In time we stand still forgetting the memories
That burden the frontier with poison and tragedy
Lest we forget that the deed had been signed
By prospectors and cowboys who’ve long since died
Aiming a loaded shell towards eradication
An idea that precedes psychopathy in terms of petition
Yet ponders so freely to children so willing to point them the barrel and fire such rounds

I urgently take the bounty for the hunting of the buffalo
Using their skulls for declination, a sturdy stronghold
Yet deep in heart I realize that it spawns back to devils
That pay only to spoil their countless fruits of survival
The cause paints our flag a brilliant blue
The blood breeds red and helps assimilate too
From their ponytails, against remorse, I could yank off their heads
And perhaps repay the herd of bison for their dead

We danced mountain songs naked under pale blue moonlight
Imitating their gestures in the style of caricature
The stars glistening, reflecting in pools of gory mucus
The rotting carcasses that attract forest vultures
Which we willingly hunt and devour without hesitance

A rack of scalps hung from the duster, cloth sodden with their fluids
Marking migration patterns on various maps to follow and stalk with
Here we sing to the villages of which we’ve burned down
Hoping that God, in His grace, could forgive such savage hounds
The calls of doves forfeit an olive branch
Which I gleefully wave just as they have
My own Trojan horse stitched together with leather
That wasn’t dried enough, and now radiates a stench that reminds us of their innards

I’ve slaughtered and mangled all over this place
Made worse by their stories of which I desecrate
Publishing such influent texts that examine the earlier beds
Of which they rose, so little prose, such daft fools with stone age tools
Crops yield only ******* food made for the feeding of the poor
Discarding the rest of them as bait or our personal ******

“I weep for the white hand that cared there for me!
To wrap me in blankets and help me to feed
The weak child in infancy cooing so sweet
Not knowing they’d have him killed in his sleep”
Annihilation fits best at the source, this genocide funded by the Master of Greater Deed and Good
The weary dead, the weary live, the weary now stay in places we couldn’t stand to be in

A gift that gives only twice, an upstart arch that cradles this land so warmly, inspiring us to embrace our homes
The promise of freedom which notions an equality we could find only in remembrance of scattered bones
The lawmen there, they never repent, they’ve lived all their lives and they never forget of their deeds, which secretly brings a perverse enjoyment none other recieve
Unless you count rapists and murderous men which tally their targets and hold out the heavy heads of victims in satchels and bags
A shame we now see them as monuments honored so swiftly, decorated with golden plaques
Please leave some flowers in the mass grave I was buried in, somewhere in Arizona, it wouldn’t hurt to sense the illusion of fresh air
A torso of tooth and rib and a dried clump of hair
Look down on your works, ye lowly, and despair!

I gaze into the soul's windows
And what do I see
An abyss of muddy water
But if I look closer I can see
Specks of stolen sunlight
Streaks of the purest gold only
Prospectors can begin to imagine
By just looking I can tell what a
Gracious, warmhearted, good-natured
Person you are
That all the disingenuous individuals
Fathom
Just by looking

(My first posting on HP, August 28, 2013)

I wish to share a story
of when I nearly met my fate-
A tale of an adventure,
and a quest I had to make

A story of an abandoned mine-
A search for silver and gold-
Of prospectors, and the miners-
And the secrets they must hold

My father used to search for gold
in the mountains and their streams-
And found enough of the elusive stuff
to make my mother's wedding rings.

I thought that I would try my hand-
to see what I could find-
So I set out to seek the entrance
to an old, abandoned mine

I left for Arizona,
to Prescott, I wished to go -
Crossed the Rio Grande,
on thru New Mexico.

Finally got to Phoenix -
800 miles and count'n,
then north, up to Prescott,
Thumb Butte, and Granite Mountain.

I pitched my tent on Granite Creek,
with great anticipation-
Checked the notes from my father's quotes,
and began the exploration

With my father's tin pan packed in a bag-
and his pic-ax at my side-
I felt like a real "old timer",
with heaven as my guide.

I found the one I was looking for-
with a darkened cave as the entrance door-
And a handmade sign on a rotting board, said
"Welcome Friend, 1894."

