.com/2015/03/how-to-recover-the-lost-art-of-dying-well-what-kara-tippetts-taug­ht-us/

inspired by the reading, the hearing of Kara Tippetts life, her battle and her ultimate triumph. knowing her story is changing mine.  there are many borrowed snippets in this composition, words, phrases and paraphrased thoughts.
SE Reimer Sep 2015
~

a child's hand print,
and under
a color-filled
paint-by-number;
it bears
the usual adornments,
photographed moments,
magnetic attractions
from faraway places;
but my heart
it no longer begs
to leave this place,
stuck in time,
i am...
in space.
my mind can't conceive
this loss i can't see.
throw back these covers,
you will quickly discover
an empty dark hole,
where once stood a soul.
and now our
'frigerator's adornments
point outward no longer,
covered instead
with daily reminders
that point to this inward;
its gnawing
and clawing
this scratching
and hoping
and just this one,
an unanswered,
open invitation...
"please come home
for dinner,
just once more,
son!"

a candle is lit,
in your place
no one sits,
only this
empty plate,

awaits...

~

*post script.

i miss you, son!

in the river that is grief,
the current is not constant
but rather changes,
sometimes often,
daily even,
at other times
a low sense
of numbness pervades.  
what is it of fall
that increases its flow?
it is not related to
any calendar date,
more a change in flow
with the season  
such is grief.
SE Reimer May 2015
(to she who took liberties not hers to take)

~

may i caution you on critiques
of those whom you don't know,
those with whom you haven't
developed e'en the slightest rapport?
i'd charge you to think more simply,
to listen close and get to know
those who come here to be heard,
who offer smiles and lend an ear...
and in return receive a bit
of comfort, perhaps some hope.
if i thought that you would hear me
i'd suggest you may not much like
to swallow your own harsh words,
but now i see you've not bothered
to offer us even one
of your own poetic lines.
so instead i will suggest
that you find another site,
a place that gathers folks
full of themselves (and spite).
and should you chose to stay instead
please don't forget that here at HP
we value our community, as one,
from most prolific to the least;
those who write in English though
its not their language first;
teens who've had
no formal training,
and those with PhD;
all are valued here, and
we don't mind a thought or two,
but have first the decency,
get to know us 'fore you criticize,
and gift us a knowing you.

~

post script.

when i read a brand new HP member's harsh and unnecessary critique of the winner of this past Monday's daily, yet had offered not even one poem of their own here on HP, i felt a sense of betrayal for our teenaged community member who had with vulnerability written about herself as a "battered butterfly". i have no problem with fair critique, but i say you'd better know us first and we you. i appreciate this HP community... immensely!

and by the way, if i may say, kudos to our member she defended herself most graciously!

in final words to she for whom this is written, should she wish to humbly retract her words, i will readily forgive; i would gladly look forward to one day embracing her as part of this wonderful community!  we all make mistakes... myself included.
SE Reimer Aug 2015
~

a tribute to the good times

cannot neglect the rough.

without a struggle comes no prize,

cocoon would yield no butterfly,

and without the rain the rose would die.

so when i'm tempted to forget

just how far we've come,

please remind me, dear...

please remind me that you love me;

sweet promise whisper in my ear.

repaint the mem'ries 'cross my mind,

kaleidoscope of precious times;

remind me that our journey

of a thousand miles began

these many years ago now,

the day you took my hand;

remind me that each day

is just another step,

toward dreams and goals and promises

that together will be kept.

~

*post script.

a re-post from earlier days.  
i must be feeling particularly reminiscent today

one of the earlier poems i wrote for my wife...
had to be twenty plus years ago now.
SE Reimer Sep 2013
A tribute to the good times,

cannot neglect the rough.

Without a struggle comes no prize,

cocoon would yield no butterfly,

and without the rain the rose would die.

So when I'm tempted to forget,

just how far we've come,

please remind me, dear.

Please remind me that you love me,

sweet promise whisper in my ear.

Repaint the mem'ries 'cross my mind,

kaleidoscope of precious times.

Remind me that our journey,

of a thousand miles began,

these many years ago now,

the day you took my hand.

