Thou Fair, Thine Eyes

Thine eyes should liken to the rose,
with scents and sights of utter prose.
With little more than your depose,
that I should let you go.

But no.

The winds are yours my dear,
Beg the call of yester year.
tis I who knows so clear -
the loss of one lone Rose…..

My hand, and heart, are always here…


© 2014 John Allen Richter

War is hell…. uncapatilized abortion

War is hell. Most who have been within its throes will attest to that. If of course they are willing to talk about it. The mere fact that most who have fought in war choose to hide from their own memories of it should be testament enough that war is atrocious in the least. My heart goes out to any soldier who has fought in a just war.

But what is a just war? Aren’t any wars sinful and considered heinous criminal acts of one man or nation upon another?

St. Thomas Acquinas defined just war thusly: “A just war is wont to be described as one that avenges wrongs, when a nation or state has to be punished, for refusing to make amends for the wrongs inflicted by its subjects, or to restore what it has seized unjustly.”

That certainly would account for our intervention in both world wars, and Korea. I’m still up in the air about VietNam because those who were seizing and those being seized upon were often of the same philosophy.

An individual can not declare war. For an individual can seek redress for wrongs within his system of government. This is a clear theme in the Bible’s goal of pacifism and was edified by Acquinas at a time when most governments were led mostly by birthright loyalty.  But what of those Jews in Nazi German control.  How could they have sought redress?  Of course in hindsight we know that other just nations corralled around their cause and fought for them.

I think God provides for all in the hope that other “just” nations will always endeavor to wage war against evils as those found in 1930s and 1940s Europe.  But is that a stead fast hope?  Can we always be secure in the thought that at least one powerful nation will always be willing to stand up against unjust evil?  Will the Cavalry always come charging whenever evils exist in the world?   I don’t think so.  I think that political correctness can be used as a tool to chip away at attitudes toward evil, lessening those necessary responses where evil exists.

Don’t agree?  What is your stance on abortion?  Are you free to stand up and say how you feel?  Of course.  But the powers of political correctness will wash away any effective use you may be in the fight against abortion by causing fence-sitters to see you as a radical zealot…….  Who lends credence to a radical zealot?  And let’s face it, we’re really trying to save the souls of fence-sitters, aren’t we?

If we made abortion a mandate where every third child must be aborted, would other nations come running to help us from such evil?  China has had similar population control in place for decades.  No cavalry jumped in to save their citizens.

Abortion is not a government issue.  Period.  We do not use it as a reason to justify war because it can not justify war.  I think that is just a matter of universal law, as though it is impossible for a banana to be orange.  Using it as some sort of volleyball in a political debate only intensifies the use of PC to deal with it, only strengthening it as a viable option in the minds of fence sitters.  Abortion will never be legislated in our free democracy because it is seen as a religious issue.  “Why is murder illegal then?”  Because murder ends the life of a citizen.  Abortion doesn’t.  At least the unborn child is not yet seen as a citizen.  And as long as Satan rules this world I don’t think the unborn child will ever be viewed as a citizen.

Beyond all of that I intrinsically believe that abortion should not be a matter of legislation, nor battle, but rather a matter of spirituality.  Here are some quotes from some early heavy-hitting Christians on abortion.1

“You shall not kill the child by obtaining an abortion. Nor, again, shall you destroy him after he is born.” 
St. Barnabas (“Epistle of St. Barnabas,” c. 70-100 A.D.)

“You shall not murder a child by abortion nor kill one who has been born.”
“The Didache [The Teaching Of The Twelve Apostles]” (c. 80-140 A.D.)

“Women who were reputed believers began to resort to drugs for producing sterility. They also girded themselves around, so as to expel what was being conceived. For they did not wish to have a child by either slave or by any common fellow – out of concern for their family and their excessive wealth. See what a great impiety the lawless one has advanced! He teaches adultery and murder at the same time!” St. Hipploytus (“Refutation Of All Heresies,” c. 225 A.D.)

“He [the schismatic Novatian] struck the womb of his wife with his heel and hurried an abortion, thereby causing parricide.”
St. Cyprian of Carthage (“Epistle 52 To Cornelius,” c. 251 A.D.)

“A woman who deliberately destroys a fetus is answerable for murder. And any fine distinction as to its being completely formed or unformed is not admissible amongst us.”
St. Basil the Great (“Epistle 138,” c. 375 A.D.)

“Others drink for sterility and commit murder on the human not yet sown. Some when they sense that they have conceived by sin, consider the poisons for abortion, and frequently die themselves along with it, and go to Hell guilty of three crimes: murdering themselves, committing adultery against Christ, and murder against their unborn child.”
St. Jerome (“Epistle 22,” c. 380 A.D.)

“The rich women, to avoid dividing the inheritance among many, kill their own fetus in the womb and with murderous juices extinguish in the genital chamber their children.”
St. Ambrose (“On the Hexaemeron,” c. 386 A.D.)

“To destroy the fetus ‘is something worse than murder.’ The one who does this ‘does not take away life that has already been born, but prevents it from being born.’”
St. John Chrysostom (“Homilies on Romans,” c. 391 A.D.)



A Morrison Dream

A moment pass
a fragrance of yellow flowers…
A french door to no where
But Doors to everywhere.

Oh where oh where can he be
soaking up life on Rue Beautreillis…
A pint, a quart, a gallon or two,
rotting the innards of people like you.

Die, die, die you fool.
Chase a dragon in the pool.
Your bitch is nothing but a tool
and you are but a London Fog fool.
Your stage is nothing but drool.