Well, I picked and I chipped! and I chipped and I picked!
til the sores on my hands ran red-
When I felt some dirt drifting down on my shirt-
when some pebbles hit my head.

It only took a second-
for the ground to start to quake-
The dirt was falling faster,
and the walls began to shake.

I ran as fast as I knew how,
toward that entrance door-
When the last crosstimber broke in half,
and came crashing to the floor!

Now, I don't know how much time had passed-
since all of that began-
But felt as if I had been in a trance-
when someone took my hand.

I grabbed my shirt-tail, wiped my eyes-
tilt my head to see-
And saw a sun-dried, weathered face,
looking down on me!

He wore a wrinkled old hat,
an old flannel shirt-
Raggedy old pants, and a mile's
worth of dirt-

He had a beard of silver threads,
with a tinge of ginger root-
His hands were thick and calloused,
and their color matched his boots.

He gave me a jug of water
that came from the nearby creek
As I began to take a drink-
he began to speak.

"Strange thing about abandoned mines-
they wish to be left alone,
To keep the souls of all of those-
who often called them home."

His voice began to tremble-
as he spoke those woeful words,
He seemed to be recalling
many things he'd seen and heard.

"It isn't greed that brought you here,
I can see that, in your eyes,
it's not just ore you're looking for-
But another kind of prize."

"You must go back to your domain,
and you'll find that treasure chest-
For it lies deep within your heart-
and in those folks you favor best."

I shut my eyes, said a prayer-
and asked if what I did was wrong?
When I finished, and said "amen",
that old man was gone.

I never asked him for his name-
or the place from whence he came-
Some things are better left in silence
and not to be explained.

I went back to take another look
and gather up my gear-
Tried to find that “Welcome” sign,
but, it too, had disappeared.

I stood in "awe and wonder,"
of the place that I had found-
And with my eyes, I realized,
I had trod on hallowed ground.

Going home I pondered
o'er the words that old man said-
But did all that really happen,
or was it the "bumps" upon my head?

I got back home and with a smile-
strode up to the door-
And there, hung a handmade sign
on a rotting board, said-


"Welcome Home, 1894”

r.riddle August 2011
revised July 28, 2013

I know, for a fact, that the third stanza is true. Everything else was created from "yarns" coming, not just from my father, but uncles as well. And I also threw in my two cents. This work is dedicated to them.

Your golden frame which I once held so dear
Trickled between my fingers like the unlucky prospectors
Me, cursing the wind, never saw it coming
For days I could barely breath,
Ive been trying to bring myself to the arms of another
But every time I get close enough I’m reminded of you
A scent carried, or a crack in their smiles,
What a fever this is, this thing called love
Hopefully the right prescription will do the trick,
Enough liquor to drown an ocean,
and rewatching Barbarella for the 10th time
is just what the doctor ordered.

On the St Lawrence
going upriver today
there may be gold in them hills
that I see lay before me

I will do me some panning and see
what pans out,
panning is what my life's
all been about

a nugget or two will do
no need to be needy or
any need to be greedy
just taking some time and
what I pan will be mine.

Waters are cold the higher
I get
shingles
slippery
wet.

I'm reflecting
on a man with a pan in his hand
a grizzled old face
a gold wedding band.

When I head back downstream
it'll be
to champagne, caviar, real coffee with cream
or is that just an old prospectors pipe dream?
I see diamonds that flash off the noonday Sun
as if
running atop of the water
I'm rich,
but I wish it was gold.

It's silent mostly
except for the water and birds
and the words I cuss out,
did I mention
that's what panning is all about.

I scramble through the brambles that
grow over my mind and try to find
a way out,

I guess panning is about that too,

I wish to share a story
of when I nearly met my fate-
A tale of an adventure,
and a quest I had to make

A story of an abandoned mine-
A search for silver and gold-
Of prospectors, and the miners-
And the secrets they must hold

My father used to search for gold
in the mountains and their streams-
And found enough of the elusive stuff
to make my mother's wedding rings.

