Leave your slippers at the counter
said the watchman at the gate
an empty sack I put them in
entered temple on bare feet.

The walls were carved in fine granite
idols beamed in marbled shine
incense filled the ethereal light
breathing the air was purely divine.

After about a charmingly spelled hour
in lithe spirit I came out of temple door
presented the token at the shoes counter
poured the sack's content on the floor.

A strange pair mockingly looked back
not mine I shouted at the top of my voice
rows of sacks stared back from the rack
home barefoot wasn't a prospect to rejoice.

Obviously a wrong token was issued to me
the slippers therein belonged to someone else
and there I was arguing awkwardly
cursing high pitch over temple bells.

It took five minute's terror to find them out
so my feet could kiss the familiar smell
though not much something to write home about
those were the moments paradise felt hell.

To end this, is to run blindly - falling
loose limbs wild and flailing
with hands that can no longer grasp
a saving grace, a final branch
we are lost in desolation
it is pure wilderness
a long winter's night
with no path or tracks
to follow, cold like snow
we plow this landscape, barren
deep and dark below
to seep into the soul
lingering long in limbo
the ache of holding on
transformed into
the pain of
letting go

bearing west earlier than last month
and the grey cast of long shadows
appearing earlier, the Royals having won
the World Series
I paid forward my rent,
until next March
I will much as
a big furry bear does,
( JOIN THE DETROIT TIGERS, who started it way back at the All_Star break)
just lie down
hibernate, until
Next baseball season

If words can cut
Much more than swords...
Then sharp
I am.
Cutting to the marrow of bone.
Spirit
Honed
By tragedies stratagies
I tear the flesh,
Rend the garments,
And slice at God.

If words were gold
and intent diamonds
the life of one grain
of sand,
richest on
this planet, may be
wit coiled
upon itself to burn
its starter, fire might
consume the paper we
close in our wallet,
the pyre in which
I and the human race
turn to ashes
might be normal

passion, burning
for each other;
empathy or its comprehension,
celebrating the lowly, meek, the forgotten,
beggar  thief,
weeds of the leaves of grass,
be celebrated, by me,
now.

with no need
to justify my assumptions
there weighs judgement of
society,
the value of all,
I  and you are
the sunrise, experience it;
the newest day
feel the fire, consume my being with it,
glow with me.

I do not know why you moved to this side  
long ago, before your city became a **** zone  
maybe you knew something I did not  
you knew many things I did not, which I discovered
when you politely corrected my grammar  
though it was my native tongue,
and one you learned reading our newspapers,
watching our television
listening, more carefully than most,
to what the gringos said  
you told me tales of the arena,
usually after dinner, on your back porch  
when the shadow of the mountain covered our houses
like a quiet blanket, blocking out the blistering heat
of the desert day  
you would offer me a soda, always  
before my questions began  
your civility was strange to me at first,
the adults in my family barked and cackled  
your words rolled out like sweet liquid  
and left me wanting more  
I never asked why you had no woman,
you were as handsome as any man I knew  
later, years later, years of name calling later
I guess I understood,  maybe
that was why you left your home  
though the blind blood of bigotry
ran freely on both sides of the Rio Grande
and I knew you to be courageous
for when you told me the stories,
as the desert sky became violet and cool,  
and the few cicadas began their song,  
you boasted not of your dangerous dance
in the packed dirt of the ring,
but of the art it took to silence the beast  
the lost look in its red *** eyes
and the silent sadness you felt  
as the crowd cheered
another beautiful death

Summer days bright and hot
Come let's go to our favourite spot
Grab your bucket and your *****
Icecream to eat with lemonade

Mum brings the sun cream
Dad brings the car
Everything in the boot
Soon we will be on or way
Hope its not far

Watching all the fields go flying by
Cows and sheep we spy
We're on our way to the seaside
Singing all the way

Mum puts the towels out
Dad all red and hot
We just play in the sand
What a jolly lot

Seabirds cry above our heads
As fish and chips are eaten
Greedy birds swoop on down
Pinching anything that's left

Tired eyes sleepy yawns
The day had come to rest
Going home we sleep so sound
Dreams that are the best

"Dear John
By the time you read these lines,
I will be gone."

The rocking chair,
The only piece of furniture
Remaining

"Dear John
By missing the deadline for your
Dissertation
The school will not have you
returning."

The books are boxed

The rocking chair rocks on
With every breath
Taken.

You don't have to die
To have lives wilt and cry.
Looking around through curious eyes
Nothing which was remains.

"Dear John
Your lease has expired
You will be moving on."

The rocking chair
Rocks on.

The twilight seeps in through
Windows without curtains.

The door opens
A moment of melancholy
The door closes

The rocking chair without him there
Becomes still
In the twilight air.

I should, by all practical matters, quit looking through old photos of when my life was much "simpler." Childhood photos, to be exact. They serve only as a reminder of how old I am, and how much older I soon will be. (Yea, I know, ending a sentence with a prepostion is against  the rules of proper penning.)

Looking at these pics, I catch myself playing the game of "whatever became of who?" Those other kids on that cul-de-sac in Corpus Christi, Texas, "waaay, waaay" back in the mid to late forties. One, in particular, comes to mind.

His name was "Duke" Jones. Perhaps, the most popular "kid" on the block.He was our next-door neighbor. An excellent "fielder" when we played baseball, heck of a fast runner, not much of a hitter. But, he was a lot more than that. For, you see, Duke, was a dog. A Doberman Pinscher, a former guarddog at military installations during the war, and rehabilitated before re-entering civilian life. And, he loved children.

Duke knew everyone on the block, knew the postman, the milk deliveryman (yes,there was a time when dairies had milk delivered to your home, but that can be another story), knew which house we lived at, the vehicles our parents drove, he was our protector. If a stranger, such as a door to door salesman, entered his territory, he froze, staring, watching, positioning himself between us and the stranger. If that stranger stepped on to the walk leading to a front door, Duke would start moving, stealthily, instincts, training, taking control. If a strange vehicle entered,  he took notice, watched, intently. My mother and father often said, "We have the safest block in the city."
Our family had moved to another city in 1951, when we got a letter from Duke's "parents", telling us that Duke had passed away at age 16. Looking at that photo in my hand, Duke hasn't gone anywhere.

copyright: richard riddle: 11/02/15

white in spring so red in her ****** glory
so ***** of fruit by the all the birds and squirrels
stands bare naked in the fall winds
all through the winter bereft of leaf
with but limbs spread out
against the grey gloom
yet glory awaits
the next blooms
when it warms
back up
and bees and birds
get busy
again

This delight,
To inhale twilight.
Ride the nightlight to the stars.

To kiss a breath within
each moment
Free from introspection,
doubt and regrets.
It is here, I yearn to dwell.

No fear of neglect.
No fear of offense.
No fear of fear.

Yet, ever vigil,
to a slight variance of mood.
Of circumstance.
Of changes that determine
outcomes and future.

Fear of loss.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of fear.

I succomb to this perception.
Live in accordance
within the rules and structure
that appear to maintain order  
to each of my days

Yet I await, with anticipation...
To kiss a breath within
each moment

This delight.
To inhale twilight.
Ride the nightlight to the stars