God’s Gift

I see you,
behind the curtain,
behind the wall,
behind the facade and
the whites of your eyes
scream of the madness behind them.
I hear them scream.
That is God’s gift to me.
The screaming meemies,
the Iwo Jima eeby jeebies.
I hear them all –
Lashing in your web.

I see your sillies,
your midnight willies.
Your absolute dillies
when you thought no one….
was watching.
I wasn’t.
But I still see.
That is God’s gift to me.

It’s like watching a child
who endeavoring his plight
thinks he’s absolutely right.
It’s not your ignorance friend
that will drown you in the end.
It’s the stones of unwavering certainty
that you heave upon your soul,
to weigh your body down
into the eternal fiery hole.

A violinist talents his gift,
plays a sweet sonata…
A painter flares his brush
and fancies his ware on canvass.
A surgeon saves a life
and pays his heed and deed to Father.
Great gifts these all and all with proof.
The results are in the pudding.

But what of mine, this gift from God?
No results to come but yours.
My sonata thusly, is simply this:

I can see your stones.
.

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© 2013 John Allen Richter

Arrogant Imps

Forgive me friends, this poem is not meant for you.  There are adult people in my everyday life at my workplace that I must deal with who are childish and spend a lot of their time flapping their jaws about other people.  These people are stuck in some junior high clique-ish nightmare and I so want to scream how horrid and unprofessional I find their childishness.  Of course I can’t do that because I am taught to turn the other cheek.  And so I just “vent here, a place I’m sure they will not vent-ure to…..

For those who hate others
under the watchful eye of God
Consider how your druthers
kill hopes as you plod.

Your backstabbing steals away
other’s sense of fair play
using your life to bring dismay.

Always steady and politely I’d say
Sure to kindly reroute your way.
So as not to bring you harm.
Honor your peers and always pray
or your pain might return some day -to
Loose all your witty charm.
Either way, this is an acrostic alarm.
.

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© 2013 John Allen Richter

My Season for Living

Fall’s gate.
Hinges rusted.
Grayed slats
of pine.

An orchards season
without reason
falls upon
a winter’s climb.

This changed fence.
Twice mended since,
Spring’s
eternal time.

But in this path
I shall mend along
until its end
be mine….

For in that end
we all should find
hope eternally blind…..
.

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© 2013 John Allen Richter