.

Waste on the water
Barges to sink
Hands holding anchors
Words on the brink

Pens overflowing
Nobody sees
Losing one’s talent
Aiming to please

Reading the buoy
Up and down lines
Drowned in the moonlight
Dodging the mines

Hoping for rescue
Shells on the shore
Merely a like
Nothing much more

Energy spending
Doesn’t make sense
Empty eyes staring
At the expense

Waves keep on crashing
Sand on the street
Write out another
Frown and repeat

Lungs fill with water
Maybe it’s best
No one will notice
The end of the quest

Cowboys and sidekicks,
were not the only heroes
We idolized, and ran to see
at those "Saturday picture shows."

There was "Superman, and "Batman",
and that magic word, "SHAZAM."
The "cliff-hanger" serials
we hoped would never end.

There were all types of villains-
even "space invaders"-
It was then, that I changed my mind-
to become, a "Caped Crusader."

As those Saturdays passed by-
how I wished that I could fly-
And all I needed was a cape
to soar throughout the sky.

I grabbed a towel, to make a cape,
the largest towel that I could find-
And I didn't tell anyone
what was really on my mind.

I went thru the kitchen
out the door, into the yard-
Mom thought I went out to play,
so I caught her off her guard.

A couple of the neighbor kids,
I now call my "entourage"
gathered with excitement
as I climbed, to the top of the garage.

I stood there with my legs apart-
I could feel the pulsing of my heart-
hands, braced against my hips-
then, the tightening of my lips-

I knew that somewhere in the city-
Crime was out there brewing-
and then I heard my mother's voice-
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!!!

Well, I tell you folks, there's not a tone
that can evoke such heightened fear-
And the superpowers I thought I had,
suddenly disappeared(as did the other kids)

There was screaming, and yelling-
and amidst the clamor and the din-
Neighbors, looking out their windows-
saying, "it's just that kid again."

I didn't know what she was saying-
but I'll never forget that frown,
And her words  got a little worse
when she had to help me down

Banished to the bedroom-
on my bed, with the cape that I had wore-
Contemplating what dreadful fate
my future had in store.

I heard the doorknob turning-
then dad stepped thru the door
He knew I had been crying
as my head hung toward the floor.

What I thought would happen, didn't-
as he sat down on the bed-
then with his hand he gently brushed
the top of my head.

He explained to me the difference
of what was real, and fantasy-
That those movies are adventures,
not real, just fun to go and see.

Here I am, seventy-two and still alive-
and sometimes I wonder
how I've managed to survive

On my mantle are two pictures
that make me happy, and make me sad-
for those real superheroes-
They're my mother, and my dad.

copyright: richard riddle, August 05, 2014

Tell her what has been taken
Is being given a better life
Tell her what has gone
Is coming back in a different form
Tell her the tears she was shedding
Won’t go away
It’s saturating new souls
To blossom again in her life

Everything about you is miraculous.
I have no words to give you
because they all taste like apples,
when they should taste like pomegranates.

It is all too generic, nearly – spiritless
to call you beautiful.
I am merely
existing in this dazzling
vapor of mania, that I
so             clearly               see
buzzing mad about you like hornets.
Only psychotic pills can describe what you mean.
Everything makes sense, in that, it doesn't.

I want to tell you all my dreams. And somehow communicate
that I think you are far more staggering
than I could ever articulate.

Isn't it a sick shame
that those – I mean those
wickedly gorgeous human beings, those with souls
heavy and earthy as antique clocks,
souls like tree moss
living for ages on wood sheds;
souls warm and tormented
like voodoo shops and dreamy sunsets;
souls like ruptured stones,
in-grown toenails and volcanoes –
those who,
should take compliments
and tuck them away on the wide shelves of their hearts,
instead –  
handle them like steaming acids.

I only wish you would

take more than a kiss from me.
but I feel content
also obscene and distracted;
listless yet
serene – when we
share a close space.

The aesthetic I find, I cannot ignore
nor quite place.

It smokes. It intoxicates.

I want to describe the spices in your curves,
(surely you must know) – the organic magic of them
and how they flow, sway-swaying
gentle stream, always waiting to be
dipped into.

But, there is
an energy far more hypnotic than lips or hips,
it is familiar yet new, and constant
and constantly

enticing,
beneath your skin, behind your tongue
somewhere twisted within
your twisted brain –
it gives me
sharp visions of grandeur, like African whiskey;
I can hardly come back from it.

Your dark eyes beaming in the moon rays
like violet plums chilling in water.
Sweet hell.
My heart hurts so brilliant.

When you are near
I thank the stars I that I am, too.
I close my eyes and I am a poet.
But once, as is inevitable
you go; I am helpless
as I am when the clouds move.

The satisfaction I felt
evaporates, in seconds,
just as it came.

one, two, three...

I feel directionless

and ordinary

in all the sober haze.