May 05, 2016: I am reposting this in honor of my wife, Karen, who left this mortal earth eight 1/2 years ago. Originally written and posted on September 17, 2014)*

This tree-
Is not just any 'ol tree'-

It's "The Grandmother Tree"

Having grown from a broken, eighteen inch high twig,
taken from its mother by the Texas wind.
Now, in just over six years, it rises nearly fifteen feet, for it was planted, and fed, with the love from two grandchildren, who planted it in memory of their grandmother, my wife, Karen, of 40 years, and their surviving grandmother, Linda.
Karen found it on our patio and placed it in a clay ***; watered it, and made a support for it to keep it upright. She wanted to plant it where it stands today. She had named it "The Evan and Emily Tree." When she left us, Emily and Evan planted it in the back yard of their home. They named it, "The Grandmother Tree."
The tree is home to the "Guardians", the "Keepers", the "Watchers", sent to protect their memories, then, now, and future. Enlarge it, and you might see them, if you look closely. There are monkeys sitting in the tree, and the silhouettes. To the left, is cast the shadow of a "little man", with arm extended, pointing upward. To the right of the tree, perhaps an ape like creature, or two, and the face of a "mystery man." Set your imagination "free",

For there could be others-
Look, and see.
You could be surprised!
copyright: richard riddle September 17, 2014 12:32pm

May 05, 2016: I am reposting this in honor of my wife, Karen, who left this mortal earth eight 1/2 years ago. Originally written and posted on September 17, 2014)*

This tree-
Is not just any 'ol tree'-

It's "The Grandmother Tree"

Having grown from a broken, eighteen inch high twig,
taken from its mother by the Texas wind.
Now, in just over six years, it rises nearly fifteen feet, for it was planted, and fed, with the love from two grandchildren, who planted it in memory of their grandmother, my wife, Karen, of 40 years, and their surviving grandmother, Linda.
Karen found it on our patio and placed it in a clay ***; watered it, and made a support for it to keep it upright. She wanted to plant it where it stands today. She had named it "The Evan and Emily Tree." When she left us, Emily and Evan planted it in the back yard of their home. They named it, "The Grandmother Tree."
The tree is home to the "Guardians", the "Keepers", the "Watchers", sent to protect their memories, then, now, and future. Enlarge it, and you might see them, if you look closely. There are monkeys sitting in the tree, and the silhouettes. To the left, is cast the shadow of a "little man", with arm extended, pointing upward. To the right of the tree, perhaps an ape like creature, or two, and the face of a "mystery man." Set your imagination "free",

For there could be others-
Look, and see.
You could be surprised!
copyright: richard riddle September 17, 2014 12:32pm

(A detailed pic of the tree can be seen on Facebook)

This tree
Is not just any 'ol tree-

It's "The Grandmother Tree"

Having grown from a broken, eighteen inch high twig,
taken from its mother by the Texas wind.
Now, in just over six years, it rises nearly fifteen feet, for it was planted, and fed, with the love from two grandchildren, who planted it in memory of their grandmother, my wife, Karen, of 40 years, and their surviving grandmother, Linda.
Karen found it on our patio and placed it in a clay ***; watered it, and made a support for it to keep it upright. She wanted to plant it where it stands today. She had named it "The Evan and Emily Tree." When she left us, Emily and Evan planted it in the back yard of their home. They named it, "The Grandmother Tree."
The tree is home to the "Guardians", the "Keepers", the "Watchers", sent to protect their memories, then, now, and future. Enlarge it, and you might see them, if you look closely. There are monkeys sitting in the tree, and the silhouettes. To the left, is cast the shadow of a "little man", with arm extended, pointing upward. To the right of the tree, perhaps an ape like creature, or two, and the face of a "mystery man." Set your imagination "free",

For there could be others-
Look, and see.
You could be surprised!
copyright: richard riddle September 17, 2014 12:32pm

"Give me that!!, I saw it first."
"The hell you did, I saw it first!!"

"Ahhh, yes. Holiday cheer is underway!" "Black Friday" is upon us. The day after Thanksgiving, when shoppers arm themselves with credit cards, cash, and weapons, heralding the official start of the 2016 Christmas shopping season.  Arriving at deparment stores at 3am, foaming at the mouth to be first in line when doors open at 7, if not earlier.