Remind me that each day,

is just another step,

toward dreams and goals and promises,

that together will be kept.
one of the earlier poems i wrote for my wife... had to be twenty years ago now
SE Reimer Apr 2016
(response to yesterday’s prompt
for national poetry month)

~

paisley in golden rod,
the only name for
a fabric this fright'ning,
remembered all too well.
by siblings one and all.
short one for little brother.
long one for a father, tall.
each has tried to forget
this, a night of infamy
gone wrong, a season's greeting
in the middle of the sixties.
when one from distant shore
thought to add to
our family this lore,
and sent as Christmas gift,
what's not on ANY child's list;
now tis burned indelibly,
etched far too deep in memory
for sure this gaffe
they thought a boon.
till disappointed children's sighs
their echoed groans
'cross living room,
this boon a bust revealed!
for whatever possessed
this he or she?
who, but pure insanity,
would conjour up this spirit
of unholy, living terror?
for this was no gift in living color;
no... this instead,
t'was the night before Christmas,
when hell incarnate
dropped in for a visit,
and dressed children six,
with a mum and their dad
in matching paisly,
pajamas of golden rod;
still a distressing memory
forever in infamy fixed!

~

post script.

yes, there are pics and there's even a home movie; six siblings are still trying to unearth and shred every copy!
SE Reimer May 2016
~

my view is blocked,
or so i thought,
yet mine unmitigated
unfiltered by another’s unseen hand.
i, the product of my joy, my pain;
the view is mine and in this frame
i often walk alone,
beside an ocean beach swept clean,
devoid of clutter,
anything distracting.
my view is mine;
no substitute for what i’ve learned,
my sight unblocked,
tis everything this life has earned!
so should i see life differently,
and should i not with you agree, then
do not think your view so different,
and do not think yours all to see.
leave me lie beside my pane,
and leave these eyes to find their gaze;
for i am not so unlike you,
my experience alone has changed
the way i see the joys of rain,
the way i hear the thunder’s glory;
of this i’m sure,
on this i’m certain,
you would share my point of view,
were you to live my story...
were you to feel my joy, my pain,
and should you gaze as long as i
for truth behind my curtain!

~

*post script.

her simple words...  "did you block me" start a progression of thought. my simple answer, "apparently, but without intention." but the bigger answer lies in this life question, is it possible to block another's view? my simple answer... no.  funny thow such honest words that she chose, start a chain, a train of progessing thought.  i am glrateful she asked, for she may have broken the writer's block that along with time deficiency has kept me.from these favored halls.  thank you, Sarah!
SE Reimer Nov 2015
~

"paper or plastic?"
she asks as i stand;
her chatter, all
friend-like... warms
my heart while she scans,
and insures i’m a fan.
i reach for my jeans
and draw from my pocket,
my wallet falls open
(it's lost all elastic),
no green in its folds
cuz my wife got there first,
"guess this time i will
be paying with plastic."



"paper or plastic?"
my answer he asks,
my groceries all scanned
’cross the checkout counter,
in disarray they lie waiting,
for the next stop, my home;
but the trip to my car
at the end of the lot,
and the slamming of brakes
to bring my car to a stop,
yeah, that bag better hold!
"i think it is best...
do you mind if i ask
for a little of both?"



"paper or plastic?"
she asks with a smile!
the look on her face
does not beguile
the dance of her eyes,
as our food she prepares;
a feast for the palate
this Saturday’s eve.
my reply, unexpected,
off my tongue rolls,
with such ease...
“this ain’t no diner, love!
thanks, but no thanks,
i’d prefer china... please!"


~

*post script.

a fun one that has been tumbling around inside this silly head for months, just dying to come out. enjoy this, yet another glimpse ’neath the covers of this ADHD mind!!
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.”
SE Reimer Nov 2015
(a ten-word, tenured writ)

~

they found her lying... 
beneath the weight 
of stolen lines!

~

*post script.

this ten word post from 2013 somehow seemed rather apropos today... with only one necessary change... it's gender.  

having begun my life of a poet as a 9-year old plagiarist, i know the shame of discovery... thankfully for me it was just fourth-grade and the shame of discovery opened eventually to a world of poetic uncovering.  i needed not copy anyone else for the seeds were already within!!!  my hope today is that she too will have such a revelation!  



my original post script from 2013...

