I sit upon my shore.
Ignoring the fact,
That I've made a pact.
That I would leave no instrument on it's shelf.
I think to myself.
Of that one sound so ripe.
Gosh, I want myself a bagpipes.
*Aren't bagpipes weird?*
No, owning a bagpipes wouldn't be weird.
*Yes it would.*
Oh? That's your opinion.
*They're pretty lame.*
Seriously. Bagpipes are cool.
Don't even try to argue. Give in to the pipes.
No. Be silent. Let the bagpipes envelop you.
*Where are you even from? Is this normal there?*
The land of bagpipes. Where I am home.
*So you're from Scotland?*
No. I need a bagpipes. So I will be home.
**Curtains behind unleash 10,000 bagpipes.**
*OH GOD. Why do you have so many bagpipes!?*
They are my brethren.
*They're just sitting there bro.*
*I am home.*
I don't even know why I wrote that. but it occupied me. Good day.
Early morning message
Like when teachers give textbook assignments
Knowing the solutions are in the back
Doesn’t matter how you learn
Show up on time with the answers
What a rocking knock
A clock to the jaw
One just did
Listen, you can hear it
When I hear those Bagpipes roar,
My heart begins to soar.
Frozen in my tracks,
My mind wanders back.
To a piper I once knew
Whose heart was pure and true.
He played those pipes like angels sing,
I often wondered, "Where are his wings?"
Those bagpipes casted a spell on me,
And that Irish lad's face is all I could see.
I used to weep when those pipes would sound,
Because for the moment my lost heart felt found.
See, that piper is the strongest man I ever met,
But because my heart was immature, I was'nt ready for him yet.
As years pass by, this broken heart has begun to heal.
Yet as soon as I hear those faithful pipes, my heart starts to feel.
Time has a way of putting our mistakes far in the past,
But I have to accept that Celtic sound will forever last.
So when you see that kilt and bearskin come marching in the room,
Do as I do 'listen' and soon your heart will bloom.
For those bagpipes serve a bigger role then i ever knew, That thunderous sound can only come from a select few.
And behind one of those pipes, stands a beautiful man, but he never notices I'm his biggest fan.
In August, 1977, My wife, Karen, and son Russ, moved back to Texas after eight years of being away. Back to Dallas, Karen's hometown. A house which just happened to be next door to her parents was going up for sale. However, the owners decided to rent it to us, with an offer no sane person could refuse.
Now the neighborhood was a long- established residential area. The majority of the residents, like my in-laws, had been there from its inception, which made the move easier, for we knew most of them. But, there is always one, whose antics over time, become legendary.
Joe, a Scotsman to the nth degree. Every new years eve, at the stroke of midnight, he would appear on his front porch dressed in his kilt, with his bagpipes, heralding in the coming year with supposedly,
"Auld Lang Syne ". At least that's what it was supposed to be, but with bagpipes, how does anyone really know. He didn't stop there; never ceasing to take advantage to publicly play that over-sized vacuum bag, he would often welcome newborn children, puppies, kittens, etc.
The day the moving van arrived, there he was, out on his porch wearing that plaid kilt, bagpipes clutched against his chest. Except, there was an unexpected "twist." After every two or three bars he would stop and yell out, "Stay away from the moors! Stay away from the moors!" Some of the neighbors stepped out on their porches just to see what was going on now. Even the crew unloading the van seemed to enjoy the entertainment and it helped the time seem to go faster.
Within ten days after somewhat settling in to our new place, Karen and I realized that the "moors" of which Joe spoke, actually were the "Moore's" who were our next door neighbors. Needless to say, it was an interesting neighborhood. That could be "another story."
copyright: richard riddle-august 03, 2015
so here we are beneath the pallid ray
of summer noontime seeking to escape
for just one moment from the normal shape
of discreet instance so that we might play
a different sort of role where one could say
the angry words to those with mouth agape
that tell apart the angel from the ape
but those are for another cooler day
instead we look to work a better will
in places where the choice is not so bright
as underneath the growing midday roar
of silver needles passing by the hill
each flashing clearly in the brilliant light
so bidding us to join with them and soar
His garb was not spectacular,his shoes were grey and worn;
his hair was longer than a mere crewcut.
His nails were very dirty,
his veins were free of needles-
and his face shone bright red
in the misty sunlight.
He greeted the sky with a wail of delight,
and the hearts of passers began to throb.
Summer and autumn were remarried in an embrace of generous hope,
throbbing airwaves,tapping feet,delighted smiles.
And then along came a citizen,politically correct;
oh so relevant,barely tolerant ,emancipator.
With a fuzz of of dirty gray
a salloween expressive nosegay-
A mission to expunge the infiltrator!
He was busy with his flute;
he could not practise,he said
"I only live two hundred yards away.
You must cease and leave this place
you do not fit here in this race-
ABANDON this ridiculous idea!"
So,the stopwatch was set;
the 'half hour rule' began to reign:
And the police turned up
after merely twenty minutes!
Nelson's watch saved the day
"take another twenty"They did say
and our liberator slunk away
Though earth on heel and
sky on neck:Lovers'
on a bridge
i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover.
i still don’t know how a cat managed
to knock on my bedroom door
while slayer’s seasons in the abyss
stopped me munching on violins and cellos:
i got paranoid being the only person in the house
with that eerie sound of knock knock...
but i guess greeting him in the morning
with a head-butt utilised his head for the ‘being human’
initiation... only yesterday he managed to open
the door to the kitchen using the handle -
and like any man with his middle finger outstretched
in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb.
p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common,
as does poetry and music, i still don't know
why philosophy started the fight, poetry has
nothing in common with philosophy to be
even remotely related for a boxing match,
it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances
of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete;
i guess someone had to point that out and side
with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add
one blatant innovation i'm working on,
no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs
of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry,
i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering,
spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted
picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper
articles from a bag like some weirdo doing the same,
writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family
enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl
done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours
with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol -
yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in
a repetitive loop.