GOING LOCO

the train screamed
impatient to be off
we watch the station pull away

the train huffed & puffed
placing cinders in girls' hair
belching soot on boys' faces

train throwing
a scarf of smoke
over its chugging carriages

cows running by
so fast
the world a blur of green

the train chuffed
to be chasing the landscape
crossing that bridge when

it came to it
destination achieved
downloading passengers to the station

My grandfather is a poet
He writes of a man’s purpose, his ergon
And of the group home he once ran, for parents who didn’t understand the curse, or possible gift of their child’s disability
He said there was a boy who floated, despite being palsied
And who yearned for a man with a beard like snow
Sometimes when I dream of things that I’ve never seen, his poems come alive,
Full of demented calliopes and pills that are every color of the rainbow
And someone’s hands interlocked with another’s

My other grandfather, the father of my mother, is an artist
He paints crisp lines, diamonds like the eyes of a cat in the night
And sketches with an open palm, shows stories of long ago
When my mother was nothing more than a child, unaware of how her father drank himself to sleep
Every single night
He couldn’t afford champagne or cognac, so most nights it was cheap beer that tasted like sawdust
And soon he’d become sawdust, floating on the wind, if not for that tiny voice inside
That said
Stop

My grandmother is a healer
A woman understood by few, the type to stay up late worrying
Over pain and personality, over dreams and nightmares
She can heal with a touch of the hand and a handful of pills and
Once worked hard to create a world free of the three letter disease no one wants to talk about
She’s always been there
Yet she still doesn’t know how important she is to me

My father is a lawyer
He advocates for the voiceless, raises himself up when there’s no one there to speak out
Loves no matter what, jokes like the father he is until the break of dawn
He raises me up with heavy hands and a heavier heart
Because we have our share of fights, our screaming and kicking, our pinning and pushing
But never has my love for him wavered

My mother is my world
She’s held many jobs, from unofficial pet store employee at eleven to director of a nonprofit for children in foster care at forty-five
Nowadays she works hard, keeps her eyelids from sagging through long days and longer nights
Raising her voice for children with no one to call mother
And I call her that with pride, because at the end of the day,
We would be nothing but stardust
Without our mothers

My grandfather is a poet, and I’m one, too
Bridging the gap of generations with words
He taught me how to write through a book sent in the mail
And I’m still grateful, looking over the tattered pages of his poetry until the sun catches up to the moon
He taught me how to live, how to write
My grandmother taught me how to heal
My father taught me how to speak out
And my mother taught me
To be myself.

reposted for my granddaughter, Emily Riddle, in memory of my wife, Karen Riddle.*


I just couldn't do without
my grandma's heart necklace -
It was a gift to me, although
she passed away when I was little.

It also holds all of my mad,
sad, and happy memories,
just like it is a part of me.
I wear it on very special occasions,
since it is so unique.

When I wear it close to my heart-
it makes me feel special.
That's why I would always
feel happy, or at least, a little joyful,
when I hold it to my chest-
to pretend my grandma is
still alive.

She was very important to me-
We did so much together,
and I miss her,
and the special times we shared.

I can feel her with me
when I wear it, or hold it,
close to me.

Without this prized possession,
all of my feelings
would be lost,
with my grandma, in the sky.

My heart necklace
means the world to me,
and I wouldn't change
anything about it.

People say
"jewelry is made
to look beautiful."

Well, I say,
It was made to be a
"Memory Holder!!"

copyright-Emily Riddle- October 15, 2013

My granddaughter Emily, wrote this essay as a class assignment for her 3rd Grade class. Originally in full page, essay form, I divided it into stanzas, and added some punctuation. Although there are some misspellings(two), I chose not to correct them, but to leave the content as it was written, in order to preserve the sincerity, and the innocence, with which it was written. Thank you, so much, Emily Riddle. (She is about to turn 13.) Love you, so much!!
Granddad.

PASSING STRANGE


Rose, arose & having risen:
...was angry.


'You never call me
by my name


only love & darling.'


'A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet! '
I quoted.


'That's neat! '
she sweetly smiled.


'That's Shakespeare! '
I whispered in her ear


and kissed her sweet sweet smile.
(Each reflected in the other's eye) .


'Oh, quote me that kiss again! '
she sighed.


'How I do love thee...! '
I cried.


'...let me count the kisses! '
she replied.


My lovely darling
Rose.

The Light

Gifted Days

Midas

Dark skinned

Brilliant

Souls'

Effulgence.

with carnivorous eyes without a center
he's secretly moulding the void from behind
too many interrupted gestures
he's afraid we're going to laugh at his naked ****
he has sensitive dreams and nervous fingertips
such is the pain not kidding that he starts misspelling
his name
passionate like a colt, like a murderous silence
he doesn't mind he is a fragment
waiting to be taken somewhere
beyond
to an unknown love