If Sisyphus Had a Sister
Peering over the top of the steep hill,
The other side seems so dizzyingly close
One push away
Sisypher, her slate gray pants and matching jacket are
Torn and bloodstained.
Her hands, gripped so tightly, are inexplicably loosened
Then a pause
A tumbling noise so frighteningly loud
Smashing, splintering, shredding shards of granite
Sisypher narrowly jumps aside mesmerized
As the massive boulder skips and hops down the hill
Roaring until there is a hush.
Silent tears stain the cheeks of all who view the spectacle
The lonely figure at the top
Begins her descent.

I don't understand -
It was just raunchy pictures.
Now when I send them

you say "nice *** lol"
and ask my opinion on
EU politics.

My wife, Karen, looked out onto the patio, "why do they always come to us?", speaking of mama and her kits, newcomers they were, but apparently enjoying the food and shelter of this "safe house". Just some, of the many, that had blessed us over the years  with their magic , showing up unannounced, cats, dogs, raccoons, possum, to name a few. Some stayed, some left.

You see, it is our firm belief, that God's closed fist, with index finger extended and pointing downward, looming over our rooftop, wherever we happened to be, is a "guiding star"for them, and only the animals are capable of seeing it, telling them to "go here, for your safety, shelter, and food".

God has many such fingers, in every city, town, state, province, and country on this earth. Why, I would bet that right now, he has a cat(s) asleep on his lap, their way of saying, "thank you, Lord, for helping all of us."

(Make a visit to your local ASPCA Shelter-Adopt an "Angel!)
copyright May 18-2014 richard riddle

When she comes
she brings the snow with her,
circling her white hair
in spirals and waves.
When she comes
the sun shines brighter
even behind the clouds
that veil the horizon.
When she comes
I'm always there,
ready to fall in love
over and over again.

streams of salt and H2O leak
down reddened cheeks and condense
in a golden beard. a war-torn nation,
half-a-world-away, crystallizes clear as dayspring
in an insomniac's screaming and fragile psyche
at half-past-three in the morning.
what strength must a seven-year-old posses
to persevere amidst the perversity of cluster bombs?
munitions bought and paid for with the taxes
we fork over to the United States. will her blood one day
stain our hands with crimson? will her mother's?
a girl who just wanted to read, to escape
the tragedy that inundates our surroundings,
to a magical realm of pure imagination.
where we can summon spectral stags
to save us from the misery of humanity
and learn to disarm those who would harm  
us with the charm, Expelliarmus!
the bastion where i found the first seeds that grew
into a rebellion opens its doors to you, Bana.
there's a crater where your house used to be,
rubble strewn in Aleppo, Syria. but know that Hogwarts
will always be there to welcome you home.

So you came down to me:
     at my feet, not the wax
     leaves of the wild blueberry but your fiery self, a whole
     pasture of fire
Louise Glück*

There was flutter of worked cotton hem
between fingers. Ring of cicada click in birch tree leaves,
muffled by swish of grass in breeze, matching

the wisp of sandhill crane feather on fern.
Skin sliding over fragrant sweat.
Sweet waterfall of hair in your hands, fluid in the heat.

Echoing flap of fat trout tail bounced inside the valley,
Scales skimming lake water. Our knees shook
above the foot-bridged creek.

Low groans of swaying trees, aching
in their old bones. Guttural tones.
Your palm shivered on my heart in the haunted noise.

Beneath all our sounds, the under-ripe
blueberries thudded to the ground.
Our love pounded best when they were still green.