I bathed in the sound of your voice last night.
Three hours, twenty-four minutes,
if I’m right.
It was a long warm bath, a delight.
No short dip or quick shower,
then goodnight.
Several times we searched for endings.
Three hours, twenty-four minutes,
our conversation extending.
No moments of awkward silence.
Laughter filled all the gaps,
of any shyness.
It seemed we were both amazed.
Three hours, twenty-four minutes,
of many topics raised.
Our bodies, our faces, in different spaces.
Yet with both of us so present,
the distance erases.
Three hours, twenty-four minutes,
I was at your virtual door.
I could have stayed there,
Three-hundred hours more.
poems about life by the poet author Richard Ebner
This poem was inspired by a phone call to someone I hadn't spoken to for years. I highly recommend reaching out to a person you may have lost contact with. It can really help your mood, especially when you live alone, as I do right now.
Dear Judy; Judith Anderson, Judith Anderson-Ebner, Mother,
I am alive right now thanks to you. Mothers, like yourself, are the primary reason any of us have life. So, thank you for life, my mother. You are gone but not forgotten, for I remember all of you.
Mother, I remember a time before I could say, “Mother.”
I remember a time before words.
A time when coos and cries were my only conversation.
And I remember you talked to me, you smiled, listened.
I remember when my body cramped and twisted,
tormented by its own immaturity.
My tiny new body played painful pranks inside me.
It was your arms surrounding me where I found comfort.
The whole world was you then; your face, your voice, your loving touch.
I remember one through five, as the greatest time to be alive.
Everything was bright and new.
A breath of air.
Touching your hair.
A simple song to sing along.
Or just my lying still and letting you fill;
my ears with sound,
my eyes with sight,
and my mouth with milk you made within.
You were there when I needed you, Mother.
You were there—and I remember.
I remember your smile.
Your smile fascinated me, riveted me, encouraged me—made me smile back at you.
I remember, Mother.
I remember the time you gave to me.
Your time, your days, your hours, your minutes and your precious seconds.
Always, your time was mine.
Mine before yours—yours and mine.
I remember, Mother.
I remember.
I remember blood—my blood.
I remember feeling very scared—crying with no hope of ever stopping.
Crying for the finger, that at four, I was sure was lost.
No one could comfort me—no one except you.
You held me—talked to me—showed me hand and proved me wrong.
The tears stopped—laughter replaced them, and smiles returned.
That night, you read extra stories to me, I fell asleep and my wound healed.
Thirty-seven years have passed and still my finger shows a tiny scar.
It reminds me of you Mother.
And so, I remember.
I remember Walden.
Summer mornings as we arrived early to stake our claim.
We watched all those people coming and we made up stories about their lives.
And then later, when blankets and bodies blocked our view of the sand,
I remember how we carefully picked our way past them.
By afternoon we were at our special spot.
Our secrete place.
You remember, Mother.
I remember Saturday mornings in the family car, alone together.
Those weekly trips to and from the museum school.
You were so alive then, and you were all mine.
I remember how we laughed and talked and planned the future.
Safe inside our private shell we watched the world passing by us.
In blurry lines of picket fences, I remember old familiar things.
The pink house we both hated.
How we warned each other not to look when we were coming near.
And then, if by mistake we caught a glimpse, how we screamed, shielded our eyes, stuck out our tongues, made ugly faces, and then laughed at our own silliness.
I remember how much fun you were.
I remember loving you, and feeling totally loved by you.
On those mornings, I could do anything—be anyone I wanted to be.
Thank you for those mornings, Mother.
I remember Vietnam.
I remember a mother refusing to give up any of her three sons.
I remember marches and meetings and people wanting peace.
I remember your friends, Mother.
I remember liking them.
I remember you wanting to be called Judy.
My friends, were often shocked by that.
As if mothers aren’t supposed to have their own names.
Introducing you as Judy made my new friends uncomfortable at first.
I remember you enjoyed that.
I remember purple.
Purple pants.
Purple hat.
Purple front door.
Purple Judy.
I remember stubborness, anger and rage.
I remember alcohol.
I remember trying to rescue my mother from You.
But You would not let me have her.
I remember policemen in my bedroom.
And accidents, and doctors, and phone calls late at night.
I remember your pain, Judy.
For years, your pain was my pain.
And I remember.
Being my mother was not enough for you.
I understand that, Judy.