I thought that I would try my hand-
to see what I could find-
So I set out to seek the entrance
to an old, abandoned mine

I left for Arizona,
to Prescott, I wished to go -
Crossed the Rio Grande,
on thru New Mexico.

Finally got to Phoenix -
800 miles and count'n,
then north, up to Prescott,
Thumb Butte, and Granite Mountain.

I pitched my tent on Granite Creek,
with great anticipation-
Checked the notes from my father's quotes,
and began the exploration

With my father's tin pan packed in a bag-
and his pic-ax at my side-
I felt like a real "old timer",
with heaven as my guide.

I found the one I was looking for-
with a darkened cave as the entrance door-
And a handmade sign on a rotting board, said
"Welcome Friend, 1894."

Well, I picked and I chipped! and I chipped and I picked!
til the sores on my hands ran red-
When I felt some dirt drifting down on my shirt-
when some pebbles hit my head.

It only took a second-
for the ground to start to quake-
The dirt was falling faster,
and the walls began to shake.

I ran as fast as I knew how,
toward that entrance door-
When the last crosstimber broke in half,
and came crashing to the floor!

Now, I don't know how much time had passed-
since all of that began-
But felt as if I had been in a trance-
when someone took my hand.

I grabbed my shirt-tail, wiped my eyes-
tilt my head to see-
And saw a sun-dried, weathered face,
looking down on me!

He wore a wrinkled old hat,
an old flannel shirt-
Raggedy old pants, and a mile's
worth of dirt-

He had a beard of silver threads,
with a tinge of ginger root-
His hands were thick and calloused,
and their color matched his boots.

He gave me a jug of water
that came from the nearby creek
As I began to take a drink-
he began to speak.

"Strange thing about abandoned mines-
they wish to be left alone,
To keep the souls of all of those-
who often called them home."

His voice began to tremble-
as he spoke those woeful words,
He seemed to be recalling
many things he'd seen and heard.

"It isn't greed that brought you here,
I can see that, in your eyes,
it's not just ore you're looking for-
But another kind of prize."

"You must go back to your domain,
and you'll find that treasure chest-
For it lies deep within your heart-
and in those folks you favor best."

I shut my eyes, said a prayer-
and asked if what I did was wrong?
When I finished, and said "amen",
that old man was gone.

I never asked him for his name-
or the place from whence he came-
Some things are better left in silence
and not to be explained.

I went back to take another look
and gather up my gear-
Tried to find that “Welcome” sign,
but, it too, had disappeared.

I stood in "awe and wonder,"
of the place that I had found-
And with my eyes, I realized,
I had trod on hallowed ground.

Going home I pondered
o'er the words that old man said-
But did all that really happen,
or was it the "bumps" upon my head?

I got back home and with a smile-
strode up to the door-
And there, hung a handmade sign
on a rotting board, said-


"Welcome Home, 1894”

r.riddle August 2011
revised July 28, 2013

(My first posting on HP. Nor will I ever forget the comments from Sally and Pradip.  Occasionally, I like to repost it for the newcomers to the site.)


I wish to share a story
of when I nearly met my fate-
A tale of an adventure,
and a quest I had to make

A story of an abandoned mine-
A search for silver and gold-
Of prospectors, and the miners-
And the secrets they must hold

My father used to search for gold
in the mountains and their streams-
And found enough of the elusive stuff
to make my mother's wedding rings.

I thought that I would try my hand-
to see what I could find-
So I set out to seek the entrance
to an old, abandoned mine

I left for Arizona,
to Prescott, I wished to go -
Crossed the Rio Grande,
on thru New Mexico.

Finally got to Phoenix -
800 miles and count'n,
then north, up to Prescott,
Thumb Butte, and Granite Mountain.

I pitched my tent on Granite Creek,
with great anticipation-
Checked the notes from my father's quotes,
and began the exploration

With my father's tin pan packed in a bag-
and his pic-ax at my side-
I felt like a real "old timer",
with heaven as my guide.

I found the one I was looking for-
with a darkened cave as the entrance door-
And a handmade sign on a rotting board, said
"Welcome Friend, 1894."

