Sammy wants to brush my
hair, but it's an excuse to eat
it. Hands surprisingly large for
his age, he leans fully into me, puts
his entire face into my hair, breathes deeply and takes it into his mouth. "Eeew," the other children squeal. "He's eating your hair! He's leaving slobbers!" I remind him not to eat
my hair.  "But it tastes so good!" he says as he takes in another mouthful. He eats only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cookies, Cheerios, and drinks milk or apple juice. His new friend, who goes to the same school
in the morning but is brought on a different bus to my house at noon, is more limited in his food choices. Brian only eats dry Cheerios and plain flour tortillas. I remind myself to buy a family size box of Cheerios the next time I go to the store. Brian always holds two rocks in his hands, doesn't speak, but does scream loud frequently. When I wash his hands, I wash the rocks lovingly before I give them back to him. Sammy stops running through the yard, tapping everything with the yellow Little Tykes hammer I've been meaning to throw away daily, long enough to put his
arm around Brian, says, "What's wrong, little buddy?" before he begins tapping wildly again with the hammer. He taps the 14 year old Persian cat, who looks more than irritated as he moves quickly through the yard. He taps my arm, heads in the direction of my car, I steer him in a different direction. His father arrives to pick him up, asks, "Did he have a good day?" I lie, say, "Yes!" Brian screams more loudly when he sees Sammy is leaving. I remind him he still has his rocks in his hands. I pick up the Little Tykes hammer, make my way around the yard tapping on everything, listening to the different sounds it makes, so new to my ears.

They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And round the Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
And down to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s Own County, Yay!

Yull see ‘em rambling at Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.

Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.

Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.

So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes 're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.

Paul Butters

(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)

Johnny and Mary*

Now Johnny knew Mary since they were little tykes,
Running in the field, riding their bikes,
Like other little kids, they stayed out all day,
Doing their chores, later they'll play,
Johnny and Mary went to school,
Tried real hard, act real cool,
Johnny noticed Mary started to grow real fine,
Nice firm *******, big behin',
Johnny thought he'd take him a chance,
He asked Mary to the high shool dance,
Mary said fine, pick me up at eight,
Dress real sharp, now don't be late,
Johnny started thinkin' this could be his night,
Throw her a line, maybe she'll bite,
Johnny and Mary started to dance real slow,
Something in Johnny's pants, startin' to grow,
Johnny asked Mary to spend some time,
Back at my place, we can sit and unwind,
Johnny took Mary straight back to his pad,
This will be the best night, he's ever had,
Poured a little wine and dimmed the light,
Made sure everything, looked just right,
Went over to the stereo and put on a song,
Then he gave her a kiss, slow and long,
Their lips met and their tongues did a dance,
As Johnny reached down and undid his pants,
He removed hers too and went to town,
Got on his knees, he was going down,
Mary started to wiggle, moan and squirm,
As Johnny's tool got nice and firm,
A few more licks, a feel and a pet,
Mary's hole was nice and wet,
Stuck in the tip, a little poke,
Then all the way, he was startin' to stroke,
As Johnny got busy and started to ream,
All the neighbors could hear Mary scream,
Johnny got tense and was about to explode,
Into Mary he shot his load,
A few days later Mary felt real ill,
Then she remembered, she forgot her pill,
Mary gave birth to a fine looking son,
Mary's father started to clean his gun,
Johnny married Mary at City Hall,
He didn't want her dad to cut off his *****,
Johnny got a job so he could provide support,
He didn't want Mary draggin' him to court,
A few years down the road things didn't seem right,
Johnny and Mary were starting to fight,
There was a whole lotta fussin' and they began to shout,
Mary told Johnny she wanted him out,
Mary got a lawyer, just passed the bar,
Now Mary's driving Johnny's brand new car.

That is the story of Johnny and Mary...Later...*
07-03-09.

Long hikes and motorbikes,
Cabins, starlight, kids and tykes,
Parents, and mommies soon to be,
Gather at the greenest tree.
Spirits in ******* are unbound,
Where the silence  drowns the sound;
The victories that love has won.
We are never far when we are one.