I am sorry I couldn’t help you find what you needed, wanted, couldn’t have.
I hope somehow, in your last moments you made peace with yourself.
And I hope you forgave me for not being there at that moment.
Your Loving Son,
Richard
P.S. Judy, please don’t feel bad about taking my Mother away from me. You haven’t, for I remember Her.
Someone’s been messing around with the pyramid.
Self-actualization is gone and parenting is on.
They seem to be, forbidding the id.
Procreation they are strongly supporting.
Personal choice they are aborting.
And what are these mergers and acquisitions of which they speak?
Sounds like something you’d read in Businessweek.
When out on a date is that what’s at stake?
As if you’re on line and it’s purchase time.
Sorry, but I find myself yelling, “Not buying what you are selling!”
Moving up a pie piece I see, what next, they’ve planned for me.
Once you acquire, retention becomes your intellectual desire.
Retention is not a word I’d ever choose, or even be thinking.
Remembering and growing, now that has my attention.
The ring on finger was often just feigning, divorcees continue complaining.
If parenting were really the most honorable goal,
Child abuse would not have taken such a horrible toll.
Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.
There are already too many children lost in the wood.
Some of us just know, not to attempt the parenting role.
Who are these PhD’s, messing with the structure without asking?
A pyramid is indeed, piled high and deep,
but Maslow’s is the one I chose to keep.
So, to all those parents trying to do things right, I say,
“Good luck to all, and to all a goodnight!”
Man
Man is such a curious thing, dancing in his ring of ropes.
To start and stop when bell is rung.
Moving in and all around, while striking down another’s hopes.
Fighting for a turn on top, and finding it a fleeting prize.
The hero’s song so shortly sung.
The fighter fights, while the lover cries.
Man is such a curious thing.
It leaves a woman, wondering?
Burdens of Our Past
The past must not cripple us, you and I.
You, unfulfilled in marriage and with men in general. Me, dealing with long-term pain, then rejection.
Both triggered to be on our guard.
I can understand your fear of trusting once again. Easier to focus on career and cats.
One bad relationship away from 30 of them.
In some ways cats, are, better than men.
You might understand my need to be wedded. Left it loose in the past and got burned.
Never had a dog treat me so badly.
Dogs have no secrete agenda.
And still, I know marriage is no guarantee of togetherness. In fact, it seems constructed as planned obsolescence.
A roadmap for how to separate legally.
With lawyers and judges controlling all the turns.
I am willing to back off and remove the pressure. Please know that this is not easy for me.
The writer in me wants us to be in writing.
To tell the world there is no other.
My heart knows you love me.
In my head is where any doubt remains.
All my edginess about the words you use is intellectual. This brain of mine is wired semantically.
I promise to try harder to listen to your heart, with my heart.
To wait for clarification before assuming.
I know I have still much work to do if this promise is to be kept. But I am willing to make effort.
You have it in writing.
Feel free to remind me of this anytime I get edgy.
07/09/2017
I cry out, or is it you.
My voice lost in the moment that is us.
Liberated, completely abandoned of all reason.
Never before, never imagined, a moment in time so completely surrendered.
Surrendered of mind, surrendered spiritually, physically.
No words can describe, and yet I need words.
I am words.
You know this about me.
You know me.
You were there with me in this moment I attempt to describe.
You know it is indescribable.
I love you so.
Your mouth opening, closing.
Uninhibited by my presence and yet totally aware of me.
In these moments, you are the most beautiful person I have ever known.
In these moments, I tell you how beautiful you are.
In these moments, I tell you I love you.
You respond and are more beautiful still.
More beautiful than I can express with all my words.
You are my love in this moment, in all moments.
You are love itself.
Out on the town he looks around.
There’s a pretty girl he sees.
She’s not fat, but could be skinnier.
The night is young and so is he.
Not the time to settle.
Another club he shall try.
A gorgeous face catches his eye.
This girl is stunning.
Radar on, he goes gunning.
Why oh why, do we objectify?
Are shapes and forms all we can see?
Why oh why do we objectify?
Is this all we can be?
Chasing skirt is a manly pursuit, or so they say.
And big boys don’t cry, even when rejected.
They just regroup, and search for other prey.
This is not what I want as a man.
And this is not, who I am.
Big boys should learn how to cry.
For in the crying there are healings.
Look less with eyes, and more with feelings.
Space/ Place
Whether it’s your place or mine, let us continue to find our space.
You and I can be very intense, together and apart.
