Monthly Archives: August 2011

Sheets on the Clothes Line

The seconds on the clock spun around
its hand clicking, ticking on…
life never stopping for a breath
nor tragedy, nor death
move along please, move along
nothing to see here but
time passing by, slipping away
another moment, another time
Anyone elses, but not mine

The clock tics as the birds wrestle from slumber
their early songs waking the Morning Glories
the bees humming
the sun strumming
and the sheets flapping on mom’s clothes line.
The clock saw the sheets that day
a memory so close but so far away
a different time, a different moment.
but the same clicking and ticking

Those clicks and tics are part of me now
stored away in my special place
Mom and her basket of pins
peek a boo in the sheets
laughter, loving
finding her embrace
She’s gone now
those wooden clothes pins rotted away
But for clicks and tics I’ll always have that day




© 2011 John Richter

I Speak, Sometimes…….

I speak, sometimes
when life gives cause
but sometimes, sometimes
winds of whispers drown me
better than I
they rise above
even scream sometimes

My heart is a pig!
the whispers cry
Not worthy – less than I
the whispers cry
so I follow the snail
into his shell
and hide there, sometimes

But the day was gone
I waited and waited
by the door, looking
the whispers stayed home
the day never came
so I sang and heard
myself, sometimes

Right now is good
my voice cried and
I heard it loudly
So what should I say?
that the whispers
can not drown me
I love you, sometimes




© 2011 John Richter

Always

Minutes waltzing, prancing through the
blessed memories that never came,
moments in this boundless plateau
of misery. When might reprieve find me,
aching for anything but what tosses my soul,
making chaos my only friend?

What then, of that artificial instant,
that sacrificial lamb, the glory
of your voice crackling like the crisp
freshenss of morning sun bursting through me,
calling my name, capturing my fears in
the tiny thimble of your cares?

Oh, that a heart once open and promised would
cower into the fields of seclusion, tattering
the shroud of everything I had dreamed. Would
it be? Could it be that a simple glimpse of
my heart would flail the edges of your passion
such to devour the remnants of us into nothing?

So this moment is mine, etched into the misery
of time set aside, a prancing minute of joy and
glory which now owns an eternity of loneliness.
The rose I found amidst the stones has wilted
and only my hand to blame. And so I’ll swallow
this fate to drown my heart into the foolishness
of loving you. Which I shall always do.




© 2011 John Richter

The End

End to end
the end is only the beginning
the time shared
the echoes of distant laughter
the thrill of something new
those glances and smiles
warming the heart
passionate throes
thrusting each other
finding those special places
those special words
spoken softly
riding them to heaven
But then……
finding blame
hatred grows, feelings unspared
words not soft, not tender
“I hate you,” you said
and then
another end
but that’s what got you here before
a different end
a new beginning
life is a string of popcorn
end to end




© 2011 John Richter

Welcome to my very first blog!

Welcome to my very first blog entry……  This will be short and sweet for now, just a slight introduction.

I want to share this because I love Emily Dickinson…..

Emily Dickinson

I made this image, btw…..  Digital imagery is the only other form of art I have ever practiced besides poetry.  I used this portrait of Emily because I think it is beautiful.  The image itself is actually much clearer than this, I just wanted to make it look a little ghostly.   Someone once told me that she was 19 years old in this portrait, but I don’t know if that is true.  I love Emily.  If I had lived during her time I would have bugged her everyday for years until she let me into her little cocoon….  Sometimes I think that would be the most special thing to ever happen, to be friends with Emily Dickinson, I mean.   But other times I think no, she would never allow a friend to dote on her by calling or treating her special.  Because I don’t think she ever felt special.   Talented, yes, but special or above normal, no.  But she so was.  And she was beautiful too but I don’t think she ever felt that way either.

I’m not a writer,  really my only emotional out-takes happen in the form of poetry.  Most of my other poetic friends tend to be prolific writers who can capture my attention for hours….  not me.   I came here to share my poetry and to get your feedback on it.  Which is actually why I asked you here.  And I will be posting some of my work soon, so if you came here before it did then please come back later…..

Thank you for visiting……