"richardson" poems
“where time is the fly and age the fisher of men”
<>
*”until I fell forward
into fall where time is
the fly and age the fisher
of men, then when winter
begins all will be forgotten,
where time is the fly and
age the fisher of men”*
excerpt from “The Fall” by Rick Richardson
<>
that words from a different ionic state, jump as embodied ions from screen to the throat, evicting a guttural current of exclamation, you believe even with the half-heartedly palpitations from remainder of my damaged pumping heart, that these words were always intended, just for me…
boy and old man coexist, the pottage of memories stirred,
and the time is fly, and I drown in the miracle of greenest grass of
Yankee Stadium at age eight,
oasis, heaven, a child reborn in a sea of Bronx concrete,
and the swallowing up of my boyhood is forever marked henceforth, the hook has caught me, and I am of the age
once and forever
not a fisherman, but a fisher of men’s souls,
mine own is my best bait,
hooked line and sinker, and
wisdom and words
elude and delude always,
like summer is perpetual and aging a construct,
time does not fly, but slowly laps and waves
eroding our myths and ourselves upon a continuum with
no ends
~postscript~
<>
*yet I believe,
in miracles of
fish and loaves,
and that our individual continuums
will exist beyond the artifice of constraints
of
mortal time and that poems are
the forever chemicals within
our
bloodstreams,
even when our blood no longer spills*
yet I believe!
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC
could you have been born
Richardson, and not egg-hatched
as I had assumed?
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
**** you, richardson
i'd like to use your ointment
to suffocate you
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
It was supposed to be fun.
New school, new supplies,
Thin, neon highlighters glowing inside
Vera Bradley backpacks.
Skinny folders assigned to
Pointless subjects,
Which would be fattened
With pointless homework
By the end of the day.
It was supposed to be fun,
And for a little while, I forgot.
I forgot until History.
The new teacher hadn't lived here
Longer than a week,
Which was why he was
Excited
About teaching.
He had on a brand new tie
From Banana Republic
Which was obviously tied
By his wide eyed fiance.
His classroom was bare, as he explained,
"Don't worry,
I ordered posters yesterday."
The teacher wasn't the problem.
The problem was,
Between Richardson
And Roberts,
He still existed.
At least in the school system he did.
"Ashley Paulette?"
"-Here."
"Abby Richardson?"
"-Here."
"Bennett Rill?"
And my life shattered all over again.
The silence felt
Deafening.
Remembering how he wouldn't be there.
Not ever.
"Bennett Rill?"
The teacher was confused, looking around the room
For someone
Who was buried six feet under.
Someone who the teacher might've thought
Was sick, or vacationing.
It was supposed to be fun.
But then I remembered
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
Approach the steps and the
bus driver says "Thanks You,"
ignoring the reality
he's driving a bunch of
broke-ass adults whose only wish
is to escape from the middle of nowhere.
Pass the cows, the one steer
in the dairy field stares at
me, looking down once we've left.
Eyes looked intelligent like he should've
been reading T.S. Eliot while sipping green tea.
The two-mile bay goes quickly, holding
its breath as we wave goodbye. It acts
like it never danced before.
Onto another town
the people can't wait to leave.
A crying child enters and the family moves
back, further back, to sit
behind me as I'm writing this poem.
I've never seen innocence so excited
to ride the Greyhound.
Innocence, why won't you shut up?
Failure, please stop glaring at her like that.
She's only a little girl. The smoke
stacks have no comment.
The truck driver keeps appearing
next to us trying to tell us we're all angels.
The trees around the lake agree.
The horses agree, if only
because we harness more horsepower.
The redwoods on each side of the highway
are blocking my view, but I don't
mind we're headed toward the future.
City lights are my future, fog
is my future. The 101 South is my future.
The woman two rows in
front of me sounds like a man.
(S)he is my future.
**** Rio Dell, there's nothing
to do there. Garberville isn't much better.
The green algae pond says hello.
"Will you save Richardson Grove?"
it asks. I didn't answer.
The winding roads are making
me insane. If I didn't
answer, would you notice?
Ferlinghetti must be driving because
he can't keep on track. Oh
where will you take us tonight?