"BUY THREE, GET ONE!," "50% OFF", another, and other such 'come-ons', are the battle cries. It gives the department stores an opportunity to get rid of the poor quality stuff they couldn't sell earlier. But, shoppers don't care as long as they think they're getting a bargain.

"Me?" Finished with most of it, but enough to keep me out of the mainstream.

"HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EVERYBODY!!"

r.riddle: 11-21-2016

We often hear the words,"THEY" said", "They say"-
but no one seems to know who "THEY" are!'

"They" belongs to a very large family of verbal miscreants that have spent eons infiltrating societies throughout  the globe by creating and spreading rumour and discontent with a vengeance.

"THEY", has siblings, with such names as "Somebody Else", "Somebody Said", "The Other Guy",etc. The latter being in the unfortunate position of being blamed for the actions of "Somebody Else."

"Somebody Else" needs to be replaced by somebody else.

copyright: richard riddle February 18, 2015

(a repost)

In late 1888, a Wells Fargo stage
Was relieved of its freight-
A strongbox, taken from its hold,
held thousands of dollars in coins of gold.

The brigands had a master plan,
To bury that box,
sit, and wait-
Then dig it up at a later date.

They found a spot on rock-hard ground-
Where it would lie, safe and sound,
So they sank it in a three foot hole-
to hide that box with coins of gold.

But what they didn’t realize,
that in the distance, sat a pair of eyes-
That had watched the whole event unfold-
and watched, as they buried that chest with gold.

Late that night, under a pale, lantern, light-
a shovel's blade split those rocks-
and the hole was relieved-
of that strongbox.

William Nelson Riddle, owned that property-
And he lived with a basic philosophy-
“Since it was found, on my ground-
I guess it belongs to me.”

“Nelson” died in ’28, at age of 85-
He never said what happened to,
Or if, that chest survived-
And the "Legend of Riddle’s Gold"came alive.

As time passed, the story grew-
each year, a bit more grand-
That Nelson took that strongbox-
And hid it  elsewhere on his land

Greed is one of the “seven sins”-
"Everybody loses, and nobody wins"-
But the “want” for gold is a mighty strong thirst-
So his kin set out for a “family search.”

At morning’s dawn, the kinfolk came-
To search for gold, fortune, and fame-
They came with shovels, spades, and hoes-
And some “TNT”, so the story goes.

With disregard for propriety,
they descended upon the property-
Without a map, without a plan-
They spread out to search his land.  

Now, the rabbits and the coyotes,
and the gophers(one or two)-
Gathered on a little knoll,
To have a better view.

They knew what was going to happen-
It was just a matter of time-
When the dew had disappeared,
And the morning sun had reached it’s prime



They dug a hole here, and dug over there-
The morning sun was getting hot-
and everywhere they looked –
Was for naught.

Now, it isn't very clear
as who said what, to who-
But it must have been insult'n-
to start that ballyhoo.

There was push'n and shove'n
and calling names galore!
Yell'n and cuss'n
using words you ain't heard before!

And that was just the men-folk-
the women got in it too-
screaming heard, from north to south-
Those words should never come from a ladies mouth.

Fists being swung, shovels slung!
dust was kicked up in a ball-
nothing could be more entertaining-
than watching a family free-for-all!

Then suddenly, it came to a stop !
as quick as it began-
They gathered up all their gear-
and departed Nelson's land.

This is where the story ends-
all I know is what I'm told,
From my daddy, for he'd been sitting,
atop that little knoll.



Epilogue
(This is how I would like to have it end)

Somewhere in the "high above"-
at a table, two people sat-
One, wearing suit and tie-
and Nelson, with his beard and hat.

"Nelson, a lot of folks have you to thank,
for bringing that strongbox to the bank-
you saved a lot of folks their homes and farms."

Nelson, from his chair, arose-
standing *****, and proud-
Stroked his beard, then tweaked his nose,
smiled, and faded into the clouds.
(thanks folks for your patience)

Copyright September 16-2013 Richard Riddle






True story- sort of. Originally written in three parts.The holdup actually did occur, and witnessed by William Nelson Riddle.  Years later, believing he had hidden the strongbox elsewhere, relatives converged on the property to conduct a "massive" search. A story on this saga appeared in the San Diego Union newspaper on May 7, 1939. William Nelson Riddle is my great-grandfather and resided in Crowley, Johnson County, Tx.



Edit poem

Repost

In late 1888, a Wells Fargo stage
Was relieved of its freight-
A strongbox, taken from its hold,
held thousands of dollars in coins of gold.