Life should end at twenty seven,
a man should float twixt hell and heaven.
But nere a man, a childish soul….
fights to live and dies a fool….


© 2014 John Allen Richter

One More Time

If there were a single day of yesterdays
That I could hold most dear,
should it be filled with daffodils and puffy clouds,
or brother with baseball shoes?

Once upon a time, a time, a time,
Which yesterday would you save?
If times were but a tic and toc,
Then they would all be the same.

Alas, times are not the same,
each holding it’s own mystery.
One may be hot and blistery,
while another cold and wintery.

Whether weather is weather (as it be),
it makes so little difference to me.
For souls are what brighten my days,
Not the Sun, not the Moon, not electricity.

If there were a way to gather the times
that made me smile so,
and mix them all together with  rhyme,
and never let them go,
Then that day would be the day I’ll save,
and take it to my grave.

 © 2014 John Allen Richter

Thank you all for being my friend…….

What I would Bring

A snapdragon waft of early morning dew,
resting senses of honeysuckle too.

A day spent frolicking in the Sun,
a moment passing, having fun.

Oh these things a pleasure trove,
of love and life and sweet memory,
To God these things, all mine, I owe,
Yet I, myself, am but history.

What of he from long ago,
who smelled the succulent rose,
his body lies in newborn dust,
not even a remnant nose.

Oh Lord, if I could but one thing bring,
from this life of sensory luxury,
Could it be such a childish thing,
As a Rhyme or Mother Goose Story?

A bedtime story from dear old Mum,
nestled under the covers,
takes precedence over my earthly sum,
of money and wanton lovers.

If I could but bring her sweet smell,
and the soft caress of her hand,
Then all of Heaven I shall tell,
of the greatest things e’er found.

 © 2014 John Allen Richter

What Wondrous Things

What wondrous things await, within the valley of just?
Whose mountain tops glisten by the rasp of wakened Sun,
yet shiver our spine for knowing it’s icy crust.

Yay, such secrets are those that show when we are done,
when our bodies lay to rest in the infinite realm of ever.
and praises to He on high shall sing as have been sung.

Whisper children, whisper now,
those things we find within our youth,
the simplest majesty of a tree,
with leaves and seeds and heredity.

Do not wonder, needn’t wonder how,
such intricacies require no sleuth.
For in His plan, child, it is we -
who live in glorious eternity.

Only a Doubting Thomas shall fail,
his soul like smoke in a pushing gale.
Forever destined to his earthly wail,
Eternity clouded by a dusty veil…..

Hold your innocence, high and true,
Always love as only love can do.
You will find me and I – will find you!

© 2014 John Allen Richter



A Coffin—is a small Domain,
Yet able to contain
A Citizen of Paradise
In its diminished Plane.
A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—
Yet ampler than the Sun—
And all the Seas He populates
And Lands He looks upon
To Him who on its small Repose
Bestows a single Friend—
Circumference without Relief—
Or Estimate—or End— 

Emily Dickinson, A coffin is a Small Domain



I very seldomly write poetry to specific form, and this poem is no alteration to that plan, for sure.  I write in an eclectic style, (Am I coining that phrase?) always have and always will I suppose.  Form poetry is sometimes fun, but more often than not difficult at best and rewarded only by appraisement of how well the poet was able to stay within the “coloring lines,” so to speak.  I prefer to rip the structured coloring pages out of the book and use the blank pages, for poetry is emotion and there is no standard form that will ever strictly conform to my emotions.  In my opinion form poetry robs emotion.  And I would include meter in that judgment as well.

But from time to time I will play with form in an eclectic style  as in this poem.  And the form is often so subtle that it goes unnoticed by the reader intentionally.  If all verses were tercet and of a certain number, and the ending verse had only two lines then anyone would recognize it as a villanelle poem.  While this poem is not, I did borrow one element of the villanelle in the first two verses, A rhymes with C while B rhymes with A and C of the following verse.   Verses 3 and 4 are quatrains that appear to have no rhyme at all.  But if you look closely at both verses you can see that A rhymes with A, B rhymes with B, etc., etc..

Finally the last two verses are both quatrain and tercet  (as a comment on the use of both above) and both final verses are direct tail rhymes.  A tougher element would have been to add the rhymes in the center of each line, but that requires strict meter.  I find center rhyming great fun though and used it several times in my poem “Fourteen.” 

Above I quoted a poem from my favorite poet, who I would also call an eclectic poet.  Emily rarely used form poetry, she included meter only when it benefited the poem, not the reader, and would often create her own broken meter by the use of dashes…  When read correctly I think it is a direct link to her internal beat as a poet.  Frankly I find it beautiful.  Unfortunately, her contemporary publishers did not.  To each his own, young poets!


Come Back To Me

This song is a bit of an experiment.  I’ve always wondered about the natural beat inside of me, and everyone really.  I think it’s what makes people so artistically unique.  Jason Mraz, for example.  The man has a beautiful tune in his head, his body, and it comes out in every song he sings.

So I recorded this piano piece and the vocal track separately, without any reference to each other.  Then I pieced them together into a single song as best I could.  I just wanted to see if my own beat, my own bouncing head tune, would be similar from one piece to another…  And I’ve got a tin ear, but even so it sounds almost as if they were meant to go together….  Excuse the flat notes.  Remember I’m a poet, not a singer….   Love out……

I’m looking at you girl.
Wondering what you do.
Finding love in nothing new.
And it’s you……….You know it’s true.
You’re gonna’ come to me
When you fall out of that tree
Where even the stars are lonely
So this is what I say
Let it come whatever may
Come to me
Heaven will be
You and me

© 2014 John Allen Richter



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