Monthly Archives: July 2014

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!