The brigands had a master plan,
To bury that box,
sit, and wait-
Then dig it up at a later date.

They found a spot on rock-hard ground-
Where it would lie, safe and sound,
So they sank it in a three foot hole-
to hide that box with coins of gold.

But what they didn’t realize,
that in the distance, sat a pair of eyes-
That had watched the whole event unfold-
and watched, as they buried that chest with gold.

Late that night, under a pale, lantern, light-
a shovel's blade split those rocks-
and the hole was relieved-
of that strongbox.

William Nelson Riddle, owned that property-
And he lived with a basic philosophy-
“Since it was found, on my ground-
I guess it belongs to me.”

“Nelson” died in ’28, at age of 85-
He never said what happened to,
Or if, that chest survived-
And the "Legend of Riddle’s Gold"came alive.

As time passed, the story grew-
each year, a bit more grand-
That Nelson took that strongbox-
And hid it  elsewhere on his land

Greed is one of the “seven sins”-
"Everybody loses, and nobody wins"-
But the “want” for gold is a mighty strong thirst-
So his kin set out for a “family search.”

At morning’s dawn, the kinfolk came-
To search for gold, fortune, and fame-
They came with shovels, spades, and hoes-
And some “TNT”, so the story goes.

With disregard for propriety,
they descended upon the property-
Without a map, without a plan-
They spread out to search his land.  

Now, the rabbits and the coyotes,
and the gophers(one or two)-
Gathered on a little knoll,
To have a better view.

They knew what was going to happen-
It was just a matter of time-
When the dew had disappeared,
And the morning sun had reached it’s prime



They dug a hole here, and dug over there-
The morning sun was getting hot-
and everywhere they looked –
Was for naught.

Now, it isn't very clear
as who said what, to who-
But it must have been insult'n-
to start that ballyhoo.

There was push'n and shove'n
and calling names galore!
Yell'n and cuss'n
using words you ain't heard before!

And that was just the men-folk-
the women got in it too-
screaming heard, from north to south-
Those words should never come from a ladies mouth.

Fists being swung, shovels slung!
dust was kicked up in a ball-
nothing could be more entertaining-
than watching a family free-for-all!

Then suddenly, it came to a stop !
as quick as it began-
They gathered up all their gear-
and departed Nelson's land.

This is where the story ends-
all I know is what I'm told,
From my daddy, for he'd been sitting,
atop that little knoll.



Epilogue
(This is how I would like to have it end)

Somewhere in the "high above"-
at a table, two people sat-
One, wearing suit and tie-
and Nelson, with his beard and hat.

"Nelson, a lot of folks have you to thank,
for bringing that strongbox to the bank-
you saved a lot of folks their homes and farms."

Nelson, from his chair, arose-
standing *****, and proud-
Stroked his beard, then tweaked his nose,
smiled, and faded into the clouds.
(thanks folks for your patience)

Copyright September 16-2013 Richard Riddle






True story- sort of. Originally written in three parts.The holdup actually did occur, and witnessed by William Nelson Riddle.  Years later, believing he had hidden the strongbox elsewhere, relatives converged on the property to conduct a "massive" search. A story on this saga appeared in the San Diego Union newspaper on May 7, 1939. William Nelson Riddle is my great-grandfather and resided in Crowley, Johnson County, Tx.

In late 1888, a Wells Fargo stage
Was relieved of its freight-
A strongbox, taken from its hold,
held thousands of dollars in coins of gold.

The brigands had a master plan,
To bury that box,
sit, and wait-
Then dig it up at a later date.

They found a spot on rock-hard ground-
Where it would lie, safe and sound,
So they sank it in a three foot hole-
to hide that box with coins of gold.

But what they didn’t realize,
that in the distance, sat a pair of eyes-
That had watched the whole event unfold-
and watched, as they buried that chest with gold.

Late that night, under a pale, lantern, light-
a shovel's blade split those rocks-
and the hole was relieved-
of that strongbox.

William Nelson Riddle, owned that property-
And he lived with a basic philosophy-
“Since it was found, on my ground-
I guess it belongs to me.”

“Nelson” died in ’28, at age of 85-
He never said what happened to,
Or if, that chest survived-
And the "Legend of Riddle’s Gold"came alive.

