Sleeveless in Seattle
cruising through the pouring rain
night of the living dregs in my brain
thrown away dreams clogging up the drain
given away my slick jacket of satin
nothing left now but this picture of Patton
to stay awake keep repeating words of Latin
mea culpa I need a job something new
need something to take my mind off you
maybe the coffee house can give me something to do
Don McLean had his American Pie
so please explain to me why then can't I
keep off the sauce give the smoke a kiss goodbye
for lunch a giant box of Fiddle Faddle
broke as hell up the creek without a paddle
not even a decent shirt sleeveless in Seattle
Gomer LePoet ....
Thoughts gathered on my walk in the woods.. I was typing in key words on my phone so that I can later write about what thoughts came to me while out walking..
It was getting a bit cloudly so I took the creek path home.. But before I was able to hit the path I saw her in the water.. At least what look to be like a woman waring a strange silver suit..
She was slender and seem to be very beautiful.. She held out a small orb in front of her and if by magic it seem to turn into some form of container.. She then scooped up some water and held it over her head.. 3 metal circles then spun around her and lit up very brightly spinning faster and faster with no sound..
A very bright flash then occured and they were all gone.. I suppose I have something to write about now! wow!!!!!!!!
Such is the sound–
These hearts are a'breakin'.
Only I know that crink in my neck–
that sprainin' a'joints grinding 'gainst disks.
I know how the cold creeks do get in October,
sheets and slabs, it's wet in October.
Listen to those frost-ridden reams underfoot!
Cold conversing, I said, "A'hush off. . . Now, now. . . smirk'd, yea-sayin' open an ear–"
Listen to that shard, to them shimmerin' sheets of ice underfoot: Snap.
You'd think them finger-snappin's was some jazz! Jam! Jubilate! Just do it again.
I want an iced, ambient encore; chilled to the bone-core, I grab that glarin' a'glistenin' glass.
The median is near the middle, give that shard a shove, I want to hear it again–
That's my kick, my wake-me-not whistle borne of creekwater:
That single soundin' o'shatterin' of sharded sheets,
two halves of a once-whole gripped,
glistenin' a glass singin' as it snaps:
I, ice, do hiss!
Listen: it's in the hiss, man!
And my snaps sound ballistic
when I break, balletic, in two!
'Twas a hiss indeed.
that ice does as electricity:
O' it does cry when it cracks,
it does fizzle as it fragments,
it does spark as it splits,
it does bend light between bubbles,
it does melt in my midst,
things do get wet in October.
O' it was by the creek that I told her:
"Such is the sound of two hearts a'breakin'–
'Tis only ice underfoot."
Maybe it's because of all the lies,
Or maybe because of the ones I despise,
But sometimes I think it's about you,
But I'm not sure; I've got no clue
Maybe it's you,
From my point of view,
Never will you face rejection
The way your dimples are only on one cheek,
The way you laughed that day by the creek,
The way you held my hand trigging sparks,
The way you looked at me at the park
I don't know why you make me feel stupid,
Like I've been played by the Cupid,
I don't care anymore on why this is,
For I'd like to stay like this.
Just The Way It Is
Sitting watching the time go by,
tears dripping from my eye,
another day wondering why.
Can't handle another day of this,
memories that I can't dismiss,
falling deeper into the abyss.
Nothing ever goes my way,
so many bills left to pay,
this all sounds so cliche.
Hazel eyes turning black,
can never get any slack,
maybe it's time to see my quack.
Life on a downward spiral,
not a person left to dial,
down Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Up shits creek with no paddle,
life is nothing more than a baffle,
riding a race horse with no saddle.
I'm bewildered and dumbfounded,
with my demons, I'm always surrounded,
can't move, feels like I'm grounded.
With each passing day, it gets worse,
somebody please break this curse,
wishing life would go in reverse.
Start over from the beginning,
go back to the very first inning,
can't stop my head from spinning.
Wanna die, but to afraid,
pro's and con's, I have weighed,
like usual, I am dismayed.
This thing called life, I just can't figure,
the hole I dug, can't get no bigger,
no guts to pull the trigger.
Instead, I will just go on living,
never taking, but always giving,
can't fathom any type of meaning.
As I bid you a fond farewell,
my secrets, I will never tell,
life sure is a living hell.
I want your guts not your heart ;
To reach within in you squeeze certain parts;
Tightened grasp destroying innards;
Breaking hearts is for begginers
For true emotions arises deep within
You're aching heart a creek with bends
Rushing deep to your core
Hiding Behind intestines and lung support
Deep within lies rotten things
Memories of pain and signs of angst
These are what i'll call my own
And I'll barter you my love,
There you are little night-time ghost..
Sit with me..
I'll play you a song tonite..
But only if you sing along ok..
Sing me your story..
Down by the silver creek..
Little ghost cries..
Shadow of Jesus..
With lightfilled eyes..
Strum me your music life warm soul..
Chords and melodies..
A flame of colors for you to hold..
Midnight church bell memories..
Silver creek runs through her..
Sad body left alone in the cold..
Placed there by a lost souless banisher..
Her little night-time ghost I play to and hold..
Ghostly little finger..