I wake up to the mist on the
water holding my attention.
The Alcatraz of my mind saves
me from myself.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:48 AM UTC
From the top of the Terminal,
your size was splayed out,
a grey **** carpet for the Red River Valley.
And The Forks right beneath
our weary walkers' feet
was a thick drop setting up in the center
of your ash grey forehead.
Traced a thumb down Taché and St. Mary's
to the peak of your left cheek on Fermor.
Your traffic light glance blinked us
right to a stop
as blue bomb thoughts and temperatures dropped
at the base of our minds
and your wide, widow's peak sky
formed a cold iron bruise 40 minutes past 5.
I've held your muddy diamond eyes
in mine, how many times?
And you'd sigh, sometimes
from your North End scar,
but the Assiniboine bends around Wellington Crescent,
a stifled, spiced laugh from the failed rebellion
of your Province's youth.
And you know I'm no novice
to the uncouth barbs of the Winter,
'cuz you wrapped asphalt arms
nice and tight
'round our shoulders.
Osborne & Morley for an A-frame embrace.
The face of a city, its wrinkles a sketch
of laugh line drives for donuts and coffee.
Crows' feet stretched through The Exchange.
We followed your grin
from
corner to corner,
from Richardson Airport
to Transcona Yards; one earring a lifeline,
the other, steel bones.
From your St. Norbert chin,
to your twin St. Paul crown,
we would wander,
kiss your River East temple
then call it a night.
I have names for every smile you gave me:
Vi-Ann in the Village,
The Toad in the Hole,
St. Boniface Cathedral, that first time
in deep snow.
I want you to know,
you frozen Great City,
your terrible beauty is written on me.
Each side-slanted grin I shared with your sidewalks
encircles my history now,
even still.
Fill an eye with 5 years
of joyous, drunk laughter
which seeds your purple sand sky with fog ghosts.
Still-frame your patchwork, frostbitten face--
the Perimeter Highway's a jaunt-angled toque;
keeps you warm--
I still wear you
when late Autumn light takes me back.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
could I be your hadley richardson?
your delicious pear
you cut into
owning green flesh
cat, soak in my sweet nectar
could I be your bumby?
your Ezra Pound
bashing of heads
against the lead of pencil
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
Sono sposata con un pilota e sono sicuro al 100% che non importa quanto duramente ** pregato .che non ha potuto ottenere le foto di fidanzamento questo freddo .Queste due devono avere alcune connessioni piuttosto sorprendente per avere Josh Dookhie Fotografia sparare loro sesh impegno sulla pista .Sono totalmente geloso .
Condividi questa splendida galleria
Da sposa.Una sessione day-to -tramonto impegno esclusivo sulla pista di Winnipeg James Armstrong Richardson International Airport .con scatti del suggestivo terminale vecchio prima che fosse abbattuto .
Non solo ci piace viaggiare .ma mio marito Nevin e ** incontrato all'aeroporto quando entrambi abbiamo lavorato lì.quindi era giusto che fosse l'impostazione per la nostra sessione di fidanzamento ** usato per lavorare lì abiti da sposa 2014 in Marketing durante il tempo che il nuovo edificio terminal è stato costruito.Nevin lavora ancora lì come elettricista campo d'aviazione .Ecco come siamo arrivati accesso alla possibilità piste - un quasi nessun altro sarebbe in grado di avere!Il padre di Nevin è stato anche un controllore del traffico aereo fino al suo ritiro .quindi nel complesso l'aeroporto è un posto speciale per noi e la nostra famiglia .
Nel momento in cui abbiamo fatto il servizio fotografico .il nuovo terminal aveva appena aperto ( che ha fornito una splendida cornice ) e il vestiti da sposa vecchio
terminal .dove avevamo incontrato - era stato abbattuto in un paio di settimane .E 'stato così speciale per noi essere in vestiti da sposa grado di ottenere scatti che caratterizzano sia gli edifici - il nostro passato e il nostro futuro
fotografia: Josh Dookhie Fotografia | Aeroporto : Winnipeg James Armstrong Richardson International Airport | Coordinamento + Styling : LouLou
http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-c-1
http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=14
http://188.138.88.219/images_ld/td//t35/product_thumb/1/3803335353535_391851.jpg
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
when I was nine, my brother Tommy and I used to walk by old South Bend Sammy on our way home from Sunday school. I used to give him half of my allowance every other Sunday, because I figured that was what God intended.