copycats never win (10w)
though these words are true, i sometimes wonder if Solomon was right... is there ANYTHING new under the sun; are any of my words really my own?  or did i read them somewhere and then they jumbled, tumbled out rearranged as "my own?"
SE Reimer Nov 2013
they  found  him  lying... 
beneath the weight 
of  stolen 
lines!
copycats never win (10w)

though these words are true, i sometimes wonder if Solomon was right... is there ANYTHING new under the sun; are any of my words really my own?  or did i read them somewhere and then they jumbled, tumbled out rearranged as "my own?"
SE Reimer Jun 2014
bridge to heaven,
apex of the earth and sky;
west by north, corner of a nation.
where the ocean deep and blue,
rises from its depths
to join the hands of sea blown grass,
together reach for cotton wisps,
the cirrus clouds aloft to clasp,
teasing curling locks of hair
in a brilliant sapphire sky.
garden where the angels visit,
stoop to touch the darkened sod;
swoop to give a breezy nod,
a soft salvé from above;
joining sailing boats
with colors flying,
their wings of sheets
catch winds offshore;
waves collide in dance,
splash at bow en-trance,
curtsying like a curtain call,
here at play they soothe, enthrall;
transporting, lifting, cavorting, gifting,
on breezes light with gentle lofting,
Zephyrus sends them over yonder,
ever distant, ever stronger,
’cross the strait to reach her border.
port of angels, home to men,
bridge to offer sweet descent...
this, the end of jacob’s ladder,
dream of angel’s softened laughter,
listen close you’ll hear their whispers,
words of grace in flowing vespers
blowing down from snow-capped ridge
gently ’cross the angel’s bridge.
post script.

another of our favorite Northwest places, Port Angeles lies close to our nation’s most northwesterly corner.  at the foot of the rugged, snow-capped, Olympic Mountain range, she enjoys respite from it’s rain-forest moisture in an odd rain shadow that forms across the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula and reaches eastward across the Puget Sound to Whidbey and Camano Islands. just 15 miles across the strait to her north lies Victoria, the jewel of British Columbia, home to Bouchard Gardens on the southern shores of Vancouver Island. Port Angeles, she is rich in native heritage, full of natural bounty from sea and soil, and sunsets here are always beautiful.  we time our annual pilgrimage here in early July, for her colorful and fragrant lavender harvest and accompanying festival.  “port of angels”... a rather fitting name for such a heavenly place.
SE Reimer Sep 2014
~

an arrival obscure
white package austere
makes its debut with the daily post;
an advent surreal
no ordinary mail
this addressed to his last known abode.

how could they have know
he’d moved up in this world
to a parcel up high on a hill;
where the air is more clean
the grass there grows green
adorned with granite and daffodil.

“Overdraft Settlement” it read
“a few years overdue,” i said!
softly weeping, his mother’s response.
over-burdened, and under a cloud
fervent prayers she utters aloud
yet nothing but silence from that “beyond.”

no settlement, no check can ever replace
the comfort she seeks in seeing his face,
what she would trade for one last goodbye;
each daybreak one closer to final sunset
she searches for answers she doubts she will get,
yet each morning she rises with a hope of reply.

but maybe, it is just this...
a “reply” as good as it gets;
these messages showing that he’s not forgotten.
though perhaps meager the payment,
like a gift of heaven-scent,
each a reminder, his presence from heaven.


~ postscript ~

party to a class action for exorbitant overdraft fees, a settlement check arrived this week with his name on it.  it is five long years since we laid him to rest, yet it is reminders like this that can leave us short of breath and stir up every imaginable emotion we have felt in this loss.  but, if we still our hearts and quiet our minds we can see hope, like a sliver of sun ray breaking through a ceiling of dark clouds, shining down from heaven to give us a reminder of him… his presence from heaven.


(kind of like my new cover page photo)
SE Reimer Dec 2014
~

the stores here are crowded,
and everywhere i see
the signs of the season
selling Christmas to me;
the lights, sights and sounds,
flashing colors abound;
on every channel the music,
their ads and their movies.
on every corner selling trees,
their seasonal drinks
to quell the freeze.
we'd not know it’s Christmas
without them telling us so...
at least that's what it seems.
and even that word,
they've seemed to steal,
taking Christ out of Christmas
so their wares they can sell.
it's enough to lose my place
to choke on my song
the words stuck in my throat
it’s all gone so wrong.

so, their “X” i hoped to replace
and in my haste to remand
i made my demand,
“take the ’X’ off of Xmas,”
i shouted;
“put Christ back, in His place!”
but my kneee-**** reaction
mixed with failure to search then
made me blind to the facts
so instead i besmirched them.

then a truth i discovered,
just yesterday,
and now that i know,
i'm embracing the "X"
as should every good Christian.
for it was the "X"
those Greeks knew best;
it carried the "chi",
putting the ”X” there in Christ;
it went something like this- Χριστός.
and the marauding i’ve fought,
the hijacking i thought,
it was never taken;
it was never gone, at all,
it’s been there all along.
so i’ll admit i’ve been wrong.
for “X” marks the spot,
an intersection of sorts,
where the sacred meets the profane,
a collision of Able and Cain.
and just as Christ born to man
and new life He began,
with my faith now restored,
i can return to my song
and sing of Christmas,
the Christ child,
and Xmas
again!  