What kind of Animal(goes woof,woof)

When we were growing up, I bet all of us had a favorite TV show,
and one of the things these shows for younger kids had I know,
was a song of some sort that would make us laugh and smile,
It was always some silly little ditty, just think back a while,    
you had the Flintstones with their Yabba dabba doo,
Captain Kangaroo and Mr Greenjeans and Mr Clock too,
now I don't know all the shows, or the songs that you sang,
just trying to make you think, make a bell go clang,
my favorite was from the Howdy Doody show,
guess that makes me really old I know,  
they would sing this song about animals, for little tykes, 1st grade,
trying to identify, by the sounds that they made,
like the title of this poem What kind of animal goes, woof woof,
the kids would respond a dog of course, you goof,
and on and on through all of the chickens and ducks,
bet the smile on your face is worth a thousand bucks.

Gomer Lepoet...

Children are the gifts from God that keep us grandparents going
Having energy, watching them run, play, and listening to their stories
I know I have enjoyed many times with my own
Love comes flowing in gushes through those tykes
Dear, sweet ones that involve us, also resolve around us
Reality strikes of our yesteryears bringing us smiles
Ever really think about how much they affect us?
Nice to be loved by those so precious... the little angels in our lives

At preschool last morning, when first class began
Our teacher Miss Fortune, has entered the den
And promptly asked us, the pure younglings
To write on the devil that make us do things

So teacher sat down, and we tykes got engaged
And committedly filled page after page
As we took up an oath, us the urchin, the youth
To speak the whole truth, and nothing but truth

So first rose the young boy Timothy Veet
And confessed all the text that he etched on the sheet
How last week he attended the birthday of Sheila
And got high on some hemp, and two shots of tequila

As he sat, quickly stood his companion wee Tom
And he told how he broke to the principal’s home
Where he gingerly snatched, like a cat burglar
A computer, some cash, and antique silverware

But who took the whole cake, was shy Rosaline
As she stood up and gestured to Billy, her kin
And with timid resolve, and an ear-to-ear grin
Said: “He is the devil that makes me do things…”

Miss Fortune, chalk white, and clearly distressed
Was rushed on a gurney, to the ER no less
Our innocence wither, like a flower well hidden
So why keep insisting on calling us children

They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And all round Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
Down there to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s County Yay!

Yull see ‘em rambling near Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.

Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.

Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all do hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.

So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.

Paul Butters

(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
© PB 2\5\2016.  Slightly Amended 14\4\2023.

In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.

Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.

This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."

She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.

What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.

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

Kinderdijk stands like thimbles in the dusk.
The sky, thick with grey, settles on the ****.
Holland is its stereotypes, we trust.
Windmills sail in the breeze, near canals tight
With straight, flat flows. Tulips bloom in the dust.
Great wheels of cheese roll through the streets at night.
Bridges rear up over canals, can’t rust
From the waterways thirsty tourists like.
Here, life is keenly measured, never brusque.
The Dutch pursued this pace since thrifty tykes.
Their simple, ordered pleasures do not rush
The spirit of progress, shining in light.
Turning, ever turning, the windmills must
Show the elegant face of Kinderdijk.

There’s no point in trying to become
the best umpire that ever lived.
There’s always someone who’s gonna’ call your game otherwise
no matter how well you play that day, or any other

There’s the time spent practicing with little tykes,
triple A, Grapefruit Leagues and more practice,
there’s never any respite for those who are right
only someone else to refute your best judgement.

There’s no right/wrong regarding calls, strikes/*****
it’s Olympic swimming, diving, ice skating,
subjective.
There’s no life like it, ‘cept maybe the Army

Betting of all sorts, you know not where or when
you just know it’s going on somewhere with somebody/somewise.
There’s no accounting for mans indiscretion to sport
nor the improprieties of professional sport/entertainment.

There’s no telling if you’re gonna’ call good or bad games
or if your kindness or mean streak will exude on any given day
There’s no telling if you’ll make or break at one call or another.

No telling if your taxi will drive or stop
while you’re in a cab
There’s no telling if it’s your time or not
to face the lost angel of death…or not
   it will happen
   in the taxi on the street
   or the garden you’re tending
   the house league diamond
   or the major league ball park
   it will happen
   but there’s no telling……
   when

Dead leaves smoking on an open fire,
Tricksters dressed up in odd clothes.
Ghouls and Goblins sneaking up on our porch-
Give them chocolate and maybe then they’ll go.

