In late 1888, a Wells Fargo stage
Was relieved of its freight-
A strongbox, taken from its hold,
held thousands of dollars in coins of gold.

The brigands had a master plan,
To bury that box,
sit, and wait-
Then dig it up at a later date.

They found a spot on rock-hard ground-
Where it would lie, safe and sound,
So they sank it in a three foot hole-
to hide that box with coins of gold.

But what they didn’t realize,
that in the distance, sat a pair of eyes-
That had watched the whole event unfold-
and watched, as they buried that chest with gold.

Late that night, under a pale, lantern light-
a shovel's blade split those rocks-
and the hole was relieved-
of that strongbox.

William Nelson Riddle, owned that property-
And he lived with a basic philosophy-
“Since it was found, on my ground-
I guess it belongs to me.”

“Nelson” died in ’28, at age of 85-
He never said what happened to,
Or if, that chest survived-
And the "Legend of Riddle’s Gold"came alive.

As time passed, the story grew-
each year, a bit more grand-
That Nelson took that strongbox-
And hid it  elsewhere on his land

Greed is one of the “seven sins”-
"Everybody loses, and nobody wins"-
But the “want” for gold is a mighty strong thirst-
So his kin set out for a “family search.”

At morning’s dawn, the kinfolk came-
To search for gold, fortune, and fame-
They came with shovels, spades, and hoes-
And some “TNT”, so the story goes.

With disregard for propriety,
they descended upon the property-
Without a map, without a plan-
They spread out to search his land.  

Now, the rabbits and the coyotes,
and the gophers(one or two)-
Gathered on a little knoll,
To have a better view.

They knew what was going to happen-
It was just a matter of time-
When the dew had disappeared,
And the morning sun had reached it’s prime



They dug a hole here, and dug over there-
The morning sun was getting hot-
and everywhere they looked –
Was for naught.

Now, it isn't very clear
as who said what, to who-
But it must have been insult'n-
to start that ballyhoo.

There was push'n and shove'n
and calling names galore!
Yell'n and cuss'n
using words you ain't heard before!

And that was just the men-folk-
the women got in it too-
screaming heard, from north to south-
Those words should never come from a ladies mouth.

Fists being swung, shovels slung!
dust was kicked up in a ball-
nothing could be more entertaining-
than watching a family free-for-all!

Then suddenly, it came to a stop !
as quick as it began-
They gathered up all their gear-
and departed Nelson's land.

This is where the story ends-
all I know is what I'm told,
From my daddy, for he'd been sitting,
atop that little knoll.



Epilogue
(This is how I would like to have it end)

Somewhere in the "high above"-
at a table, two people sat-
One, wearing suit and tie-
and Nelson, with his beard and hat.

"Nelson, a lot of folks have you to thank,
for bringing that strongbox to the bank-
you saved a lot of folks their homes and farms."

Nelson, from his chair, arose-
standing *****, and proud-
Stroked his beard, then tweaked his nose,
smiled, and faded into the clouds.
(thanks folks for your patience)

Copyright September 16-2013 Richard Riddle






'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' and tending their stills

The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear

The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks

Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree

From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys

But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere

And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast

We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer

Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too

His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more

Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year

Have you ever lost a staring contest
To a pen?
Its eyes stare and petrify
All my limbs
The only movement my body betrays
Is the panicked beating
Of my chest against the warm air

No hunt and no monster
Has ever brought me so close to my death
Fight, only another excuse
to guard myself, and hide within
the old, motherless womb
the steel framework of bones,
my ribs encase more than lungs

But this pen, allied with
The gruesome,  horrifying, smiling
Faces of the kind kinfolk
Has chased me to the corner
Brought chains and locks to furnish me
Like a window frame or a stylized vase

The only teeth I fear
To sink deeply within me
And spill my blood
A display to the world

Silly- I am called a grown man,
Yet what I fear most
Is a small plastic cylinder
Resting on a yellow pad

I felt God creep onto my shoulder
worming up my spine
snaking across my shoulder blade
before slithering and burrowing
into my shoulder

perched like a Gothic cemented gargoyle,
whispering adages like a scratched CD
I felt each repeat with a wince in the breach
of melody.

I try to take in my brother's words
with my full attention
but God is a gargoyle
perched upon my shoulder.

After awhile,
the weight becomes unbearable
and I'm wondering where Lucifer is
so to even the tension

but the wretched old gargoyle
sinks in ever deeper
and his voice now rises
from a hush to a raspy mutter.