As time passed, the story grew-
each year, a bit more grand-
That Nelson took that strongbox-
And hid it  elsewhere on his land

Greed is one of the “seven sins”-
"Everybody loses, and nobody wins"-
But the “want” for gold is a mighty strong thirst-
So his kin set out for a “family search.”

At morning’s dawn, the kinfolk came-
To search for gold, fortune, and fame-
They came with shovels, spades, and hoes-
And some “TNT”, so the story goes.

With disregard for propriety,
they descended upon the property-
Without a map, without a plan-
They spread out to search his land.  

Now, the rabbits and the coyotes,
and the gophers(one or two)-
Gathered on a little knoll,
To have a better view.

They knew what was going to happen-
It was just a matter of time-
When the dew had disappeared,
And the morning sun had reached it’s prime



They dug a hole here, and dug over there-
The morning sun was getting hot-
and everywhere they looked –
Was for naught.

Now, it isn't very clear
as who said what, to who-
But it must have been insult'n-
to start that ballyhoo.

There was push'n and shove'n
and calling names galore!
Yell'n and cuss'n
using words you ain't heard before!

And that was just the men-folk-
the women got in it too-
screaming heard, from north to south-
Those words should never come from a ladies mouth.

Fists being swung, shovels slung!
dust was kicked up in a ball-
nothing could be more entertaining-
than watching a family free-for-all!

Then suddenly, it came to a stop !
as quick as it began-
They gathered up all their gear-
and departed Nelson's land.

This is where the story ends-
all I know is what I'm told,
From my daddy, for he'd been sitting,
atop that little knoll.



Epilogue
(This is how I would like to have it end)

Somewhere in the "high above"-
at a table, two people sat-
One, wearing suit and tie-
and Nelson, with his beard and hat.

"Nelson, a lot of folks have you to thank,
for bringing that strongbox to the bank-
you saved a lot of folks their homes and farms."

Nelson, from his chair, arose-
standing *****, and proud-
Stroked his beard, then tweaked his nose,
smiled, and faded into the clouds.

(thanks folks for your patience)

Copyright September 16-2013 Richard Riddle






True story- sort of. Originally written in three parts.The holdup actually did occur, and witnessed by William Nelson Riddle.  Years later, believing he had hidden the strongbox elsewhere, relatives converged on the property to conduct a "massive" search. A story on this saga appeared in the San Diego Union newspaper on May 7, 1939. William Nelson Riddle is my great-grandfather and resided in Crowley, Johnson County, Tx.

Written approximately1890-1899 by American poet Will Carleton, and is shown as it appeared in the Sacramento Daily Union Newspaper on July 15, 1899. Even in his elder years, my grandfather, Odis Riddle, could recite this word for word, and not skip a beat, mesmerizing all of us grandchildren that had gathered around his chair for the performance.

Enj­oy

"If the weary crowd is willing, I've a little word to say of a lightning-rod dispenser that dropped down on me one day; with a poem in his motions,; with a sermon in his mien, with hands as white as lilies, and a face uncommon clean. No wrinkle had his vestments and his  linen glistened white, and his new-constructed necktie was an interesting sight; Which I almost wished his razor had made red that white-skinned throat, and the new-constructed necktie had • composed a hangman's knot. Ere he brought his sleek-trimmed carcass for my women folks to see and his rip-saw tongue a-buzzin' for to gouge a **** in me.

But I couldn't help but like him, as I always think i must, The gold of my own doctrine in a fellowheap of dust, When I fired my own opinions at this person, round by round, they drew an answering volley of a very similar sound; I touched him on religion, and the hopes my heart had' known; he said he'd had experiences quite similar of my own. I told him of the doubtin's that made dark my early years; he had laid awake till morning with that same old breed of fears; I told him of the rough path I hoped to heaven to go, he was on that ladder, only just a round below. I told him of my visions, of the sinfulness of gain, he had seen the self same picters, tho' not quite so clear and plain;

Our politics was different, at first he galled and winced. But I arg'ed him so able, he was very soon convinced. And, 'twas getting toward the middle cf a hungry summer day, There was dinner on the table, and I asked him would he stay? And he sat down among us, everlasting trim and neat. And asked a short, crisp blessing, almost good enough to eat; Then he fired upon the mercies of our Great Eternal Friend, and gave the Lord Almighty a good, .first-class recommend; And for full an hour we listened to this sugar-coated scamp, Talking like a blessed angel—eating like a blasted *****.

