Friends, there are many(I think, I hope). So, to be fair, I will respond with this.


"Stricly an Opinion"
October 20, 2014   8:40a.m.

On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did.  Why?

Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!

But that is the core of the HP Family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, with the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.

One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.

We will keep trying.

Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014

Love is indeed the most tragic form of art.

She's sitting out in the courtyard
Holding a cigarette between her slim fingers
Chipped red nail polish
Shaking hands
Reading the worn out pages
Of her dog eared book
Concentrating on each page
Like her life depends on it
And it does
She clings to the words trying
Not to hold on to her broken heart
Tucking her hair behind her ear
She turns to the next page
Shaking, taking another draw
Such pain in the way she sits
Curled in upon herself
Blocking out the world
No one approaches her
She sits alone

Sometimes, Freedom is
Our words, this piece. Unknown to
Your dear beloved.

To kindle thy hearts
Of carbon souls, who loves but
Chose to be hidden.

Cause slicing thy hearts
We know, the angst of losing
What little we have.

Hoping, that feelings
Befall, we remain numb as
We pen our hearts out.

Dust dancing on rays of morning light;
she and I, and coffee flavored love.
The silence between the words was heavy
with an undertone of doubt.
Something she was hesitant to say
was fighting it's way from mind to mouth.
lovely lips parted to a broken sound
that became words- that became a eulogy
"I do not want a man who writes poetry"
she said, and sighed a long grasp for words
"I want a man who fights and sweats imported whiskey;
I want a man with diamond teeth and scars that tell a story.
I want a man who can juggle twelve running chainsaws
while riding on a unicycle."
Her wet and downcast eyes were blind,
and struggling with her troubled mind,
she did not see that I took the hint 5 minutes ago.
she didn't see that I had left;
because I am a man who writes poetry.

to my good mate steve grigor

i know all i know is that he rode a big scooter and he was a writer

but he was a great writer, so much in facr he taught people how to write

you see steve wasn’t in the mood for staying in his body

he wanted to leave that body and enter in to another body

he was a nice man who enjoyed bowling and writing

and he used to drive his scooter all around the town

you see he taught me how to write and he taught me how to live life to the full

he probably enjoyed a beer or a coke

you see i liked saying hello to him when i saw him

and he said hi brian hows it going

i know steve grigor wasn’t this perfect little angel

but he was a man who taught us through his writing to have a joke about life

now i will give you a little jingle about his passing

it’s a shame it’s a shame it’s a shame

we lost a fine man in steve

it’s a shame it’s a shame it’s a shame

the man who teaches has passed away

i will miss him driving his scooter around this city

who knows he will probably go off to his next life with a lot of of creativity to give

this man was nice, you see he was very nice, but he had a load of body problems

and that is what killed him in the end, i will miss his howdy doody face

goodbye steve grigor

I don't want to be a clone,
With no thoughts of my own,
As if created from a mold,
Always to be bought and sold,
Never truly feeling whole,
Having just an artificial soul,
Like a mindless puppet on a shelf,

No, I would rather be myself.

If i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

within this 26 years of living
within this life
a lot has transpired

within the past 5 years
within this vessel
within this structure of flesh and bone and muscle

a lot has transpired

the end result; a new being
is confounded
a cacophony.
of how my experiences have molded me.

reluctantly.

A lot has transpired.