He gargles the truth like he's
spitting out bloodied gravel
teeth cracked and tongue blackened
from the dirt and grime so caked

around his crusty lips twisting
rhyme and reason but I'm really trying
to listen to my sister tell her story
but God is a scornful old gargoyle
perched upon my shoulder.

His voice now rises from
a murmur to a shout
as fire and brimstone burst from
his foaming mouth

like a southern preacher
red-faced
saliva-stained corners of lips
snarling brandishing fangs

gnashing of coarsened tongue
whip crack snapping my thoughts
in
half
pouring dicta down the back

of my throat feeling
like mucus dripping slowly
preventing one from swallowing easily.
Adam's apple dances like a walk

across burning coals blindfolded--
desperate to focus, I lean in and
nod appropriately
to my good friend

ever hushed but in full confidence
of me as a listener and a confider
but God is a red-faced bespittled
Gargoyle perched upon my frail shoulder.

A shout now gives way to a shrill scream
as the behemoth grips the outer ridges
of my ears, sticks his head in
my ear canal and with a noise

travelling from ***** to stomach to chest
to throat and through the gaping mouth,
a deafening bellow penetrates my eardrums
as God curses me and my friend

to eternal damnation
for listening to such sinful acts
whilst holding "truth"
in my mind

like a forgotten check in the back pocket
of jeans in the rinse cycle at the laundromat
God, with jagged nails digging into cartilage
pulls wider sticks head in deeper

calls me a hypocrite,
and my friend:

******, ****, ******, liar,
cheater, blasphemer, drunk, *******,
adulterer, murderer, idolater, Democrat

unlovable.

I feel a tear reach the corner of my eye,
not because of a heart broken
for my friend's pain,
but because of the agony within

the stoop built of mortal flesh and bone
breaking down under the weight of
a vehement gargoyle claiming to be God
perched on my brittle shoulder.

The creature: abdominous, archaic,
feeding off ancient histories
embedded within fathers and sons
the passing of the torch obligatorily
  
handed down to every child
a Christmas present in the gleam of a golden cross (calf)
Mother and Father's heads lean in
with a smile stretched across their faces

watching as a curious youth
admires with awe
a shiny slender creature
bug-eyed

pearly teeth
looking up in fascination
crawls up onto your shoulder
at once so novel

but now you break down.

Standing up, you grab the ghastly gargoyle
around the waist--
he squirms and writhes
in your grip, hissing and spitting

its sick venom in your eye--
the creature living no longer
with childlike contempt
but with eyes opened to

its hatred and malice
you fling the beast so vile
from your presence
casting it into oblivion

you shed the weight
of such evil
and you sit down
to finally hear of your kinfolk's plight.

Wallowing in the throes of its host's absence,
the parasitic quadruped seeks behind the darkness
its next meal of mortal flesh and blood
amongst shadow armies of death: ravenous, cunning.
Legion.

they are connected
by a continual rye
these peoples dwelling
under the infinite sky*

they've handed down
native culture
to generations
that live for nature

the eagle
the bison
the wolf
carry their spirit
across the nation's terrain
ever these animals
shall abide and sustain

the spruce
the prairie grass
the cactus
lasting with the growth
of a land's deed
long they've planted
the tribal man's breed

flourishing
in the mountains
and along rivers
of timeless tradition
indigenous
kinfolk preserving
their heritage
on a millennial expedition

tepees still built
to this very day
a peoples country
*inherited of clay

Compare and Contrast (the foliage of the heart)



<>

My work is loving the world.
 Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird - 
equal seekers of sweetness.
 Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
 Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
 Am I no longer young and still not half-perfect? Let me
 keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
 The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
 Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
 a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
 to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
 telling them all, over and over,
how it is
 that we live forever.

This is the first poem in Mary Oliver's collection Thirst, titled,
“The Messenger."

<>

Ruler of the Universe, grant me the ability to be alone; may it be my custom to go outdoors each day among the trees and grass among all growing things - and there may I be alone, and enter into prayer, to talk with the One to whom I belong.

May I express there everything in my heart, and may all the foliage of the field - all grasses, trees, and plants - awake at my coming, to send the powers of their life into the words of my prayer so that my prayer and speech are made whole through the life and spirit of all growing things, which are made as one by their transcendent Source. May I then pour out the words of my heart before Your presence like water, O L-rd, and lift up my hands to You in worship, on my behalf, and that of my children!

-Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav

<>

too early on a Sunday morning for a trick or treat question,
still bed-bound @ Nine AM, browsing the internet state of the world,
it’s pre-my-walk on First Ave., in my Manhattan
concrete habitat pasture, where it’s gray and grayer
reveals of raggedy grass, certainly no sheep, and the only flowers
arrayed will be those with price tags fronting the bodegas
that are busy preparing breakfast for thousands of New Yorkers

trick question?

indeed! there is NO contrast, save the compare the kinetic similitude
of three kinfolk prayers, amidst frightfully unchanging headlines of
the dreary state of the world - weather report prototypical,
war, death & destruction, whiny celebrities and sports “heroes,”
editorials preaching, a vast quietude of no one’s mind changed,

but, always the but…

my work is loving the world, the grimy solitary blades of grass, true survivors, hosted & sprouting in dirt cracks miraculously,
letting the foliage of my heart blossoming in early morn warmth within my body’s extremities, clothed coverings of wintery wool,
confess my facts (“no longer young and still not half perfect?”),
filling the styrofoam cups of begging, wretched yearning refuse,
planting sprigs of mint green dollars in blanched froze hands,
wondering to myself, which one is the masked messiah?

these are the growing things in my fields, 70 years familiar,
the fruits and flowers of my life, are street crated>corners,
a panoply of vest corner garden-parks,
and the people!
people of every color and shade, what variety hath man wrought?

my eyes lack
not for anything, plenty the stimuli joyous within the astonishing spirit and life of all things blooming in hostile soil and you
may yet see the mark of
Abel joy upon my forehead, in my eyes, and see lips whispering this prayer~poem while being birthed, but in a word, a single word,
a pouring, best summarizing of a rebbe’s blessing
shouting out, anointing, appointing:

~Hallelujah~


Sun Feb 19 2023 9:15 AM
NYC

ah, tis in regard to praise worthy of zee
sylph van halen wondrous sigh door house
   where boot LIX ******* ruled thee,
this missive (fertilized ova byproduct),
   sans newly wedded whoopie
between n betwixt carnal existence
   involving stiff joint courtesy of randy
(loch ness hike hood only imagine)

   engendered pleasurable scree
ming, when enfilade eruption occurred
   sans papa's engorged tree
into verdant valley shaped like miniature "v"
when bare naked lady n beastie boy - with re:
tractable shaped magic flute
   mountebank upon late
   (then young) mum when she

acquiesced bing dominated
   during **** version with glee
  club (prickly ***** per papa)
   unplanned romp or x game of thrones
  whereby rampant animal urge beckoned to free
flagellates searching mini verdant zyder zee

which warm fuzzy i.e. cop u lay shun
   nine months later with meself as baby
baked to imp perfection second to none
   this futre puff daddy slated
   tubby conceived via *** pistol gun
in tandem with mull ate mum,
   who cavorted in naked fun
   begat word **** as second brood ding bun
in the oven o me late mum...
   gone against desire tool heave anon!
------------------------------------
(long prose and poetry my atypical mode at introducing myself).

How apropos and divine to stumble (merely by happenstance) across a chance to claim my (virtual) fifteen minute fragments of fame just in the click and nick of time.  

Although gainfully unemployed (do to a series of unfortunate events that now finds me receiving social security disability), I can still vividly visualize utter despair and vouchsafe to acquire the requisite trappings emblematic of psychic misfortune.

Indelible, permanent and unfading abysmal damaging domestic dynamics got etched deep upon the memory of this erstwhile individual! The general gist in the form of quick brush strokes (namely written) of psychologically traumatizing recollection now follows.

I can attest to malevolent mean-spirited objections by my father (and late mother) in regard to my grossly unacceptable attire, deportment and work ethic.

Nonetheless, a sense of righteous vindictiveness manifested itself thru attendant Pyrrhic victories.

Back in those days I (a grown adult male and considerably past the age of rebelling against authoritarianism, and their only not so prodigal heir hiss son) poorly wore mantle and staff of supposed maturity.

Lack of compliance and obeisance with regulations and rules of Harris household (mainly thru being in constant denial to conform, maintaining emotional detachment and estrangement and evincing little or no concern for family members) brewed, festered and lied dormant during prepubescence.

The pressure and tension between and betwixt genetic kinfolk (so palpable one could sense an indomitable barrier), would rank as successfully dysfunctional way before such nom de guerre became in vogue.

Fury and wrath became markedly and noticeably pronounced once exiting the storied four walls of high school.

The venomous barrage and fusillade spewed forth from off parental tongues at an exponential rate and on a par to feeling the stinging cudgel of a horsewhip.

