I should, by all practical matters, quit looking through old photos of when my life was much "simpler." Childhood photos, to be exact. They serve only as a reminder of how old I am, and how much older I soon will be. (Yea, I know, ending a sentence with a prepostion is against  the rules of proper penning.)

Looking at these pics, I catch myself playing the game of "whatever became of who?" Those other kids on that cul-de-sac in Corpus Christi, Texas, "waaay, waaay" back in the mid to late forties. One, in particular, comes to mind.

His name was "Duke" Jones. Perhaps, the most popular "kid" on the block.He was our next-door neighbor. An excellent "fielder" when we played baseball, heck of a fast runner, not much of a hitter. But, he was a lot more than that. For, you see, Duke, was a dog. A Doberman Pinscher, a former guarddog at military installations during the war, and rehabilitated before re-entering civilian life. And, he loved children.

Duke knew everyone on the block, knew the postman, the milk deliveryman (yes,there was a time when dairies had milk delivered to your home, but that can be another story), knew which house we lived at, the vehicles our parents drove, he was our protector. If a stranger, such as a door to door salesman, entered his territory, he froze, staring, watching, positioning himself between us and the stranger. If that stranger stepped on to the walk leading to a front door, Duke would start moving, stealthily, instincts, training, taking control. If a strange vehicle entered,  he took notice, watched, intently. My mother and father often said, "We have the safest block in the city."
Our family had moved to another city in 1951, when we got a letter from Duke's "parents", telling us that Duke had passed away at age 16. Looking at that photo in my hand, Duke hasn't gone anywhere.

copyright: richard riddle: 11/02/15

On the highway, 3am,
a myriad of stars
looms over the expanse
like a blanket of fairy dust-

you're the only one on the road

You pull off onto the shoulder - stop-
climb out of that motorized wagon,
lean back against a  fender-
Stretch those legs a bit

What was it that made you stop....  
    Something....inexplicable

The desert can get cool at night-
the silence.....part of the mystique,
creating the mood, for what
is about to come.....

You stiffen...silent...pensive

a slight breeze begins to lift-
becoming stronger-more gusty
You turn,  facing it-
 'listening', waiting....for what?

'for the rumble'

Faint at first
growing louder as it nears-
the sound of steel and wood
breaking the silence                                                          ­                  

Wagon Wheels!
roll'n atop the wind!

The migration West-
their spirits riding,
relentless in purpose-
Men...women.... children....

You can only imagine-
the expression on their faces-
determined.....dauntless.....

building this country-

You smile.....
as they pass.......
How proud of them, you are....
the spirits of our ancestors

Who carved the path-

A drop of a tear-
as the roars of the wagons
Quieten.......fading........
into..... silence

Standing poised....
absorbing  the beauty.........
You understand the magic-....
of its solitude.

the desert
at night



copyright: richard riddle October 26, 2015

It always occurs at a time,
in a place,
so inopportune-
like in a meeting with my boss

When all of a sudden
the grandmother of all ideas
On which to write
Appears, then quickly disappears

Into the abyss....

of an already muddled brain-
Its brilliance,
fading fast......gone

copyright: richard riddle-October 24, 2015

It is a requirement, embedded by nature, incurable, no antidote known by mankind, and only affects-"Grandfathers!"That uncanny, mysterious malady, yet awe-inspiring talent of-"B S'ing the grandchildren!" Tall tales of heroic deeds, sprinkled with a dash of truth(okay, so it might be a small dash), to totally making something up. After all, it's what "grandfathers do, did, always have, and always will.

Frustrating, perhaps a bit irritating, to their parents(your children), you bet! Which is probably one reason we do it, without any signs of remorse. But, choose your subject matter carefully. Let those B S genes flow like the Mississippi, carrying the imaginations of those priceless gifts to places unknown.  

My son, Russ, said to me one day,"Dad, you have to stop feeding them that stuff!" "Why?", I responded,

"after all, that's what grandfathers do."


copyright: richard riddle October23, 2015

Reposted by special request from a very special friend:**

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

From October,2015

It  can happen anywhere, at anytime-
week,* day,month,year
It isn't up to you-

In the car,
listening to the radio-
Having dinner with friends,
or alone-

At a baseball game,
bottom of the ninth-
Score tied-two outs,
bases loaded

Youth re-visited

A certain sound, song, phrase,
overheard-
the aroma of freshly baked bread
glimpse-movement-
indiscriminate-

All unleashing a memory cell
Lying dormant -
Long forgotten-
"What made me think of that?"
you ask yourself

For a door had opened.....
"before your eyes"
and you stepped into........
              v

"The Attic of Forgotten Things."


copyright:(Emended) richard riddle-October 20, 2015

(revised 06-26-16)

There are many, very good poets- (on this site)
There are many, very good writers-(also on this site)

Different styles-
Different ideas-
Conveyance of thought

"A writer can describe a bowl of fresh fruit-
whereas, a poet can smell one!"

Then, There are those-
who can do both!
              v
              v


"Good Morning, Sally!"

"Good Morning, Vicki!"

copyright: richard riddle 10-16, 2015