Well, I picked and I chipped! and I chipped and I picked!
til the sores on my hands ran red-
When I felt some dirt drifting down on my shirt-
when some pebbles hit my head.

It only took a second-
for the ground to start to quake-
The dirt was falling faster,
and the walls began to shake.

I ran as fast as I knew how,
toward that entrance door-
When the last crosstimber broke in half,
and came crashing to the floor!

Now, I don't know how much time had passed-
since all of that began-
But felt as if I had been in a trance-
when someone took my hand.

I grabbed my shirt-tail, wiped my eyes-
tilt my head to see-
And saw a sun-dried, weathered face,
looking down on me!

He wore a wrinkled old hat,
an old flannel shirt-
Raggedy old pants, and a mile's
worth of dirt-

He had a beard of silver threads,
with a tinge of ginger root-
His hands were thick and calloused,
and their color matched his boots.

He gave me a jug of water
that came from the nearby creek
As I began to take a drink-
he began to speak.

"Strange thing about abandoned mines-
they wish to be left alone,
To keep the souls of all of those-
who often called them home."

His voice began to tremble-
as he spoke those woeful words,
He seemed to be recalling
many things he'd seen and heard.

"It isn't greed that brought you here,
I can see that, in your eyes,
it's not just ore you're looking for-
But another kind of prize."

"You must go back to your domain,
and you'll find that treasure chest-
For it lies deep within your heart-
and in those folks you favor best.*"

I shut my eyes, said a prayer-
and asked if what I did was wrong?
When I finished, and said "amen",
that old man was gone.

I never asked him for his name-
or the place from whence he came-
Some things are better left in silence
and not to be explained.

I went back to take another look
and gather up my gear-
Tried to find that “Welcome” sign,
but, it too, had disappeared.

I stood in "awe and wonder,"
of the place that I had found-
And with my eyes, I realized,
I had trod on hallowed ground.

Going home I pondered
o'er the words that old man said-
But did all that really happen,
or was it the "bumps" upon my head?

I got back home and with a smile-
strode up to the door-
And there, hung a handmade sign
on a rotting board, said-


"Welcome Home, 1894”

copyright: r.riddle August 2011
copyright: revised July 28, 2013

I know, for a fact, that the third stanza is true. Everything else was created from "yarns" coming, not just from my father, but uncles as well. And I also threw in my two cents. This work is dedicated to them.

