SE Reimer

SE Reimer 1d

(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."

SE Reimer Mar 3

ever an expat

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!

SE Reimer Apr 2020

dream-breaker

(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

SE Reimer Mar 2019

fateful scribe

~

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

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

~

post script.

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

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

~

SE Reimer Mar 2019

lover’s tell

~

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.

~

SE Reimer Mar 2019

Milky Way

~

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 2019

movement

~

"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!