Monthly Archives: August 2011

Net Dreams

Story book dreams, feathered seams,
glory finds comfort by two’s;
Zeros and ones, petticoat suns,
the best of life to lose……

A talent hidden, love forbidden,
the master ruled her cave.
Come another, a wanton lover,
to free her chains, a slave.

Love chancing, hearts dancing,
admiration cloaked from view.
Her master there, a constant stare
yet her words went ringing through.

What can I say John?
Come what may John?
As the Indian rules this hour?
I feel at bay John…
To spend a day John…
outside his watchful tower…

Words would meet, singing so sweet,
but the two lives would never glance.
Hearts entwined, love inclined,
as the world saw budding romance.

But in the midst of a lover’s twist,
as danger ruled her senses,
She ran away home, to arms of Stockholm,
behind her master’s fences.

And what remains, but sorrowful stains
of words in zeros and ones.
The poems they shared, the love they dared,
– gone.

Poem Form:  Four lines per stanza – known as “quatrains”,  first and third lines have internal rhymes – (…remains,…stains),  second and fourth lines have tail rhymes or “rime couée” – (..senses,…fences).  Near the middle of this particular poem I broke from the form to add a six-line verse, also known as a “sestet.”  The last line of this particular poem intentionally breaks from the mold, rhyme and metre sequence to emphasize the absolute desolation of a lost relationship that ended abruptly.

This poem is about a love affair between two people who never met, but fell in love over the internet and by emailing each other the most beautiful love letters. It ended abruptly when she left to return to her lover.

© 2011 John Richter

Morning Death

The morning screeches
it’s talons dug deeply into the passing sun
watching sadly for the death of whatever may come
that baker, who spent his years helping neighbors
in a town so small the world forgot
him nothing more than a speck of flesh
but to those others there, a giant
the morning sees it all
waiting for death to call

His only daughter packing away
those things of his life, his love, his craft
and the morning whiles away
just watching her
a rolling pin into the box, a spatula
people coming by
the morning’s watching
and crying too

Another town, another daughter
perhaps a son or wife
bleeding inside
screaming a silent, deafening scream
packing away, away those things
their minds only seeing memories
of different suns
and other mornings
that watched us all before

The janitor’s daughter
crushed in her car
her life smothered like a candle in a jar
the knock on the door
a uniform and badge
stealing the rest of his self
only that one small part was left
but now it’s gone when the morning goes
the rest of the day, the rest of life, is nothing

Death comes, for whatever reason
the morning watches us all
knowing us each by name
loving us all the same
carressing us
watching us grow, laugh, and love
until comes that final day
we pack those things away
and the morning cries with us

© 2011 John Richter

First Death

There is a quiet here
the room sweating from the days heat
pictures hanging from the wall
how odd to see a winters pond
skaters floating round
while my life lays sweltering
in its own ruin
Yet another day

It was four years ago
maybe to the day
or is it five now?
I don’t know
the day this room came alive
trapping me here
sealing me inside its breathing walls
laughing, laughing at me

My mind no wiser today
just constantly slipping away
not really remembering
if I lived before
or if there was some door
that I walked through
to forget my life
or if it even was

© 2011 John Richter

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


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