(from September, 2015)

An omen, a portent-
heralding the coming
of autumn and winter-
As Orion graces heaven's center stage

Mornings  become more crisp-
the aroma of fresh, hot coffee,
Permeating  from a cup on the patio table,
forces the senses to ask for more.

Fireplaces will send wisps of smoke
up their chimneys and over rooftops,
Adding to the exhilaration of knowing
that it's going to be a "good day."

If only the concrete could change colors-
as do the leaves.


copyright: richard riddle-September 11, 2015

There was never a time
a time when life was dull
There was never a moment
a moment packed full
full of surprises, to please.
I was never one to reduce to tears
but were they tears of happiness?
Maybe they were, who is to know
it is such a long time ago
when tears of happiness came.
And that in itself is a crying shame.
My hand was always in his
whenever we strolled down the lane
Now it is not quite the same
my hand is deep in my pocket
my pocket full of regrets
those regrets come with worry
but they are buried deep now.
And that worry does not surface.
It will, maybe one day, one day too late.
But there was never a dull moment
no hand on heart not in the pocket
there was never a dull moment.

Where have all the poets gone the wordsmiths of this generation,  the fearless men and women once held in admiration

Lost to all eternity their anguish and their pain no love lorn tales or primal whails​ ,will be heard again

The romantics and the realist,all die a silent death
Lost to all eternity,amid the modern quest

Replaced by keyboard shorthand, emojis and the gif

Perhaps the emotions too are lost that inspired these greats, the teenage angst , the broken heart, that life cut short by fate.

The hour is late ,and sleep but a dream the pen I hold my only means ,to cleanse my soul and find my inner peace

Bring me your
orphan memories
and I will stitch them
into a chapter of time

Stepping fearlessly into
empty air
walking the tightrope
of certain death

Drawing memory
into the web of this moment
Bleeding it out into meaning

While sleeping
While dreaming

These poor words
strain to tell a tale
a shout out to eternity
and it is a clarion call
from the dawning
to the setting of the sun
announcing a state of grace
that surely will ripple
through time.

The night calls sweetly to us
Bids us sleep well
and find courage in the day.

Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay

Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose

Standing target for practice

A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this  “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water

Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures

Standing targets for practice

Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription

Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept

We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din

Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—

Thinking it over”

two standing on the prairie,
shovels in hand--a third at their feet;
he knows no haste, but the diggers do,
for the sun is rising higher, hotter

the herd, the other hands
are plodding north, only their dust
left in the morning sky; the caliche
is baked hard, waiting

for the shovels to dig
a shallow grave, unmarked,
though there is a lone flower,
yellow against a gray plain

the blossom will be his headstone, until
its roots take their last drink, its stem withers,
its petals fall to the earth, and a wild
wind song becomes their dirge

through her window, she watched
sun shafts through the trees, a transient
tapestry on her potholed lane

a half dozen eggs sat beside her bowl
ready to be beat for the scramble; a half dozen
hours after her street was alight with noise

first the pernicious pop of the zip guns
then the cops '38s; then the howling of the
sirens, the howling of the survivors

mostly Chico's mama and sister
who watched him gunned down, and tried to plug
his half dozen holes with their hands

the street doesn't remember, she thought,
even with a biography of black blood dried
in its cracks and crevices

if it did, surely it would protest, or
make a solemn sound when the dawn shed
all that honest light on dark death

she cracked the eggs, put them
in the hot lard, not bothering with the bowl
breaking yolks blindly in the black skillet