Let us keep trying to understand our place,
And then nothing can tear us apart.
I know I sometimes react and go to places where you never intended to send me.
My work has only just begun in finding my place, my space.
In moments of intensity, I have trouble being reflective and calm.
I am very much aware of this about me.
Awareness, though useful and necessary for change, is still mostly intellectual.
There is a space between my head and my heart.
My heart is always in its place, even when my head widens that space.
I am trying and will continue trying to close this gap.
In the meantime, know that I love you in my heart.
My heart’s love is unconditional.
My brain is not yet so highly evolved.
closing the gap in 2020 richardebner.com
1, 2, 3, X, Y, Z
So many sad good-byes,
a touch, a glance,
a cup of water for dry parched lips,
a simple kindness
and eyes speaking for words unsaid.
My brother the engineer,
so confident,
so reliant on the tangible,
grounded in mathematics
and backed-up by the repeatable.
Proudly displaying his prototypes,
this brother, armed with pencil and pad,
traveled in a land where quad-paper ruled,
numbers always added up
and anything thought of could be built.
Today this bother is lost.
His logic escapes and leaves him trapped within himself.
Out of sequence,
jumbled up numbers pour from his mouth randomly bumping into one another,
then softly they dissipate into the air above his bed.
If I could walk around inside his head with him
I’d point out what I could recognize and describe what I could not.
I might sit awhile in front of the control panel
And once acclimated I’d say,
“There Brother, there’s the word you want”, or “try this switch, I think it moves a finger.”
I know I can’t do this for you Carl.
And I can only imagine how scary it is in there for you.
But I’m here as close as I can be.
And when your words come out all mixed up and stuck together
I’ll help you sort and separate them.
And when you need to cry,
For I believe there is much healing in tears,
I’ll listen, hold your hand and say, “Poor Baby, its ok Carl, Cry.”
Then I’ll be crying too.
As I am now.
You can do nothing wrong anymore.
Miscalculations don’t matter.
Your only job is eating and drinking.
And if your fork can’t find your face,
or your cup gets lost in space,
I’ll callout the coordinates.
Theo 12/25/04
To drink or not to drink?
That is the question.
When the words come out misspoken,
and rage replaces reason, I’ve had enough.
I have never awoken in my own vomit,
or crashed my car at the summit.
But never is a long time that hasn’t happened yet.
On a good day, alcohol is a reward.
The treat that’s there to trick me.
Relax, put your feet up.
Fall flat on your face.
I have never picked a fight at a bar,
or given my lover a physical scar.
But never is a long time that hasn’t happened yet.
On a bad day, double-edged swords.
The shouts that cut my lover, cut me as well.
Deep wounds are not mended, by my next day’s words.
How long must it be a question, before the answer is clear?
When the answerer is the me I want to be,
the question goes away.
Don’t drink today.
And still the question gets asked, over and over.
Is it nobler to remain sober, to steer my ship clearheaded?
Or is alcohol now the captain,
leaving me lost at sea?
Each day I ask myself the question,
will I forever drink, or never drink alcohol again?
Forever is a long time that hasn’t happened yet.
For some the question is already the answer.
For me, the answer is the question.
I will ask it every day.
And answer NO, one day at a time.
Richard 12/31/2019
I want to talk of who goes first and of the great surrender.
For love is on my mind,
in my heart,
my legs,
my arms,
my hands,
my feet,
all my cells contenders.
It is not always a lesser stance to be the last one in.
Hesitation protects sometimes,
your head,
your heart,
your soul,
your very being,
all those states of Zen.
This leap of mine is mine alone without demands or expectation.
You are not required to,
assure me,
cure me,
endure me,
placate me,
or reciprocate my depths of fascination.
Our start together is neither a sprint nor a race to win.
Your pace may be,
up and down,
on and off,
forward and back,
in fits and starts,
never to fast to begin.
All I want for you to surrender is what you already have.
The kindness you show to me,
your smile,
your laugh,
your time,
your touch,
those precious moments of honesty all for my behalf..
I don’t want to fool around,
wasting time like everyone else.
Once the pragmatist, certain only of what I saw.
Principals failing all around me,
promises broken in their Fall.
Love the one you’re with, I started singing.
Thinking I could love them all.
I’ve spent my life so far, looking.
Looking without knowing what I’ve been searching for.
Playful though I still am, I’ll play that way no more.
