to get back in the water....

Have you noticed how
Freaking WEIRD
the media has become?

I can SMELL THE FISH.

Dah dum. Dah dum...
Dah dum Dah dum Dah dum

Lately I saw the cover of
Bazaar Magazine.

A model in a **** gold lame'
Bathing suit... sexily draped
Inside the maw of Jaws.

What Is the nose of Jaws
Coming vertically out of the
Water reminiscent of?
A PYRAMID perhaps?

The pyramid is a symbol.
Of Freemasons and

THE ILLUMINATI.

I always thought a friend of mine
A bit touched. He told me that
The 1% are all in collusion.
That the Illuminati used SYMBOLS
and scenes on the TV and movies
(Pictures on the wall in the
background, etc) as subliminal
Messages for mind control. And
to indicate subtly what is going on
Behind the scenes. So they can get
Their jollies by "telling us", without
Really doing so, how we are headed
For destruction. And how it will
Take place. So they can
LAUGH AT US!

I don't know. I used to think
The guy a bit eccentric...

*NOW I AM NOT SO SURE...

This is a poem......
you don't have to read.
You're busy at home
watching Cable TV.
On Twitter or Facebook,
reading all the minuta
that comes down the feed.
My words may be little,
my words may be small.
But, each and every one
of them, I own them all.
Some will take time,
and others will pass by.
These words will be mine,
till the day that I die.....JMF 2/19/15

The color of your skin, does not tell me
  what kind of person you are-
Your language, or accent, does not tell me
  what kind of person you are-
Your creed does not tell me,
  what kind of person you are-
It is you, that shows me, what kind of person you are!

copyright: richard riddle 04-08-2014

In my town
    The streets are paved
         With gold
              Because the rain
            Runs an infinitely unfinished race
        And the streets
   Are run thick with sky
       That swills above blocked drains
            And the street lamps
               Take a bathe in the puddles
                  And their lights
                       Unravel and swim
                     And sometimes
                  The wind gusts through
              And lacerates the
           Rivers of hoarded treasure
       So that our good fortune
           Is molten and fickle
             But somehow viscous
                  And the promises
                        Of our childhood
                            Wrinkle like
                               Aging skin

In my town
       The streets are paved with gold
           And so are the broken pieces
   Of their beer bottles.

Grandpa loved angels
Kept them scattered throughout his room, his house, his life
On everything from pictures, to figurines, to trinkets
Alissa found a penny with an imprint of wings with the year of her birth on it shortly after he died
How strange, we all thought
Grandpa had a lot of things,
Luck charms, knick-knacks, practical jokes he carried just in case
He kept his humor in his back pocket

I visit my grandmother in her home that used to be theirs
She is now as vacant as the Detroit winters are cold; the ten years without him have stripped her of any warmth
I think a part of her left when he did

I enter his study and look through every drawer, discovering a part I neglected to understand when it was present
I never showed much interest in anything he told me when he was still around
I only really knew of the things he kept in drawers, cabinets, on shelves
Everything he owned is as constant as it ever was
His belongings remain untouched as if he hasn’t been gone for over a decade
I feel too much alive in this office of a dead man

I run curious fingers over the bindings of books, stopping to pull at Dickinson, a faded collection of poetry inked with flowers on the front cover
I remember the dictionary the size of my six-year-old palm that intrigued me so greatly; the ability to fit so many words into such a small area was nothing short of fascinating
It is the one physical memory I took home with me after the funeral
I had wanted it always
I now picture it hiding in the back of my drawer in my childhood bedroom where I know it still is

On his desk there are so many key chains, bills from another generation, maps, postcards, watches
So many things I am not sure what to call them
I am not sure about a lot but
Grandpa loved angels
Angels and ***** jokes
One to keep you safe and the other to make you laugh
I keep both with me always,
Just in case.

The mist swirls around us
thickening deep.

wrapped shadows lost in thought
drink one after another earthenpot
dream on imagined wings
puff unseen smokerings
pierce the fox-dark night
in tobacco spark light
voice in stupored half sleep
debt and hardship
despite clayburnt toil
on the redrock soil
the treacherous seed
growing never to need.

The night looms wearily old
when the last man walks away.

My tea tastes bitter bottom cold.

the lapping water drifting to the sand,
the smugglers hurry o'er the silver wave,
a rose-moon blushing where the waters lave
and moonlight glistens on the breezy strand.
the oars are steady, gliding to the land
the stroke of midnight near a watery cave,
their whisp'ring feet run silent as a grave                                              
to its dark reach to hide the contraband.
the waves roll mistily with honeyed breath
the sky, a vault of iron, weeps a tear,
the sweeping waters break and start to veer,
a gold tooth glints, the night as black as death,
a dreadful shout, the watch is drawing near,
how suddenly their faces pall with fear!

my biggest fear isn't
little things like heights
or spiders or clowns,
my biggest fear is loosing
the ones I love the most.

take my hand when i offer it
and follow me into my dream
   teach me what you know
guide me until i am cascading
   down a poetic rainbow
fill me with flowery words
that come to full bloom
   when pen touches paper
help me turn this underdeveloped lump of grey matter
into a kaleidoscope of verses
that boggle the mind.