Out of fear and timidity, I consequently and silently absorbed cruel treatment.

Neither the eldest nor youngest sibling bore witness against the tender spirit of their only brother.

A façade as hardened (statue) conveniently adopted.

This embodiment poorly served to fend off onslaught of incessant anger.

This defense mechanism (identified as passive aggressive by mom) offered  minuscule protection as I mentally dodged lobbed insults and affected defiance (in league like poisoned bards and daggers hurled) of said threats and ultimatums.

No matter these bitter pills of blaring character assassination (mine), denunciations, fulminations, incrimination's, intimidation's, vociferous vocalizations (by said parents), I stood my ground at played the deaf mute, which repression and internalization of emotional maelstrom only caused self contamination and manifestation of humiliation.

They (dad and mom) became further angered and inflamed per my total oblivious stance! This reaction added insult to injury.

Deliverance (minus dueling banjos) per tough love lessons amplified to the tune of additional feats at becoming excoriated, ranted and raved against this, that and the other of my habits and nonchalant indifference to pursue work.

Those involuntary, unrehearsed and vicious family chats happened to be replete with heavily exploding and uncorked anger.

That (of course) would be a considerable understatement!

Dad (the de facto, elected and nominal spokesperson for unpleasant chest thumping exclamations, (which conveniently took place no earlier than the stroke of midnight) - emphatically swore (adrip with dramatic livid rage - like rabid beast) all manner of **** vulgarity and demanded from this insolent appearing male offspring immediate compliance.

Defiance and fatigue offered him predictable and usual blank stare upon hearing the kind and lenient sentence to pack bags and GET OUT!  

With dreaded approach of dire and sealed fate (played out in this over active imagination of mine with dad and mom egregiously fiendishly, grotesquely expunged themselves of any last vestige personal emotional belonging), I anxiously bided my time.

Those next couple weeks forced self-evaluation of Atheism.

The recurrent consideration of relinquishing nonestablishmentarian paradigm in favor and lieu with God, miracles and salvation seemed to clash being liberal thinker.

As indicated, the tempest and tirade quickly got turned back upon those who so masterfully tormented this second born, whose steadfast stoicism and subservience to a higher power perchance brought a temporary respite.

That deadline (which happened to be just one of many similar sputtering swearing fulminations, salacious ultimatums valuations of love) blithely came and went without incident - no matter expletive filled intense oath to remove) continued to keep pull to remain an occupant with kinfolk.

What caused especial ire and wrath to fester (per apparent ambivalence, indifference and nonchalance for me to take any job - even shoveling **** - particularly within emotional bedrock and firmament of deceased mother) constituted remembrance and vivid reminder of her father.

My maternal grandfather (Morris Kuritsky) supposedly never paid much heed to regular and steady employment (to support his four children and wife) despite his skill as a swift tailor. Hence my mother (Harriet) grew up and lived in utter destitution and poverty.

Mother subsequently reacted with ferocious vindictiveness upon witnessing a near magic transformation of near identical behavior in Matthew - the single heir to the family name.
---------------------------------------
...from this middle and sole son harris progeny
who willingly shared hoop - ping equal play zure
   arose from wading thru verbiage of letters abc...
...xyz
in various combinations he
arranges/arranged foe his passion to be
somewhat liter aery.


your prerogative, to message or email
(hay4four@aol.com) typed
   back what ever impulse            
juiced where ever spools create poetic strand
asper fingers comprising specific black keys land
to react inspires with nuttin grand
viz **** sapiens
   pearl jam chrome once canned
gene net tick trader joe brand.

postscript: a dream to wit ness
mine current high school senior
   a name y'all never guess
to make the entrance grade for university of penn
   after the truckload of application material
   someone or many doze *****!

http://about.me/matthewscott.harris

The wrong side where my kinfolk dwell,
Takes no notice of the damaged family circle,
It’s what we know, who we are,
It’s our heart.

What is poor,
What is rich,

Uptown where the bluebloods grow,
The buildings straight & new,
Maps lead the way to,
Places we don’t want to go.

Who wants to be on their,
Wrong side of the tracks,
Not Me

Mmm...

