Friends, there are many(I think, I hope). So, to be fair, I will respond with this.


"Stricly an Opinion"
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, with 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

I enjoy, the subtle shades, connotation of each word,
probe, how dexterously they are put together in an order
like jewels in an ornament for generations to wear.
The way the construct speaks to the brooding solitude
that moves in and out of my soul,as the reading proceeds.

I smell a fragrance, like the scent of fresh ripe fruit,
eager to taste it, sink my teeth deep, draw juice,
now find a memory awaiting to resonate with the
cadence of my heart.
                                                 I am such an animal
that can smell poetry's worth from a distance,
a goldsmith who could  predict it's weight in gold
my avarice for a poetic diet, never dies, only swells.

Every poem of my kind, to me does something
my lover does, decidedly every imagery, carry forward
a memory, like wind a cloud, reaches a space beyond
touches eternity with it's magic wand,  a flash results
Even if the poet leaves me mid way, I'd still see the light.

I've an enticing excuse to imagine what I want to see
a poem doesn't produce anything,but what it does to mind,
is pure magic,I am in that flow,far from the illusory reality.

lost echo's of past speeches
into the silence reaches
deaf ears worn and tired
of pundits recently expired
cut by the votes not acquired
phrases left uninspired, to
levy the taxes required, for
visions  of  political  spires
the confetti and ballots left
of the candidate now bereft
the slogans all slaughtered
by means of political machines
as the campaigns death left
a soliloquy of silence


All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

The sheep were  in the pen, sheltered for the night
we then sat around the log fire to chat till we fall asleep,
under the open sky ,in a clearing on a wintry night.

Contrary to  what I gathered, he was full of life,
there weren't  any lines of worry, nor his face woebegone.
The heardsman looked cheery, humming tunes he loved aloud
which the pesky mountain wind, snatched and spread too soon.

I quiz  him about his treks to find pastures for the herd,
"Isn't it a task tiring , in the rough mountain terrain?"

"It's not me who leads the hungry herd to the pastures" he says
"As it is made the world to believe by those never had seen a pasture
The sheep know where the grass in green, and find the shortest path,
as pleasing them is my only wish , I dutifully follow their lead."

so bare and weathered
with senses dead like leather
the depth has been measured
we're not here together

you were my only pleasure
life was as light as a feather
for worse or for better?
that pledge is dead forever

Few things are as black
As a snowless December morning

In Norway.
Some nights it's so

Dark I can't
Sleep.

The flowers of the dawn
Unfurled its petals
In pinks and reds
A solitary Venus stands
unblinking in the black sky
And with the dawn vanished and was gone.

Packing the pack
in the name of that
which held no more pain
It was time to hit the road again

Doubts linger with the rising sun
But the choices
They are few

The oceans
The mountains
The deserts
They hold the views

Chasing the dawn
Chasing the beginnings
It is time to begin again.

The pack holds the few essentials
For the journey's road

Long and arduous
Peaceful and calm
All moments are held
And pass on by

Time to go is all that is known

Laughter and glee
Loves and loses

Time a ribbon
Unfurls in the sky
Dragging all along
Down
To that endless highway.

Just a visitor
renting space
along the way

A pause to watch
This very dawn
Then heading on down the way
again

The road
It begins in the dark
It ends there too.

The word escapes me
Hidden in the death and Carnage
Je veux pleuer pour Paris, Je suis Enraged
Shot Like Cattle at Slaughter, in a
Strange Night in Paris amid the Bistros
Voulez-vous etre mon amies Parisians
In the Night a Rose Cries Tears of Petals
Its Scent mingled with the smell of Gun Shells
And after all the feelings...the word escapes me


All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

She heard him on the ceiling
slowly sliding off the wall,

sinking, gently spilling empty
promises to break his fall,

she listened for their landing
and they landed everywhere

and she gathered them like corpses
and she burned them, then and there...

On a hill untrodden
Lay hooves of animals forgotten
Hovering inches above
The tall blades of grass
That guard the crimson soil
From the deadly spoil
Of creatures with a heartbeat.

Neither human nor animal
Is allowed to trample
On the swaying current
Of carbon breathing forests
That sing in unchecked choruses
About a mythical life
That forever strives
For their listless existence
But always fails in the face
Of pure logic.

On the edge we stand
And there we will remain
If not forced to refrain
From ever being in unison
With life that knows no burden
Of the constant need for self-satisfaction
But somehow manages
To breathe without stealing air
From one less sanctioned
In a state unbalanced
Despite existing on a sustainable planet.

Even fairies stir in their leaves
When news arrives
That the hill still survives
Without their manufactured dust
And fake-winged lust
For something more mythical
Than themselves
In a world that revolves
Around their heads
And death is made of flower-covered beds
Of false remembrance.

Still you wonder
Why such splendour
Sits only in our worship and prayers
When it has no power
Over anything that enters its perimeters
Knowing however
That the thought it has inscribed
Into our minds
Will live forever
Even if it does not do so itself.