burn-out like a shooting star
your streak across history

short but sweet
in full flow

you will be seen
light years from now

the spark trace
you indelibly made

I saw Jane
by the water tower
in Bugs Lane
I had come from home

after helping my father
saw logs in the shed
she looked pretty
in the sunlight

her dark hair
seemed aglow
and as I approached
she smiled

and it pinched me
inside in a way
I couldn't fathom
she had a book

in her hand
and swung it
back and forth
like a priest swung

the thurible at church
what have got there?
I asked
as I was by her side

it's a book
on British butterflies
she said
showing me

the book cover
which had various
butterfly pictures
on the front and back

thought we may go look
for some of them
she said
it's Daddy's

but he said
I could borrow it
ok
I said

that'll be good
-but being with her
was the real joy
just breathing in

her presence
her fresh apple smell
was the real goodness-
so we walked up

the pathway up
to the Downs
trees on either side
keeping out

the hot blaze
of the sun
for a while
except where it

broke through
overhead branches
and there were birds singing
and flights of birds

crossing over
and above us
are you all right?
she asked

-Lizbeth was unmentionable
between us now
we just never
spoke of her-

sure I'm fine
I said
collecting chalk fossils
you know

the ones inside
rock chalk
found two shells
inside one last week

that's good
you'll have to show me
she said
they're in my show tank

I said
along with animal bones
and skeletons of birds
in my room

have to ask
your mother
if I can see them
with you

she said
as we walked past
the big hollow tree
-yet when Lizbeth

came to my room
a while back
she never thought
to ask my mother

if she could go
to my room-
after a while
we broke out

into the open
and the sunshine
warmed us
and it was like

being born again
up there on the Downs
the grass
and the flowers

and shrubbery
and I liked being there
beside her
in fact it was

a love thing
just being there
let alone being there
looking out

for butterflies
she was
the butterfly beauty
in my eyes.

I saw you reading Emerson,
I felt cheated.
Maybe I thought Whitman and me were the only love
you sought, my heart fell from a height of belief
into a cellar closed darkly
i fought the reality
of rarer words softly lit prisons
thinking
cheating is two sided.
As I read another Bukowski poem raw
so revealing.

Dressed in nothing
but stardust and the
night. While feeding
on poetry and baby
moons* ~

I hear
the blank page call me
I see the white empty needing
the urges haunt me
to breathe into life
a hymn

a mind
thing for my
nightly hell calling
a hearty dream
or
nightmares.

it took but nearly a second
to sweep you off you feet
A wink
it took but a smile back from you
to make me complete,
we still are there,
in a good thing where
all I have to do is wink
you smile back
our passion eminently
true. Our secrets held  in full view.
The world outside us, stops,
looks at my winking at your smile.

He's been an orphan since he was sixteen
That's when his parents kicked him out because he was so mean .
He's been living on the steps of every backdoor
What he can't get begging he will steal for

Once he was his mother's pride and joy
That was before he started drugs and there was no wonder anymore .
His skin turned hard and his heart harder still
His eyes became vacant lots lacking any will

He was living for a shot in the dark
Instead someone shot him down by the park
He died with a silly grin on his face
Don't worry there's someone who will take his place

Just another American dream disgraced
Another person slips off the face
He was dead before he hit the ground
His life ended with out a sound

And every day we say I don't care
He wasn't going to make it anywhere
All he was good at was getting high
Now he's gone and no one's asking why

His skin was as hard as a memory
He kept then in a bottle of pills he got free
No one even knows his name
Bud or Buster , it was all the same

No one even knows his name
They put him in a black bag that's the shame
He'll never be around again
And no one really cares

October 20, 2014   8:40a.m.

On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did.  Why?

Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!

But that is the core of the HP family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, and the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.

One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.

We will keep trying.

Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014

Outside of poetry
I would still be living a life
lightened and carefree
merrily chatting with wife.

I would let a poem rise in my head
throw to wind and see it dead
return to sky all breath of pain
watch them fall as joyous rain.

I would darken the screen let it sleep
burn the poems with none to keep
retire to the nook not been for long
brush up the web on a dusty song.

To be away from poetry I would strive
sail on the river go on long drive
snuggle tighter to a fathomless space
outside of poetry discover happiness.

it loomed like a ghost in the falling day.

an hour past the town on the way
the old man's eyes bore surprise

i wouldn't advise it, sir, not wise
waking them up is no sport

they who're sleeping in the dead men's fort.

All along i've been a phasmophobic
they ceased never to rule my head
lurking in nooks and under my bed.

it sounds nice to talk about spirits and souls
but at nights when hollows of burning coals
mistily appear and not in a dream
choke me out of scream
to that terror i fall an abject slave.

but my companion on that dusk was brave
looking at those eerily towering spires
he said let's try meeting a few vampires.

there was no door opening with a creak
but inside was a musty dark hole
where daylight made a quick retreat
as if to let the dead peacefully stroll.

we climbed up stairs strewn with dry leaves
amid sensing a storm brewing on the wing
for the awakened dead in anger seethes
to have their rest broken by the living.

soon swept us a gale of the squeaking dead
driving us out of that well occupied well
surely startled by the intruders' raid
the winged vampires were fleeing like hell.