~


post script.
with inspiration from the following at Dictionary.com.:


Here’s a holiday surprise that only the dictionary can provide. Do you find the word “Xmas,” as an abbreviation for Christmas, offensive? Many people do.

You won’t find Xmas in church songbooks or even on many greeting cards. Xmas is popularly associated with a trend towards materialism, and sometimes the target of people who decry the emergence of general “holiday” observance instead of particular cultural and religious ritual.

But the history of the word “Xmas” is actually more respectable — and fascinating — than you might suspect. First of all, the abbreviation predates by centuries its use in gaudy advertisements. It was first used in the mid 1500s. X is the Greek letter “chi,” the initial letter in the word Χριστός. And here’s the kicker: Χριστός means “Christ.” X has been an acceptable representation of the word “Christ” for hundreds of years. This device is known as a Christogram. The mas in Xmas is the Old English word for “mass.”  (The thought-provoking etymology of “mass” can be found here.) In the same vein, the dignified terms Xpian and Xtian have been used in place of the word “Christian.”

*As lovers of the alphabet, we are transfixed by the flexibility of “X.” The same letter can represent the sacred and the profane (“rated X”).
SE Reimer Sep 2013
small raindrops I cry...
much more
than meets the eye
men weep too, but often their grief remains hidden
SE Reimer Dec 2018
~

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

~
post script.

walking up a downtown street, a blus’try, autumn day, and suddenly aware of a blue-sky-break in rain-laden clouds overhead.  looking for the sun, i realize it is hiding from my view in this valley of towering urban sky-scapers. yet though its face unseen, on glass its visage mirrored, the brilliant gaze of solar rays reflecting! and even its warmth is felt on my cheeks as i walk in its radiance; the parallels to life and love musing these words.
SE Reimer Mar 2015
~

the difference
just a day makes,
as my sun gives
way to tears;
its a different
kind of mourning,
yet i wonder
even here...
would i rather
life was lived,
instead of just
with hindsight,
was visible
in arrears?
perhaps,
sometimes,
my head nods,
yes,
but oh how often
would i miss
the wonder of
discovery;
the joy of doors
once closed,
opened when
i least expect?
and would
my choices
be the same,
with my foresight
saving me
from all the pain
that follows
love's discovery?
no,
i think
i'll take life
with all its twists
and turns
just as
its already
being written!

~

*post script

today balmy spring-like temperatures gave way to Oregon's typical late-winter rains. it is.always amazing to me how dependant we are on the weather for our moods; this change reflecting a mood already felt, a melencholy already known. sometimes it seems the weather knows best.
SE Reimer Jun 2016
~

awakened river ripples, all that tells
the world above
life beneath the surface teems;
its ever current washes clean thousand
year-old scars,
granite faces polishing;
mossy garden fingers gentle fluttering,
alive in watery breeze;
and rainbows flashing from the deep their
momentary smiles,
their call to join in hide and peek;
riffle's laughter,
rising from her depths calls as if to speak,
i offer peace, come dip your
harried soul in me;
the tranquility you seek, flows not in
current's rushing stream,
but in living here, in still release.

~

*post script.

a much-needed, hard-earned getaway,
coming in days with a few nights
by the sea...

this perhaps my harried soul’s pre-release.
SE Reimer Apr 2016
~

(old beach fence)

pickets set,
once in symmetry,
straight and white...
young teeth;
now in weathered state,
discolored by
the salty spray;
rust-formed rivers
trickle down from nails,
barely tethered
to its frail frame.
in places, shifting sand,
overruns its posts,
like a winding score,
it's rhythm lagging,
holding yet its notes;
fulfilling purpose,
like an old musician,
though beaten down
by wind and storm
the music strong,
sometines pouring out
in gentle song,
oftimes belting.
out in haunting tune;
lyrics pointing,
shaking voice
still croons,
the heart still beats,
though the mind
is drifting on;
like an old,
weathered,
beach fence...
has not lost
it's relevance!