Light compass of evil..
Head north holy music player..
To the house of the evil false preacher..
Our song was over.. I now know why she sings a sad song.. I make my way north to the old church of the preacher.. I play him this song and sing to him the lyrics during his midnight mass.. Heaven awaits little night-time ghost.. Justice will be served..
Come, Sit Here With Me,
Let's Dip Our Toes In The Creek,
Though It's November,
Let Us Watch The Waters Gleam
As They Swirl Around Our Feet
Come, Lie Here With Me,
We Could Kiss Or Count The Stars,
Though It's November,
We Could Still Have Frosted Dreams;
Steal The Night And Call It Ours
Come Here, Keep Me Warm,
The Sun Does It's Job, No More,
Though It's November,
We Could Still Go To A Lake,
And Build Castles On The Shore
I wish to share a story
of when I nearly met my fate-
A tale of an adventure,
and a quest I had to make
A story of an abandoned mine-
A search for silver and gold-
Of prospectors, and the miners-
And the secrets they must hold
My father used to search for gold
in the mountains and their streams-
And found enough of the elusive stuff
to make my mother's wedding rings.
Well, I thought that I would try my hand-
to see what I could find-
So I set out to seek the entrance
to an old, abandoned, mine
I left for Arizona,
to Prescott, I wished to go -
Crossed the Rio Grande,
on thru New Mexico.
Finally got to Phoenix -
800 miles and count'n,
then north, up to Prescott,
Thumb Butte, and Granite Mountain.
I pitched my tent on Granite Creek,
with great anticipation-
Checked the notes from my father's quotes,
and began the exploration
With my father's tin pan packed in a bag-
and his pic-ax at my side-
I felt like a real "old timer",
with heaven as my guide.
I found the one I was looking for-
with a darkened cave as the entrance door-
And a handmade sign on a rotting board, said
"Welcome Friend, 1894."
Well, I picked and I chipped! and I chipped and I picked!
til the sores on my hands ran red-
When I felt some dirt, drifting down on my shirt-
and some pebbles hit my head.
It only took a second-
for the ground to start to quake-
The dirt was falling faster,
and the walls began to shake.
I ran as fast as I knew how,
toward that entrance door-
When the last crosstimber broke in half,
and came crashing to the floor!
Now, I don't know how much time had passed-
since all of that began-
But I felt as if I had been in a trance-
when someone took my hand.
I grabbed my shirt-tail, wiped my eyes-
tilt my head to see-
And saw a sun-dried, weathered face,
looking down on me!
He wore a wrinkled old hat,
an old flannel shirt-
Raggedy old pants, and a mile's
worth of dirt-
He had a beard of silver threads,
with a tinge of ginger root-
His hands were thick, and calloused,
and their color matched his boots.
He gave me a jug of water
that came from the nearby creek
As I began to take a drink-
he began to speak.
"Strange thing about abandoned mines-
they wish to be left alone,
To keep the souls of all of those-
who often called them home."
His voice began to tremble-
as he spoke those woeful words,
He seemed to be recalling
many things he'd seen and heard.
"It isn't greed that brought you hear,
I can see that, in your eyes,
it's not just ore, you're looking for-
But another kind of prize."
"You must go back to your domain,
and you'll find that treasure chest-
For it lies deep within your heart-
and in those folks you favor best."
I shut my eyes, said a prayer-
and asked, if what I did was wrong?
When I finished, and said "amen",
Well, that old man was gone.
I never asked him for his name-
or the place from whence he came-
Some things are better left in silence-
and not to be explained.
I went back to take another look,
and gather up my gear-
Tried to find that “Welcome” sign,
but, it too, had disappeared.
I stood in "awe,and wonder,"-
of the place that I had found-
And with my eyes, I realized,
I had trod on hallowed ground.
Going home I pondered,
'o'er the words that old man said-
But, did all that really happen,
or was it the "bumps" upon my head?
I got back home, and with a smile-
strode up to the door-
And there, hung a handmade sign
on a rotting board, said-
"Welcome Home, 1894”
r.riddle August 2011
revised July 28, 2013-Copyright
Poetry should go for a walk at night
Through the park
lay in the due sprinkled grass
and gaze up at the sky lit by stars and a Hunter's Moon
Poetry should put on a crimson red dress
With blackened leather boots
And sing for all of the ladies and gentlemen
Who drove for miles just too hear her voice
Poetry should put on her blue and white polka dotted galoshes
Dance in the rain and jump in puddles with the kids
and let the rain drizzle upon her head
With not a care if she gets wet
Poetry should sit down and curl up by the fire
sip some hot chamomile tea
And read a captivating book that Richard Tyler would befriend
Until she drifts into sleep
Poetry should paint you a picture of love
One that starts with a smile, blue sky's, the brine flavored ocean
And ends with your lips running across my chest
while my hands caress the nape of your neck
and yours entwine with the tangles of my hair
Poetry should make the colors of the leaves turn
as clouds creep into the sky leaving a blanket of crystals on the ground
Poetry should thaw out your forgotten memories
that froze like the once trickling creek
so you can know that every second is worth while
Also much love if you know who Richard Tyler is and no, not the fashion designer.