Indulge me for a few brief moments, if you will. While placing some old photos in an album, I realized that soon it will have been 25 years since the passing of my father. Had it not been for him, I wouldn't have been able to compose some of the stories that have appeared on HP. For that reason, I chose to re-post my piece, "Rust to Rust." For those that have taken the time to have previously read it, "thank you."  For any new members that I hope will read it, thank you, ahead of time.

Richard Riddle


At first glance, it's just a rust-covered pan, typical of what could be found in the trash, hiding behind an old abandoned building. But, its more than that.

This pan is more than a hundred years old. It belonged to my great-grandfather, to my grandfather, then my father. It's the pan my father used to find those small, glistening nuggets, taken from small streams in the mountains of Arizona and California, from which my mother's wedding rings were created.

I cannot  begin to imagine the events this pan had laid witness to, or how many stories lie beneath that blanket of red crust. Oh, the history lessons it could teach. Held by calloused hands, it tasted the water that held those particles of nature that men sought, and died for, in their search for wealth. It heard the cries, and caught the tears, of many who failed in their endeavors.

At one time I considered restoring it to it's earlier time, then realized I would be destroying a history book, and the protective blanket that preserves those untold stories, hopefully, for many more years to come. It will be passed to my grandchildren.

               copyright: richard riddle-February 16,2015

The first was taken before we ever met.
My sister: curled beneath insulated blankets,
a pink bow vaseline-glued to her bald head,
glassy infant eyes turned in the direction
of a picture of me (red striped shirt, my favorite overalls,
velcro shoes). Mom taped it against the outside
of her incubator; so she would know her big brother
even if I wasn’t allowed to visit her yet.

The second shows the two of us at the back door
of our house on Circle ***** Drive. Her palms and nose
pressed firm against the glass as she peers out at Whitney,
the cocker spaniel who became an outside dog
after knocking her over one too many times. My hands are tucked
under her armpits, and I’m using every ounce of my
three-and-a-half-year-old strength to make sure
she don’t teeter back onto her diaper-cushioned ****.

The third, a candid from the family trip to Islamorada.
She and I are walking down the pier, on opposing sides
of Ganga, each holding one of her soft grandma hands.
She was our buffer for those eight days,
and years following the trip. We face the sunrise–
electric pink sky dotted with periwinkle wisps.
Later that day, my sister asked me to come look for seashells
with her; I told her I wished I had a little brother instead.

The final, from my college graduation last May.
My sister and I are laughing in the arboretum.
As excited as I was to never again sit in Hamilton 100
or bubble in a Scantron, I was already missing
eating pho and reading poems, making her matzo ball soup
when her throat hurt, and trekking to the taco truck at 1 am.
Neither of us knew then that I would have this job and this desk
with these four photos, and room for more.

Pink blossoms
drooping downwards
like gowns at a grand ball.

Dew clinging to their petals
and hanging like gems,
glimmering in the morning light.

Shrouded in Liberty
it moves across the land
gorging on the hearts
and faith of
small ones;
they whose homes
invaded by the cause,
depleted of life,
of love,
of choice,
find protection
a misnomer.
Buried deep in details
of little consequence
where minutia
is a governor
stealing choice
to feed the appetite
of this machine.
Where has gone
the mighty power
that once united all;
will Freedom
end this war
before a mighty fall?
Bring back the ghosts
that won it well
the proud, the free and brave;
their spirits needed in our own
to lead us from our grave.
Apathy would bury us,
cloaked in ignorance of bliss
while shrouded in Liberty
the beast deceives;
No army advancing
but what we're sold,
driving back the small ones
step by step;
the edge of a grave
ready for us to slip
into darkness.

Freckles are memories
One big night sky
They all come together to form a life
One constellation
The most important of them all.