~

*post script.

in conversation with a beautiful mind, about her photo of an old beach fence.  she says, “I love the loneliness in that picture, though I'm not sure why.”  his answer just a hopeful guess, “i know why... it speaks of purpose and usefulness, despite age and state of repair; it speaks of direction, despite its apparent randomness... too oxymoron-ish to not be drawn in...”  conversation ’tween two friends, conceiving thoughts, in particular her encouraging response with these words... “You should make that into a poem! And yes, that is exactly it!" yes indeed, she is a beautiful mind, this precious, poet friend of mine!!
SE Reimer Sep 2013
Today as we tended,
Our garden of tears,
I considered so many,
Forgotten by years.
Ashes to ashes,
And dust to dust;
What more is left,
After moth and rust,
Have taken their toll,
On this fragile frame.
Does their memory live on?
Or just their name?
Etched into stone,
On a hillside of green,
Pushed aside by the living,
Generations between.
When flowers no longer
Are laid at their grave,
And visits made only
To a name on a page.
And all they accomplished,
Left to cynics and critics,
Does life really matter?
Or how it is finished?
Yes! Each matters to God,
Though forgotten by man;
Each remembered by He,
Who laid out earth’s plan.
And purpose fulfilled,
For which we were born,
Passes death’s veil,
A crown to adorn.
In that day we'll know,
Then His plan will be clear,
When sinners called saints,
To their home He draws near.
~

post script.

(this note added Memorial Day, 2015)

as we paid tribute again today, i was reminded of this write from several years back.   my son is laid to rest near an older section of the cemetery and on days like these when many pay tribute, the line between markers laid over 50 years previous that bear no flowers and those laid more recently and are adorned lavishly, is a stark reminder of how long after we are gone our descendants will remember us. it is easy to look at this with cynicism... and then i remember , its not my memory that really counts anyway... a most comforting thought in an otherwise dark moment.
SE Reimer Sep 2016
a tribute

~

memories...
in fading sepia we find,
the romance of
another time;
albums filled
with black and white,
of glossy faces
burnt in fading light;
boxes of our ko-dak-chro-ments,
gone-by treasures,
once-upon-a-moments;
wistful years once crystal clear,
mem’ries drowned in haze,
resurface now,
renewed in tears,
...as we remember well.

memories...
the yellow ribbons tied,
’round an ol’ oak tree;
anxious waiting to make an “us”,
the anticipation of a “he and me”;
until the news from distant shore,
yet another casualty of war,
and now remains but this,
a marble slab inscribed,
in accolades of former glory,
merely remnants ’midst the pines;
on forest lawn where promises,
tween two for’er became untwined,
...as she remembers well.

memories...
so many are the ways
the mem’ry onward lives
even this, a,
“do this in...” request
restores a covenant anew
a "remembrance of..."
the “we” here left behind,
be it in the bread we break,
this forever to remind,
a sacrosanct entreaty made,
promise sealed as blood in wine,
reserving not for deities alone,
but given us immortal souls,
to us a gift at birth,
of staggering import,
responsibility of heavy worth;
of after-ashes keeping still,
an ever-after captured with
the shutter, brush and quill,
...so we remember well.

memories...
its keeping cherished lovingly
though its loss,
its diminishment bereaved;
as lovers silent grieve,
those lost to us yet breathe,
in memories ’midst the breeze.
forgetful of the slightest
until one day in finality
their mortal soul is set free
into immortality.
...to for’er remember.

memories...
to us, a call, a charge,
a “ne’er forget”
a duty large
a “do this in
remembrance of”
this our promise
to e’er remember,
always keep;
forgetting never,
to carry the flame,
while we yet live
in sunshine’s grip;
an oath is sworn,
that forever we,
shall always ready be,
for in remembering best,
the tears flow easily,
and so it isn't pity,
of a loss i seek,
no,
for ’tis in finding memory
that i shall always weep,
...as i remember well.

~

post script.

of love lost in the haze of war; of lives changing motion, a baby is born, as a grandmother moves into memory care... 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!” and so we line our shelves, our walls with them, visiting inscribed stones behind fences.  

dedicated today to our memories each of loved ones, lovers lost; but on this dark eve, especially those who lost those souls, three thousand strong, a darkest day of remembrance, this September the eleventh, who never got to say goodbye... so we remember well!
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