It is He -
who sent Emily and me
       To a shelter -
t'was an angel there, to be free'd -
       An angel,
Who laid alone -
     waiting for us -  
To bring her HOME!
My Guardian Angel "Brie"(as in cheese)!

copyright: richard riddle May 24, 2015

PRELUDE

Who is this man with name unknown
with silver hair, and beard long-grown-
Who walks among the birds and beasts
with nature catering to his feasts-

"An eremite", say the village folk,
"the hermit on the mound!"
A mystic, an oracle, philosopher, or seer?

"Perhaps, ye'll find the answer,
buried here!"

.........................

He was sitting on a sidewalk bench
a wrinkled hat laid at his feet
Passers-by would drop their change
as they meandered down the street

"God bless you sir", or madam,
he always replied-
In such a gracious and mannerly way ,
that made him impossible to deny
                                    
Some folks would make a comment,
most were polite, others, mild rebukes-
I went to speak on his behalf,
to these young and naive groups.

When I laid my hand on his shoulder
a glint in his eyes put me amiss!
It was then, that I realized
just who this old man is!

"I'll tell you a story, I said,
to the folks standing near,
a tale of caring and compassion-
That I think you'd like to hear"

" I've read legends about "lost gold mines"
and  indian folklore
And I tell you folks, without a doubt,
I've met this man before!"

"It's been 'nigh on to fifty years
since I've been back this way
T'was a time when I nearly lost my life,
I  recall it, as if it happened yesterday!"

Now, the crowd began to grow a bit-
to listen to my tale-
Of exploring an old, abandoned mine
when the walls began to fail.

I told them of the rumble,
when the ground began to quake
How the ceiling began to crumble
when the walls began to shake-

I told them of the stranger
with silver beard, streaked with tan-
Who came out of nowhere
to help a fellow man

The stranger, who gave me water-
who smiled as he gripped my hand,
while I quenched my thirst
from the curse, of this forsaken land

The folklore tells of a holyman
a name he doesn't bore
who strolls the mountain ridges
and across these cactus covered floors

But, I know who, and what he is-
and up my spine it sends the chills-
When I tell you, "you've  come
       face to face
           with......

"The Angel of the Hills!"

copyright: richard riddle May 01, 2015

I 'm going back in time for a few moments, climb  into my "memory machine", and emerge back, into the mid to late forties. Yes, dear friends, I know its hard to believe, but I, too, was once a child.  Going to school Monday thru Friday, greatly anticipating the coming weekend, being able to play, all day, but most of all, going to the neighborhood theatre for......
                                               (scroll)










THE SATURDAY MORNING MATINEE


The kids would gather early,
to form the ticket line-        
    the movie wouldn't start til ten,
and cost a penny, plus a dime.

Some lived close enough to walk,
some would ride their bikes-
They came from all directions,
so, say goodbye to peace, and quiet!

Mom and Dad would even bring 'em
pick'em up and take'em  home-
knowing that for about two hours,
They would have that time alone.(H'mm?)

It was where we saw our heroes,
knowing truth and justice would prevail-
As we watched those nasty villains,
being carted off to jail.

Those times now, have long been gone
But the memories will, forever stay-
I never will forget, the

Saturday Morning Matinee!

(a sequel, perhaps, maybe?)

copyright 06-04-2014 r. riddle

Perhaps, the most profound poem I have ever read

There are too many saviors on my cross,
lending their blood to flood out my ballot box with needs of their own.
Who put you there?
Who told you that that was your place?

You carry me secretly naked in your heart
and clothe me publicly in armor
crying “God is on our side,” yet I openly cry
Who is on mine?
Who?
Tell me, who?
You who bury your sons and ******* your fathers
whilst you bury my father in crippling his son.

The antiquated Saxon sword,
rusty in its scabbard of time now rises—
you gave it cause in my name,
bringing shame to the thorned head
that once bled for your salvation.

I hear your daily cries
in the far-off byways in your mouth
pointing north and south
and my Calvary looms again,
desperate in rebirth.
Your earth is partitioned,
but in contrition
it is the partition
in your hearts that you must abolish.

You nightly watchers of Gethsemene
who sat through my nightly trial delivering me from evil—
now deserted, I watch you share your silver.
Your purse, rich in hate,
bleeds my veins of love,
shattering my bone in the dust of the bogside and the Shankhill road.

There is no issue stronger than the tissue of love,
no need as holy as the palm outstretched in the run of generosity,
no monstrosity greater than the acre you inflict.
Who gave you the right to increase your fold
and decrease the pastures of my flock?
Who gave you the right?
Who gave it to you?
Who?
And in whose name do you fight?

I am not in heaven,
I am here,
hear me.
I am in you,
feel me.
I am of you,
be me.
I am with you,
see me.
I am for you,
need me.
I am all mankind;
only through kindness will you reach me.

What masked and bannered men can rock the ark
and navigate a course to their annointed kingdom come?
Who sailed their captain to waters that they troubled in my font,
sinking in the ignorant seas of prejudice?

There is no ****** willing to conceive in the heat of any ****** Sunday.
You crippled children lying in cries on Derry’s streets,
pushing your innocence to the full flush face of Christian guns,
battling the blame on each other,
do not grow tongues in your dying dumb wounds speaking my name.
I am not your prize in your death.
You have exorcized me in your game of politics.

Go home to your knees and worship me in any cloth,
for I was never tailor-made.
Who told you I was?
Who gave you the right to think it?
Take your beads in your crippled hands,
can you count my decades?
Take my love in your crippled hearts,
can you count the loss?

I am not orange.
I am not green.
I am a half-ripe fruit needing both colors to grow into ripeness,
and shame on you to have withered my orchard.
I in my poverty,
alone without trust,
cry shame on you
and shame on you again and again
for converting me into a bullet and shooting me into men’s hearts.

The ageless legend of my trial grows old
in the youth of your pulse staggering shamelessly from barricade to grave,
filing in the book of history my needless death one April.
Let me, in my betrayal, lie low in my grave,
and you, in your bitterness, lie low in yours,
for our measurements grow strangely dissimilar.

Our Father, who art in heaven,
sullied be thy name.

Richard Harris, actor, Irishman, wrote this, pertaining to the protestant-catholic conflict in the sixties and early seventies,