Sammy would send me inside of the neighborhood grocery store to buy him some sterno for a buck 50. I always wondered what he could possibly have to cook, with him being homeless and all.
I never asked him, but every other week, as promised, there I was delivering the sterno.
when I asked my daddy, he told me that old South Bend Sammy was cooking his insides. “that stuff’ll **** em one day, so don’t go wastin’ your money on a man like that,” he said, but I did it anyway.
when I was eleven, old South Bend Sammy was found dead on his corner. He died on Christmas day. Bobby Richardson, who was in the eleventh grade, told us that he saw the body before they carted em off. Said his uncle killed em accidentally when he threw his cigarette **** on the ground by Sammy's feet. Poor old Sammy was burned like someone was fixin’ to make a barbeque.
but Lisa Jameson’s daddy was a cop, and he said that old Sammy died from an old fashioned case of a heat poisoning.
“I didn’t know that heat could poison you” I asked my daddy later that night. “darlin’, it can if you drink it.”
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
After 3 years of being her friend
I finally asked her why she doesn't wear her turban
She laughed with sadness in her eyes
You mean a Dastaar?
I blushed in embarrassment
Wondering if I should keep going
She tells me she doesn't wear it because she used to get bullied
She's trying to blend in with us
I imagine a church of millions in colorful turbans and dastaars
I say tell me about your church
She says it's a mosque
I say tell me about your God
She tells me Muhammed and the prophet Allah
I say tell me about your Bible
She says it's called a Quran
She says what's it like to get baptized in your religion
I say unlike other churches we don't get baptized into a a religion
We get baptized with the Father, and the Son, and The Holy Spirit
The Holy Trinity might one say
She says tell me about Jesus
I say that God sent his only son to be crucified for our sins when he has done no wrong
She sings Jesus Take The Wheel
But she is not Christian
Other religions and cultures have always fascinated me
I say tell me what's wrong
She says her grandparents really don't like her as much
Since she's running out of time and can't pray the obligated times
People say she's Hindu
People say she's from The Middle East
People say she's a million things
But to me she is the best bud, a human, like you and I
I want to be in combat, as well as she
I want to be in the Marines, she wants to try Army
She tells me my father wanted to but he couldn't because of his vision
She tells me the same might happen to her
But it's the thought
I told her I wanted to go to the Middle East before I join the Marines
She said I'll go with you
I say why?
She says because you need someone to protect you
I say okay we'll add that to the many states and countries to visit after we graduate
She tells me I've been in the middle of war before
I say what do you mean
She tells me she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time
She tells me you know it's not a bad place in the Middle East
I smile and I say I know
It's not the country itself but the people within it
She has relatives in India
But was born in Richardson, TX
She is Muslim
I have relatives In America
I was born in Denton, TX
I am Christian
Hatred is not simply taught.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
By Ryan P. Kinney and Dawn Richardson
Assembled from works by Ryan P. Kinney
This one’s for those who have let me down
Disappointed me, failed me
Failed to live to their potential
This one’s for EVERYONE
We will be naked and bare
Ugly and beautiful
Out from under the covers
Out of control
And into the light
There will be no more hiding
Not from the rhetoric
Not from the self-righteousness
Not from the lies we tell ourselves
This one’s for every woman who didn’t love me
And for every one that ever did
This one’s for every person who has ever doubted and underestimated me
For those who ever thought my life should be a mirror of their journey
‘Cause theirs worked out SO well for them
Not from the us that never was
Not from our definitions of family or love
This one’s for me
For not living up to my own potential
This one’s for those who patronize my intelligence
But yet are so easily fooled into acceptance
With a pair of plastic black frames
This one’s for IRONY
Not from the guilt
Not from the pain
Or from the shame
Not from the anger
Or the happiness
This one’s for who I AM
Created at the Winter Writing Workshop (Dec. 27, 2015),
HEYMAN! Productions
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
"Once more," Richardson said grabbing his hat and throwing it into the air. the ball cap slid up through the air slicing the light from the moon and stars. The sky clear on a french night. The soft smell of a bakery near by. All that one could hope for was in a night like this. And as I came back from thought. I could see the corners of my room. holes, beaten and torn. Here I am, lying around. in this **** smelling rat den. Where some coke head chose to go round two with his *****
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
I hate you
I hate how your always right
I hate your smile
I hate your style
I hate how you say good night
I hate your short, hair
I hate your snort
I hate how you care, when no one is there
I hate your confusing ways
I hate your delays
I hate how you annoy me.