This next love must be forever or simply just be not at all.
I don’t want to fool around,
wasting time like everyone else.
I used to think and think too much when passion questioned.
My answers always avoided absolutes;
Love,
Lifetime,
Forever.
For those words did not speak for me.
And now you ask, with our time so short, how am I sure of Thee?
My answer’s short and is complete,
I feel instead of see.
I don’t want to fool around,
wasting time like everyone else.
To some this Love that we have found makes no sense at all.
They worn of past mistakes and futures built on folly,
You so far off the ground, me so fast to fall.
Counting days and counting hours gives only false impressions.
You’ve talked to me and I to you,
we both have deeply listened.
I don’t want to fool around wasting time like everyone else.
I don’t want anything else.
All I want is you.
And I’ll be ready for you;
whenever You arrive.
The Night Before Christmas
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.
Home and alone for Christmas, as are many more.
Some who have just chosen to shut their door.
And others who have no doors to close, or friends to open them.
In parks, in tents, under bridges, and beneath structures less secure,
many solitary humans wait for nothing, and struggle to endure.
Others still, may have shelter from the storm, but no solace in their heart.
There are lovers choosing separation, and those forced to be apart.
The first year of a great loss, this is perhaps the hardest time for all.
Too soon to focus on joyful memories, and too close to the fall.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.
Home and alone for Christmas, as are many more.
Some who have just chosen to shut their door.
And others who have no doors to close, or friends to open them.
I think I will wrap myself warmly, find a stranger, and bring them gifts;
My time and me.
.
December 24, 2019 3:06 P.M. Found my stranger
Drove past him twice,
on the way to the supermarket,
and on the way back.
Didn’t see his sign on the way there,
and only read it after passing back by.
“[IN DESPERATION: Please help if you can]”
A block away I stopped my car,
grabbed a few bucks from the visor,
and walked back to meet my stranger.
He was surrounded by canvas bags,
some more worn than others,
but all had definitely traveled.
I said, “Hello,” and handed him three bucks.
I was thanked with handshake and smile.
“Steve,” he said. “Bless you.”
“I’ve been homeless myself,” I told him.
“Doesn’t it suck?” Steve piped back.
Then he talked some of his life’s journeys.
I listened; fisherman, farmer, fryer, framer and more.
I asked him what was next.
He said he was hitching north.
There might be a friend who could take him in.
We said our goodbyes,
and as I walked back to the car,
I heard him shout, “God Bless You!”
No, God Bless You, my Stranger,
I thought!
Hello old friend.
It’s been eight long years since we’ve had a head to heart.
I remember the day you said I was full of shit, stupid and imaginary without you.
That day.
That day you offered me the compromise.
That day I said yes.
Hello old friend, my heart.
I speak to you again on this night.
I speak of years past, doubtful and confused.
Then eight years in your care.
Eight years in your hands only.
Eight years loyally yours.
Hello my friend, my dear heart.
You need not answer me, me your mind.
I just need to talk.
I need to tell you what I’ve learned.
What you have taught me.
Listen to me my friend.
My times in charge were filled with waste.
Wasted nights, wasted days,
years.
This time while you have run my life has made me serious.
I know now, you are not a toy.
I can no longer use you to make me feel good and then abandon you.
It is because of you that I love, am loved.
You make me feel, bring out the poet in me, and make me real.
You make me real.
Candle light, is not just for the Israelites.
Before ego and the grid, wax and wick lit the id.
And children’s eyes sparkled.
On this shortest day of natural light, a single candle tonight we light.
With electric switches all flicked off, I’ll watch that flame, flit and flicker.
And as the glow slowly fades, still there, I sit and linger.
For me, life is a precious gift, and that flame forces me to remember this.
All too soon we burn out, which leaves me wondering.
What’s it all about?
Some say a prayer, ignite the wick and then move on.
But I sit and stay, until all the flame is gone.
And as the smoke slowly rises, I think of what life comprises.
For those lucky enough, like me—there is:
air to breathe,
water to drink and food eat.
I am blessed to have shelter from all storms, those real, and those imagined.
I am blessed to have made friends and reflective about friends lost.
I am in the here and now, recognizing this night could be my last.
On the second night of Hanukkah, the gambler in me shines.
I do my shtick, and pick the stick, I bet will burn the longest.
Sometimes right, but often wrong, in between I belong.
Subsequent nights keep me guessing.
How long will any of us have such a blessing?