But first
I consulted Kings lying beneath a sword
Uneasy at high noon!
By what duty
did they rule, benevolence or fear
Weakness or strength!
Did he view
his kingdom from a moving window
Square it away!
Or did they
walk by in quiet fealty as in looking at a lion
King of the forest!
The single despot
once held by all in stormy contempt
Commit them all to the deep!
The power vested
in the crown though this was their glory
Long live the King!
He thought
of a Republic but could not agree
Freedom Freedom!
Each man a King
as if he himself had grown additional limbs
We the people!
But could any man
born in idealist fervor remain as such
The invisible hand!
The merest taste
of an apple would remove his conscience
The lusting snake!
How tenuous
it would be to honor temptation so easily
Save me Lord!
And with so many
is sin best served in the heart of one man?
For I am Solomon!
Leaving behind
his favorite toy was when the moment arrived
A man haunted!
He resisted flight
though he was promised eternal life
An heirs lives forever!
The memory
of his name was all that was required
His name was his fathers!
More detective
than ruler he mastered prophecy
A spy in their midst!
He preferred
the absence of a single guiding principle
Except for his own amibiton!
For there was
none that another man would not dispute
The division gives purpose!
He knew freedom
resided in the illusion of belief in the absurd
A big lie is better than small!
Or in the
belief that the cross meant him no harm
We have lived in hell already!
For he was Caesar
and what was his was his as commanded
He received the blessing!
The thin thread
of discord were yellow black and white
And so began man’s discontent!
The braid
created more questions than answers
Borders of sand!
It was to be
richer poorer and everything in between
What do I care!
Social relationships
that accepted neither dominance or submission
Anarchy!
Social relationships
that demanded status and subservience
Royalty!
He believed
opulence fostered his acceptance by the people
The splendor!
For all his riches
so much remained for the common man
Incentive and reward!
It was the hope
of holes dug and steel forged by ideas
Entrepreneurs and prospectors!
His protection
was that no man could hoard their life
They were free!
But most of all
the trust he lacked was the same as theirs
The sword falls on every man!
The uneasy alliance,
two to collude or millions for a revolution
Trust or madness!
The first shot
is the hardest and their glory weighed upon them
Into the breach!
Mistrust of one another
was the first creation of law and order
No man is without sin!
For though anarchy
is the absence of power it is fear that crowns
Fear of each other!
The more layers
of gold upon his throne the more pronounced his mercies
The glory of a pardon!
Speech upon speech
to protect to feed to represent before God
I will be your savior!
For it was
their awe of him that made him King
They were peasants!
Who would speak
such as this except a man with enough belief
It was his gift!
And belief
was all that was required because of their doubt
Sincerity greater than truth!
Their awe
knew of nothing that a noble could conceive
For they believed!
It was the presence
of wonder as to what he was thinking
The stared at his face!
All that would
be required was to believe in his decisions
He was descended from the Gods!
For they knew
there was nothing they could do except beg
He would feed them!
And though they
hated him their fears drew relief from him
He was assurance!
He thought it best
to treat them like animals in the forest
To tame lions!
For nature harbors
no ego no memory no remorse no pride
Man’s dominion!
Only survival instincts
which he destroyed by providing for all
Their content was bought!
But where he
was wrong was that men were not animals
No they are Gods!
Providing for all
does not dig up seeds before they germinate
The will build towers to God!
For that is only
the thought of men in a tower who believe
Detachment and delusion!
And though
they knew they were the wisest of them all
For who else knew of these things!
He knew that
they failed because they were not animals
They had minds!
No, they were not
instead they were a garden full of hubris
The ego!
And to care
so much while wearing a crown is a lie
Survival is all that matters!
For the crown
only lives as long as a noble is pacified
Give them title!
And a noble
lives only as long as a poor man is pacified
Give them bread!
But a poor man
will not be pacified by eating cake or beans
Give me more!
He will not die
because it is his destiny to be so unfortunate
I am a man!
No, he will not
so what King would rule knowing any of this
The King is dead!
For it has all
been tried before, caring too much
Only for himself!
Caring so much
that freedom must be taken away for equality
Mindless egalitarianism!
Caring so much
that what a man may conceive is a threat to the crown
There greatest threat is knowledge!
Caring so much
that a possession must be taken for the good of all
For all possession is wealth!
But who decides
and who gives and who receives and who doesn't
Only the King!
Yes, it has all been tried
before and the King had no answer for him
That is why he is dead!
He knew all
of this and that is why he does not want to be King
That is why he is dead!
He does not
want to be King but there will always be someone
Wealth is his possession!
And that
is what we have now, someone not something
Save us from the evil doers!
For something
is a guiding light, a principle which we all know
Save us from the evil doers!
But someone
is nothing except what we believe them to be
They must believe in someone!
And our belief
is what someone must germinate in our garden
A lamb rise if you believe!

(20 minute poetry)

Light reading for dark days and piping hot soup for the cold.

In a book of adventure
I cross raging rivers and battle the elements,
I read a quire or more pages as the storm rises and rages and the hero within me fights along with the hero without.

Prospects of gold,
prospectors of old have such wonderful stories to tell.

Every toll of the bell,
one more tale casts a spell and I'm there on the high seas as quick as you please.

But the westerns are the best ones,
Billy and Jesse,
Wyatt and Doc
the Daltons on the
Skimmerhorn all wait to be
reborn
on the pages
I read.

(My first posting on HP. Nor will I ever forget the comments from Sally and Pradip.  Occasionally, I like to repost it for the newcomers to the site.)


I wish to share a story
of when I nearly met my fate-
A tale of an adventure,
and a quest I had to make

A story of an abandoned mine-
A search for silver and gold-
Of prospectors, and the miners-
And the secrets they must hold

My father used to search for gold
in the mountains and their streams-
And found enough of the elusive stuff
to make my mother's wedding rings.