\My wife, she liked the stranger, smiling on him warm and sweet, (It always flatters women when their guests are on the eat), and he hinted that some ladies never lose their early charms. And kissed her latest baby and received it in his arms.

My sons and daughters liked him, for he had progressive views, And chewed the quill of fancy, and gave down the latest news: And I couldn't help but like him, as I fear I always must, The gold of my own doctrine, in a fellowheap of dust.

He was spreading desolation through a piece of apple pie, when he paused and looked upon us with a tear in his off-eye. and said. O, happy family! your blessings make me sad: You call to mind those dear ones that in happier days I had, a wife as sweet as this one; a babe as bright and fair; a little girl with ringlets, like that one over there; I worshiped them too blindly! My eyes with love were dim! God took them to His own heart and now I worship Him. But had I not neglected the means within my way, Then they might still be living, and loving me to-day.  

.-.• One night there came a tempest; the thunder peals were dire; The clouds that tramped above us were shooting bolts of fire; In my own house, I, lying, was thinking to my blame. How little I had guarded against those shafts of flame. When crash! through roof and ceiling the deadly lightning cleft. And killed my wife and children, and only I was left. Since that dread time I've wandered, and naught for life have cared, Save to save other's loved ones, whose lives have yet been spared; Since then, it is my mission, where'er by sorrow tossed, To sell to virtuous people good lightning rods—at cost."

" With sure and strong protection I'll clothe your buildings o'er, 'Twill cost you fifty dollars (perhaps a trifle more), What little else it comes to at lowest price I'll put, (You signing this agreement to pay so much per foot). I signed it, while my family all approving stood about. And dropped a tear upon it (but it didn't blot it out).

That very day with wagons came some men, both great and small; They climbed upon my buildings just as if they owned 'em all. They hacked 'em and they hewed 'em, much against my loud desire, They trimmed 'em up with gewgaws, and they bound 'em down with wires:

They trimmed 'em and they wired 'em and they trimmed and wired 'em still, t And every precious minute kept a-run-nlng up the bill. My soft spoke guest a-seeking, did I rave and rush and run; He was supping with a neighbor, just a-three mile further on. "Do you think," I fiercely shouted, "that I want a mile o' Wire, To save each, separate hay-coclc out of heaven's consuming fire? Do you think to keep my biuldin's safe from some uncertain harm, I'm going' to deed you over all the balance of my farm?"
He looked up quite astonished, with a face devoid of guile. And he pointed to the contract with a reassuring smile. It was the first occasion that he disagreed with me, But he held me to that paper with a firmness sad to see; And for that thunder story ere the rascal i finally went, I paid two hundred dollars, if I paid a single cent. And if any lightning rodder wants a dinner dialogue. With the restaurant department of an enterprising dog, Let him set his mill a-runnin' Just Inside my outside gate, And I'll bet two hundred dollars that he won't have long to wait.

Several years ago, I was working with other investigators on a surveillance assignment in a residential neighborhood. We arrived on site at six o'clock in the morning. About 7:30 the sun  broke the horizon, and it was going to be a gorgeous morning.
It was an "older, established neighborhood, you know the type, "A" Frame homes, that had screen doors in front of the solid ones, where a person could keep the main door open and let the morning breezes filter through the house, saving on the utility bill. All of a sudden the screen door on a residence two down from our suspect, came open, and an elderly gentleman stepped out on the porch. He stood  there, holding the screen door open, as if he were talking to someone.
Shortly, to my surprise, a beautiful, long-hair, white cat stepped out onto the porch. The old gent stooped over, brushed the kitty's head, and shut the door. In unison, the two walked down the front walk, the kitty at the old gents feet. The old man bent down and picked up the newspaper. Together, they started back towards the house, and the furry creature disappeared into the flower bed that lined the front of the house. The old gent stayed where he was, perusing the front page of the paper. After a couple of minutes passed, the feline reappeared and took his place at the old man's feet. Together, side by side, they walked back to the porch,where the old gent gracefully opened the door and let his "guardian angel" enter first.
Now, I know this story doesn't sound like much. However, I felt that they had been together for a pretty long time. Best friends, they were, loyal to each other, creating a love between human and animal, unsurpassed. In writing this, I realized that he, like me, his home wasn't empty.......
anymore.

richard riddle: January 08, 2016

Originally written and posted in December, 2014, I like to re-post it occasionally for all the new writers, poets, essayists, and, of course, any new 'readers'.*

On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You",  was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!

copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014



Edit poem

Originally written and posted in December, 2014, I like to re-post it occasionally for all the new writers, poets, essayists, and, of course, any new 'readers'*.