And still I remain until all are out, before resuming.
On the last night, in the company of all their friends,
candles burn bright and burn much faster.
Though unrealistic, my final wishes for next year;
No Disasters!
Happy Festival of Lights to Everyone and to All a Goodnight!
Richard Ebner
So, this is Christmas?
100 million deliveries,
and a hundred-million more to go.
Amazon thrives, while the Amazon dies.
FedEx goes nonstop, as America shops.
Santa turns brown, for UPS ground.
Cameras at the front door watching.
Grinch’s at the front door stealing.
What is this revealing?
In a brick-and-mortar store,
A customer decides to roar!
The cashier can take no more.
Customer-service takes a call.
The voice is not friendly;
aggravated by the stall.
Zuckerberg keeps us friends.
Naughty or nice, those popup ads are the price.
Many invade on every device.
After work parties, galore.
Alcohol is the score.
Drivers, driving tipsy.
Anger comes down the chimney.
Poisonous words are spoke.
Love goes up in smoke.
In a parking lot, one driver steals a spot from another.
Angry words are exchanged—but—this time no guns are drawn.
Peace on earth my brother?
STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!
A grandfather finishes a dollhouse.
A granddaughter opens it with her imagination.
They are as one for a time.
Old friends get together.
They catch up,
and not just about the weather.
Lovers make time.
They express their gratitude for each other.
They stay in the moment.
At eighty, a woman’s legs are tired.
A White Christmas covers her walkways.
A neighbor, not hired, clears the snow for her.
Homeless and alone, as too many are,
volunteers provide some food and comfort.
They give more, than the Christmas Star.
A tired worker parks the delivery truck.
Passing by, a stranger stops and gives thanks.
The hot cup of coffee is not a prank.
In the supermarket, the next in line is smiling.
“How’s your day going this time of year? You look tired my dear.”
The question is asked, and the answer is sincere.
In a parking lot, a courteous driver waves, and waits for another.
Friendly greetings are shared.
Peace on earth my Brother!
So, this is Christmas.
I don’t want to scare you,
own you,
lock you up and throw away the key.
I just want to love you,
know you,
let you live and let you be.
You don’t need to change you,
rearrange you,
become someone else just for me.
I don’t want to stop you,
stall you,
say who you can and who you cannot see.
You need not worry,
scurry,
or feel as fast as me.
I am here for the long haul,
at the mall,
or any place you feel is right for Thee.
I am not a dead end,
a sometimes friend,
a fearful memory.
I am the real deal,
completely revealed,
here for you and here for me.
This is not a blind climb,
a binding time,
a path you cannot see.
You are just right,
all right,
complete as you are for me.
You are a smart woman,
a kind woman,
a beautiful gift to me.
I don’t want to keep you,
just share you,
lift you up and set you free.
Your friends are my friends,
your wants, my wants,
your footsteps are my pathway.
I know it’s been a short time,
a troubled time,
a time of mystery.
I just want some more time,
I hope a long time,
together we will wait and we will see.
I know I have a fine mind,
ahead of time,
but no more so than Thee.
Please do not hold back,
feel you lack,
or place yourself below my knee.
I am no more,
no higher score,
you are an equal self for me.
My love is not a drive by,
a one night,
and then we say goodbye.
You are the right choice,
my feminine voice,
singing softly to me.
I’m sorry if this is too fast,
a rocket blast,
a frightening revelry.
Please know I’m not carousing,
simply schmoozing,
or trying to advantage you.
I know my sorted past,
loves that didn’t last,
but all excluded you.
I hear the worry in your heart,
not to satisfy,
but this is only when apart.
When we are near,
you should not fear,
you are all I need my dear. (poet, writer, author)
Woodland Dream
We walked in your splendor last night,
my dog and I.
You stood there so proudly with your relatives’ all around.
I breathed in the cold air that surrounded you,
and viewed the ice that weighed heavy on your limbs.
You were so beautiful,
softly speaking with the wind in the peace of the night.
You made magnificent shadows on the moonlit snow beneath you.
So great is your strength,
to stand all night in the cold with no complaints.
And, so deep is your beauty,
it made my heart swell just to look at you.
Even after you die, you will still stand for many a year,
giving yourself as home to other living things.
You are food.
You are warmth,
You are shelter.
You will always remain my winter woodland dream.
Theo-Wednesday, January 10th, 1979
richardebner.com
Rockland, Maine
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