Every soul is a raindrop
fall from sky to ocean
most hit the surface
to ripple and fade
but some ripples
(rip) become waves
so careful when
you be willing this villainess  script
the 97 igrets no regrets
so often we split
universe forging and smith
an I’m off to Egypt

mind morbid
sometimes
****** silly
sight been
searing
****** psilocybin serum

<Mythicalifornian/ation>
might have been
a son of Sam
but now I happen to hope
he’s found **** - luminous scope
rather sacrificial lamb
to roll up and ****

fingers like spiders
re-twisting helix like twizzlers so no outsiders
untwisting logic like Cicero updated outdated drivers
no ****
no really though
that’s dope
like holy diver
****-lighted self

sun is well
moon caught
call it a moonwell
moon sought
call it a moonswell
how soon
call it a monsoon

(they buymoney’s well
they liefunnycreate hell)

Is it that I get consumed by my work
or work to consume the clerk

Is it that I’m a leader
or I preach to lead the self ;
either way overwork
cause we ovastand
what it mean
To be a conscious being

I lord over time
it doesn’t lord over me
got that **** on lock
honest priority

with no real priors
been Skirttin on roads
with no real tires
I’m running I’m running so often off-roading incoming
I'm running I’m running I’m tired Im scratched

but see now we off the path
calc'ing chaos math sacred shapes and 'ometries

'Grow the mountain
'GGrow the trees

Mind and body manifest these
8 them mushrooms drank the tea
Found God and Action make the Free

...still eyes on shadow to oversee
see how’s that **** float over me
winding warping whisper free
darkness cold and forming we
mark of clover safety  be
but
safety make me nobody
stop
and I take one breathe

what is the difference
simmer.the.inference
silent.the.ignorance  
in
out
****.am.I.limitless
talking.is.frivolous
stop.by.pay.stimulus

Ganesh (shout)
shout....
refresh my syllabus (what’s about)
image of synthesis (written down)
**** I’m mischievous (ima clown)

breath in
breathe crown

Jesus (sing)
and it’s all around

redeem my sinfulness
(the talk and the walk)
sparing my infamous
guide all my kinfolk when
I’m lost in indifference
pray for deliverance

brothers and sisters we gotta ask
what’s the cost of the difference
[w]hen Liminal's lost is the difference?

my only preference, reverence-evidence
of my life and all of my testament, prevalent

{Discipline and Chaos}
develop the eminent american-experiment
Never-lose scope ; envelope intelligent sentiment

my, my design
down so close
finger prints shine
passing the fine approach
what’s broached when l align
chaos and order impose in my mind







̴̨̠̖̊͜Į̷̰̗͍̮̼̼̲̥̆͊ṋ̶̣̞̳̲̖͈̤̘̜͌͌͒̈́ṫ̴̨̢̧̠͍̩͈̻̥̞̿̇́͊̊e̸͌̅­̛̼͈̜̱͎̯̗̺̹͈̆l̶̢͍̗̞̱͔̣̅̑͌͑̇̚͝l̸̫̜̼͍͔̘͙̫̍̈͋̿͐̑̎͝͝i̸̡̛̠͚͉̫͚̝̦͔g̴͌̈́̕͝­̥̬̰̰̹̋ȩ̷̭̳̳̳̹͕̖̌̇͌͋̀̒͗̓̈́͜͠n̴͚̲̭̥͙̫̺̄̓͗̂̄̈́̈t̵̜̦̲͎̣̠̿ ̸̛̰̺͔̭̼͈͆̓̊̒̓d̴̡̛͓̺̭̥̗͚̃̄̌̒̃̅͐͒͋ě̶͈̗̭̥͔̒̾̍̒͛͝͝ş̴̛̮͚̥̝͓̙͊͂̔̿́̄́̄­̰í̸̧̺͚̬̹̫̮͖̬̱͒̀g̴̨̨̭͉̺̮͚͊̌̆̽̕ṉ̴͓͚̭̥̘̖̲̲̋͛̀.̴̘̙̘̣̮̣̙͉̺͔͆̕

As time passed, the story grew-
each year, a bit more grand-
That Nelson took that strongbox-
And hid it elsewhere on his land

Greed is one of the “seven sins”-
Everybody loses, and nobody wins-
But the “want” for gold is a mighty strong thirst-
So his kin set out for a “family search.”

At morning’s dawn, the kinfolk came-
To search for gold, fortune, and fame-
They came with shovels, spades, and hoes-
And some “TNT”, so the story goes.




With disregard for propriety,
they descended upon the property-
Without a map, without a plan-
They spread out to search his land.  

Now, the rabbits and the coyotes,
and the gophers(one or two)-
Gathered on a little knoll,
To get a better view.

They knew what was bound to happen-
It was just a matter of time-
When the dew had disappeared,
And the morning sun had reached it’s prime.

To Be Continued