On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You",  was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!

copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014

On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You",  was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!

copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014

Originally written and posted in December, 2014, I like to re-post it occasionally for all the new writers, poets, essayists, and, of course, any new 'readers'.*

On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You",  was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!

copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014

On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You",  was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!

copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014

For all of the newcomers to the site, and you 'old comers', too.)*

On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You",  was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!

copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014

"Comforting", it is-
in its application"

"Calming", it is-
in its purpose"

"Love",
is its message"

Whether applied to an infant babe in a crib....
or making the tears of a crying child disappear...

or, simply giving a hug to mom and dad.......

or, your children.......grandchildren.........

or, to a friend.......

Channeled thru you... from heaven..........

The "power".................of..............a *"touch"


r.riddle: 09-18-2016

From September - 2016*


"Comforting", it is-
in its application"

"Calming", it is-
in its purpose"

"Love",
is its message"

Whether applied to an infant babe in a crib....
or making the tears of a crying child disappear...

or, simply giving a hug to mom and dad.......

or, your children.......grandchildren.........

or, to a friend.......

Channeled thru you... from heaven..........

The "power".................of..............a "touch"


r.riddle: 09-18-2016

*inspired by Pradip Chattopadhyay's "Distance"

It was September, 1967, when the young coed from Texas Tech University entered the television studio at KCBD TV, Channel 11 in Lubock, Texas. Blonde hair with a reddish tint, "Strawberry Blonde", the stylists call it, accompanied by sparkling blue eyes and and a diminutive smile that accented her personality.
She was there looking to find a part-time job. That summer she had worked as an intern in the promotion department at a television station in Dallas, and was  majoring in journalism at the university. A mutual friend with whom she worked in Dallas, had put her in touch with me. I worked as an 'on air' director, and was getting the studio reset for the six o'clock news following a commercial taping session. Although the station had no job openings at the time, a series of events began to take shape.
That chance meeting changed my life, and I recall it as if it happened yesterday. I was twenty five, she, twenty. Two months later, In November, 1967, we married. Forty years and two months later, following cancer surgery, Karen passed away, but not until giving us a fantastic son, wonderful daughter-in-law, and now, two grandchildren, who have redefined the phrase,"growing like weeds."
The holiday period has always been a time for reflections, some good, some 'not so good.' Can't be helped, human nature. But, as the sages say, "Life goes on", and it has been good to me in many ways.

"Thank you, Lord, for helping me along the way."

r.riddle: January 01, 2017

(Amber just returned from an eight week hiatus-some may call it rehab)

Neighbor: "Welcome back! what's that your carrying?"
Amber(Brushing her hair off her forehead): "A bird cage. I bought two love birds! aren't they cute!"  
Neighbor(to himself: "Oh boy!") So, you're getting into ornithology?
Amber: "Oh no! My dentist has already taken off my braces!!"
Neighbor(to himself): "Orthodontist, Ornithology? I think I can give her that one.

copyright: richard riddle Augst 22, 2015

(For any family gathering during the holiday season)

My father had two brothers and four sisters, which meant  there were numerous cousins. At least once a year, sometimes more, we would gather at our grandparents house in Joshua, Texas.

Come Sunday morning, the ritual of preparing the Sunday dinner would begin. Now, back then, in the 40's and 50's, it was "old school." The women went to the kitchen(led by grandmom), and the men would go outside, brace themselves against the fenders and hoods of their vehicles, conveniently parked beneath a large Texas Pecan Tree; lightup their cigars, cigarettes, or pipes, and start telling lies and yarns(much the same thing), each trying to outdo the other. The children running around the open yard, or going a hundred yards to the railroad tracks to place coins, mostly pennies, dimes, nickles(maybe a quarter,if you got an allowance), on the track rails, then wait for the afternoon/evening train. A lot of coins got flattened on those tracks.

And while the men waited.......a manisfestation began to occur........................

Aromas that would make a king cry.....

"Salivating"
Becoming impatient

Fried chicken
Baked chicken

Becoming more impatient
Laughter....
Coming from the kitchen

Roast Beef
Mashed potatoes
Lord, don't let'em forget the gravy!