I thought that I would try my hand-
to see what I could find-
So I set out to seek the entrance
to an old, abandoned mine

I left for Arizona,
to Prescott, I wished to go -
Crossed the Rio Grande,
on thru New Mexico.

Finally got to Phoenix -
800 miles and count'n,
then north, up to Prescott,
Thumb Butte, and Granite Mountain.

I pitched my tent on Granite Creek,
with great anticipation-
Checked the notes from my father's quotes,
and began the exploration

With my father's tin pan packed in a bag-
and his pic-ax at my side-
I felt like a real "old timer",
with heaven as my guide.

I found the one I was looking for-
with a darkened cave as the entrance door-
And a handmade sign on a rotting board, said
"Welcome Friend, 1894."

Well, I picked and I chipped! and I chipped and I picked!
til the sores on my hands ran red-
When I felt some dirt drifting down on my shirt-
when some pebbles hit my head.

It only took a second-
for the ground to start to quake-
The dirt was falling faster,
and the walls began to shake.

I ran as fast as I knew how,
toward that entrance door-
When the last crosstimber broke in half,
and came crashing to the floor!

Now, I don't know how much time had passed-
since all of that began-
But felt as if I had been in a trance-
when someone took my hand.

I grabbed my shirt-tail, wiped my eyes-
tilt my head to see-
And saw a sun-dried, weathered face,
looking down on me!

He wore a wrinkled old hat,
an old flannel shirt-
Raggedy old pants, and a mile's
worth of dirt-

He had a beard of silver threads,
with a tinge of ginger root-
His hands were thick and calloused,
and their color matched his boots.

He gave me a jug of water
that came from the nearby creek
As I tilt the jug to take a drink-
he began to speak.

"Strange thing about abandoned mines-
they wish to be left alone,
To keep the souls of all of those-
who often called them home."

His voice began to tremble-
as he spoke those woeful words,
He seemed to be recalling
many things he'd seen and heard.

"It isn't greed that brought you here,
I can see that, in your eyes,
it's not just ore you're looking for-
But another kind of prize."

"You must go back to your domain,
and you'll find that treasure chest-
For it lies deep within your heart-
and in those folks you favor best."

I shut my eyes, said a prayer-
and asked if what I did was wrong?
When I finished, and said "amen",
that old man was gone.

I never asked him for his name-
or the place from whence he came-
Some things are better left in silence
and not to be explained.

I went back to take another look
and gather up my gear-
Tried to find that “Welcome” sign,
but, it too, had disappeared.

I stood in "awe and wonder,"
of the place that I had found-
And with my eyes, I realized,
I had trod on hallowed ground.

Going home I pondered
o'er the words that old man said-
But did all that really happen,
or was it the "bumps" upon my head?

I got back home and cracked a smile-
as I strode up to the door-
And there, hung a handmade sign
on a rotting board, said-


"Welcome Home, 1894”

copyright: r.riddle August 2011
copyright: revised July 28, 2013

I know, for a fact, that the third stanza is true. Everything else was created from "yarns" coming, not just from my father, but uncles as well. And I also threw in my two cents.

Winding roads


The table, light catches a singular drop of
the blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond,
no more than a road would do to a street light.

Asphalt is grey at night, not black, full of spilt ale it felt adventurous,
curled itself up and splashed into the landscape where roads had never
before dared to a thread.

How happy they were animals and tractors until they discovered
the road ended by a river,
too deep to cross in winters and too stony for sore hooves in summers.

This problem was overcome when someone found a nugget of gold
and the landscape was full of prospectors who survived, by eating
their mules slowly.

most are prospectors for gold
but this must not happen with you child
no, you are to prospect for love.

Sourdoughs are not
what they purport to be!

Just goes to show, how
easy it is to be deceived.

Sourdoughs used to be
old gold prospectors.

Found mainly in western
USA and Southern Canada.

They sifted alluvial river
beds and lakes for nuggets.

To be panned out, does
not mean, no more bread.