Everybody knows the jack-o- lanterns wick-ed light
Means it’s a pagan sort of Gourd.
Tiny tykes, munching sugar all night,
will wind up bouncing off the walls.

They know Brunhilda’s on her way
trying out her new broom on her special day.
And every little goblin’s gonna try
To see if chubby Witches still can fly.

And so I’m offering this simple phrase
Since trick or treat I think is overused.
Although it’s been said it’s the day of the dead;
Happy Halloween to you.

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

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

I carried dead bodies inside my head,
Walking through the narrow thoughts people look confused at the attire of truth,
Flesh covered with white odours numbness trying to sneak around
Mournful cries cried aloud in a loop
The question was asked, lost into imagination and never answered. 

'Clutched river banks, fire no thanks'.
Tykes barking live nine trying to save Hat of hierarchy, fueling the odds so-called frauds.

Days are counted by numb bodies fleet 
Should I laugh or cry like the undead realm.
'I am not a manic don't be panic, you must be galvanic, a thought bad bot'.

These after images crashes lashes eyes popped flashes, do you mind looking around what you see?

This is what I do stitch pain with blood smudged hands, and smile like it's a good day.

©sarcasticbong

Would you walk with me
Another day
This day's turned grey
What to say
I know it's selfish
And it is
But what of mirth
To live, to say
Am I right, and
Could I know?
I have to hope,
We won't grow old.
You see, we are
But candles burning.
And some flames burn out
Some are for showing
And that is sad, another day
Dusty,  and then, thrown away.
But let's not tarry..
These are yours within self
Tears so borne,
To help to melt.
There are words,
Used to define it
I know them not
I'll not deny it.
I know hope,
And I'll try courage
Ropes that bound,
Are now forth flowing
Ever more and to attach
I just hope to lessen cracks
Woe for joy and bad for good
Snow for gripes
Toys for tykes
Glad for hikes
I stood for fights.

But maybe candles burn at different speeds
And maybe they plateau
All there is is hope
All there is is hope

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

Pathway

Providing an edge to tarry or toil open pathways to anywhere

Like brooks connecting streams that flow into bigger rivers

Their history limitless as they connect footsteps, unite people or disconnect them mystery laid upon each square

Corner to corner varies widely whether local or foreign, goal of each walker differs

Walkways perpetually taking second place to a street that carries the name, standing as middle ground between the house and a thoroughfare

Gates can say OH WAIT or come on in bordered by fence of all flavors, always friendly with the footpath while adding totality to a structure

Tykes on trikes in training, Rises or falls caused many a bicycle blunder, either is fulfilling leaves lasting memory whether experienced or beginners

So many Hellos to neighbors or strangers a nod in passing payment to them for an unknown cause opening a chance to give a dull day a little luster R.C.

Have you ever been asleep?
Lost in you thoughts, trapped so deep
Where colours fly, and visions run,
Or the unbroken opposite of fun?

Have you ever had dream?
All you thoughts lead to deam
Where demons plague, and tykes wail,
Or is it I who led the trail?

IN PRINCIPLE, all is thinkable,
From stop go; to literal mythical,

So, Move Motionless,
Close Openness,

Vainly Crowd,
Then Quietly Howl,

Enjoy Morning Twilight,
And Unlike Likes,

Take Ascending Descents,
/with Elderly Tykes,

Of Idol Realities; and Active Rest,
Make Footing Summit; and Loving Detest,

Living Lifeless, I Must Now Go,
And Search In Vain, For My Egoless Soul...

Sitting tykes burned foliage dendrite dikes
Little must devil and dust fastidious proclivity
Burgeoning each gamma and beta flee with light eddies arid not temper
Summers fink dropped sweat waxen goliaths bracken bracts flummoxed of ashen desert
Trial of carbon of smothers sisters and brothers graphite delusions of water fed gnats blasting the torrid fires
Leviathan confessions wields fuming digression from the truth of need a fleet of mighty 747s water drops!!!
...and Phos-Cheks too! Said Smokey the Boo!
Channel the gas tax to what need be done
20 Water tanker 747s at Edwards Air Force base
now maybe the real war is on!
Even if you take the face value for what it is(a good way to fight fires that's been needed for decades our paths must have strayed) there's no arguing the facts of the mission people lose houses their lives ****** disarray it's only a tax shift and refurbished fleet of jets away