Lightly braised stringbeans w/buttersauce
Fresh baked Acorn Squash
Okra
All prepared with, the 'secret ingredient'.......


" Love! "

copyright: January 16, 2016

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-*****, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.

There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.
There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;

With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool, so the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands —
my God! but that man could play.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;

While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars?  
Then you've a hunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars.
And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;

For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love —
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true —
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that's known as Lou.)

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.

'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through —
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere", said Dangerous Dan McGrew.
The music almost died away ... then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.

The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to ****, to **** ... then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;

Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a ****;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell. . .and that one is Dan McGrew."

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with "*****," and I'm not denying it's so.

I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two —
The woman that kissed him and — pinched his poke — was the lady that's known as Lou.

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it—
Came out with a fortune last fall,—
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth—and I'm one.

You come to get rich (****** good reason)
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it's been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.

I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.

The summer—no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
O God! how I'm stuck on it all.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-by—but I can't.

There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back—and I will.

They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish
I'll pike to the Yukon again.
I'll fight—and you bet it's no sham-fight;
It's hell!—but I've been there before;
And it's better than this by a damsite—
So me for the Yukon once more.

There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace.

'Tis 3am this 'ebon' nite-
a curse befalls the creature's plight!-
He rises, for a prey to search-
to quench a hunger, and a thirst

His nostr'ls, a scent they find-
the prey is near-to sate his mind
The need grows stronger, his teeth to put-
to a cup of coffee, and a warm donut!

That's it,  I'm going to bed now!

copyright: richard riddle June 02, 2015

I've been through "complicated"
Its time for "simple" to take a seat-
So I looked for a job with a lot less stress
that would take me off my feet

I applied over here, and applied over there-
Finally got a stroke of luck-
Here I sit, next to the curb,
In my ice cream truck.

Mothers with their children
gather with gleaming faces-
I give the bars with nuts and toffee
to those with dental braces.

copyright: richard riddle December 26, 2014

We all have prejudices against....
Those people"

Those that like....
Broccoli

Those whose favorite song is,
"Anything you can do, I can do better!"

Those that
Love cats( no wonder why I have few friends)

Those that....
Will pickup a wet raccoon and dry it off with a new set of towels
(like me)

Those that like
Broccolli

Those that.....
Go to a gym five days a week

Those that....
Sit at a computer for hours....then write stuff like this

Those that like...
Broccoli

And those that....
Keep repeating themselves

9/11/2016

Just because I'm older(than most of you added together),
Please refrain from addressing me as "Sir",
for I have yet to be knighted by the queen!

rriddle: 04-05-2016

"DON'T"

copyright richard riddle August 27, 2014

"I want to live to be a hundred years old just so I can aggravate the crap out of everybody!"

r.riddle: 03-18-2016

Quit looking for "shortcuts" in life:

"THERE AREN'T ANY!!"

Don't you folks ever sleep!

copyright-richard riddle September 08-2014 11:46am

Today, I will mind my own business!

"We have met the enemy, and he is us."
(re: Pogo Possum, aka cartoonist Walt Kelly, Earth Day, April 22, 1970)

Thought for the Day IV


"We have met the enemy, and he is us."
(re: Pogo Possum, aka cartoonist Walt Kelly, Earth Day, April 22, 1970)



Edit poem






"We have seen the enemy, and he is us!"**

(re: Pogo Possum, aka cartoonist Walt Kelly,  April 22, 1970)

This "POET'S TRAIN" always stops to pick up new passengers!

copyright: richard riddle October 10, 2014

When reading the obituaries in the newspaper, and see the name of a person whom I had known for a long time, with whom I went to high school , did business, worked beside, etc. I say to myself, "I just moved up a rung on the ladder." I just hope it's a very tall ladder!

copyright: richard riddle-June 17, 2015

a repost*

When reading the obituaries in the newspaper, and seeing the name of a person whom I had known for a long time, with whom I went to high school , did business, worked beside, etc. I say to myself, "I just moved up a rung on the ladder." I just hope it's a very tall ladder!

copyright: richard riddle-June 17, 2015

Today, I'm dedicating myself to write something profound, yet inspiring; reflective, meaningful. " I'm going back to bed!" That should suffice!


copyright: richard riddle: August 03, 2015

It just occurred to me that............??? "******! It happened, again!"



copyright: richard riddle-8-07-15

"There are occasions when I get a little "carried away."

richard riddle: 09-09-2015