I hate your stupid shoes
I hate some of your point views
I hate you
But most of all I hate how you play hide and seek
because you always find me
I know you hate rhyming poems
So I had to create this
for you
;)
~Grace G. Richardson~ 2012
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
by Dawn Richardson and Tiffany Ann Boyd
Assembled from works by J.M. Romig, Sheena Zilla, and Ryan P. Kinney
My first memory is of dying.
I felt like I’d lived a full life
And now I was gladly fading away.
My first last words were
“Tell Elizabeth I love her”
I don’t remember knowing Elizabeth.
I love her though, or at least I did in that moment.
“These aren’t sad tears I’m crying, I’m just cutting onions my dear.”
It makes me want to rip off my flesh and run down the street as bare muscle and bone screaming ****** ******
It will get better once I leave this purgatory waiting room of stress and self-loathing, but until then my outlook is a bit glum.
I am terrified
Before me is a discolored, screaming, clawing, misshapen alien creature
My son takes his first breathes of real air
We are all exhausted
His mother looks at me with a look that practically screams,
“We did it.”
I plead, “But we’re not done doing it yet…
Are we?”
His gurgles turn into cries
And I know…
For some reason, couldn’t tell you why, I thought about Frankenstein’s Monster.
Some parts are really fuzzy,
I hold it close to me- the fuzzy parts against my skin.
It’s a quilt blanket, stitched together of pieces and parts of found cloth.
My father made it for me.
My very last birthday gift.
I cocoon myself in it like a womb.
I hated him for what he’d done, but I hated myself more for missing him.
I have to fight everyday to be a better person in spite of what I was exposed to.
Created at the Winter Writing Workshop (Dec. 27, 2015),
HEYMAN! Productions
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
by Ryan P. Kinney and Dawn Richardson
Created from prompts by J.M. Romig, Dawn Richardson, and Ryan P. Kinney
She loves him like a fire,
Enveloping, holding, and caressing the wood,
While slowly consuming every part of him
Shaking off clothes like the leaves in autumn
Their bodies exposed,
Changing from a wan pallor
To a flushed crimson hue
Their bodies burn,
Breathe drifts like smoke into the skyline
The mountains **** their horizons
The dragon flies and dragonflies in the dusking night
The snow blanketed world deadens the sound of his beating heart
Her tide slowly recedes into him
The delicate wax of his heart melts under her fury
She swallows his cries
Babies sleep soundly
Created at the Winter Writing Workshop (Dec. 27, 2015),
HEYMAN! Productions
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
Black Tambourine by Rick Richardson
Death is a dark knife
that cuts the light
through the window.
A black car in the night.
A burning cigarette
bursting on the highway.
A fire going out.
A gypsy with whiskey
breath shaking
a black tambourine.
~~~~~
Black Tambourine Rebuttal by NM Lipstadt
Death is a lit light,
sundering the slowing,
defeating the resistance,
accepting with gratitude the surrendering of labored breathing,
tallying as complete the summation of
all the trials of errors
these accumulations,
accompanied
fittingly,
by an 1812 overture music spectacular,
with fireworks and cannons
pronouncing
victory, at long last!
a V-D Day,
over the onerous blackness
of too many soleless nights,
instead it offers a comforter
of Where Shelter?
Here!
in our starry be-Knighted,
our jointed crowning neath tapestry blanket of transport to
our immortality sheltering.
do not doubt its
peculiar nourishing
is
bountiful certainty
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 10:48 AM UTC