My Friend Joe

It was so many years ago
I once had a friend named Joe
Listen to the words of the king
who loves his mighty Queen
Talking about Joe
You know I’m talking about Joe

Come and smile and drink some wine
Laugh and talk and pass the time
These days are sure lovely too
But when they’re gone I’m gonna miss you
I’m talking about you, Mister Joe,
I’m talking about you.

‘Cause ten years from now I’ll say
There was a friend from yesterday
We always laughed and passed the time,
by talking and sharing that wine…
You and me, Mister Joe,
It was me and you.

Now when i see you on the road
I’ll smile and laugh and say “Hey there, Joe!”
But you won’t remember when
‘Cause we’ll be different men,
all those years ago,
Mister Joe,
It was all those years ago.
I had a friend named Joe,
Good ole’ boy,
Talkin’ about you Joe
You remember when
Talkin’ ’bout Joe…..

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Not Just Now, Dear…

There was once a lady in
my childhood library –
with posture quite great
but her arms very hairy..
She would “shush” and “shoo”
when we made too much noise –
And always question “Who?”
or “Which one of you boys?”
“could make such a ruckus
amidst such fine poise?”
“While others are reading
the news or Tolstoy?”

“Me,” said I, always quite brave,
to lady with glasses and rickety cane…
For boys don’t simply “shush” or “shoo” on command,
While there are Indians or Cowboys to chase across land,
or pirate ships a’sea and sailing for loot –
or barrels of monkeys causing such hoot!
or a desperate search for a big white whale –
or little Tom Sawyer telling such tales!
or Gulliver tied by tiny little men –
or Cyclops chasing Ulysses again…
Why did dear Miss fail to see –
the wondrous things of great mystery?

Odd was that little boy in me so very long ago –
who wanted to fight dragons and slice off their toes…
But now grown I can look back at we –  and find
the virtue of silence that dear Miss did see.

For I don’t mind the rare picnic when ants come to play –
or the Mayor’s prized parade when it rains all day.
I don’t mind the canoe when you flip it over,
nor even when you win at the game of red rover…

But I must stop here, lover, and just tell you this
and I don’t mean to harm or cause you to hiss…
It’s fitting perhaps that it’s when our hearts are near –
and when our love has grown to be just this dear…

But I find it quite odd, and in deed quite complex –
that you should find it so necessary to talk during sex.
It’s the one time of day when my mind is turned off –
and my body turned on by your delectable stuff!

Please understand that in the fray,
it’s not really you I see –
for when you speak during the lay –
I see ol’ Miss shushing thee…

So what ever dragons you’re chasing my pet,
I’ll asks you to do it very quietly.
for if dear Miss ends up in our bed –
it’ll ruin my childhood library….

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Loveless Garden

Come to me dear,
come to me…
find the glory
of earth and sea.
bite the apple
and you will see
all the beauty
in God’s majesty.
Follow me dear,
to this tree.
Find the answer
to all you seek.
Loving gardens,
made for you…
filled with hunger,
all night through.
And i will be here,
‘midst the leaves,
saying softly,
won’t you please,
taste the apple
taste the apple,
bite hard and soon see
that man can love
but it shall never be..
For I am serpent,
beast of thee
My darling Eve,
now come and see…

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Are We Real?

If not for Heaven’s sake, this life of ours,
nor to reincarnate for earlier flaws,
Then what is our purpose in this test?

To work and toil to correct the wrongs –
which wouldn’t be without our throngs?
without our presence comes no protest?

That we should comfort the sick and feed the poor –
clothe the homeless and pity the whore –
hold the hand of lonely he – whose
brightest moment lacks prosperity?

I ask you lord, in my miniscule role –
as one who is asked to supply the dole –
To care for others continuously –
in the face of no reason to be?

For this grueling field is set by you –
the misery, the carnage, the bally-hoo…
our own eyes spectators at best…

Yet we are asked to cure the plight –
of others who under your own might
would never exist in such unrest.

And so dear lord I must pray to thee,
if you are god of love and not misery –
to bring them all into your home –
accepted into Heaven’s womb –
and end this test of good and wrong –
give us rest unto angelic song –
For my shoulders weary, never strong,
or this be hell,  forever long.
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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Little Sins

Ever in life do we find –
the glory, the strife,
– and never mind…

Infants we come – innocence –
trapped in Satan’s sinful flesh –
– born into time.

We hear the tick, we hear the tock,
slowly lose love – watching the clock –
our lives benign.

We watch the things of evil’s way,
accept them all as child’s play –
living blind.

We see the murderous throes of he,
whose sinful acts bring misery –
and think he is most obviously –
of evil kind.

And so throw our stones into he –
always believing autonomy –
should separate virtuous we –
from his kind.

Then we move about our imaginative life,
seeing less glory and more imminent strife –
in all we find.

Still there’s death, with every breath,
and evil lives across worlds breadth –
even of our kind.

For after our stones are thrown –
and lesser evils be known –
we find ourselves within –
forging mountains of sin –
For justice will find that murdering man
and bring to light his murdering plan –
And so it shall do to we.

And yay, though we murdered not –
or cursed or robbed dear Camelot –
our lives have certainly lost –
innocence – at dear soul cost.

For hating he who caused the harm,
is enough to ring heav’ns alarm –
and in the last it is we who’ll see –
the bowels of hell for eternity….

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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I Do Not Like Worms

To believe the town, its rushing waters bleeding by,
sending its age and newness to other ways beyond,
wherever that is, that long away place which kept
all my lost bobbers and broken lines with hooks –
Down in the down by – this – or the other – that,
it could be – if found with a thousand catfish –
certainly – learning to eat with hooks stuck in
their throats like baseball cards in bicycle wheels –
swimming by with ten feet of trailing nylon line –
broken off in the heat of battle!
“Tic tic tic tic tic tic tic tic tic” – as the
worms go sloshing down –   the wheel goes round –
flicking away time – along with flecks of Pete
Rose, left on the long ago ground.
That long ago ground –
who once endured the steps of soldiers north,
and soldiers south soon behind them – tossing
cannon balls and musket balls into her
swallowing mouth – devouring our time and
little flecks of Pete Rose and posing with
them, mother earth – hiding them –
turning them back into worms.
I watch them all from my point below the stars,
wondering how many worms might come from cannon balls.
And crescent moon never falls, never falls into
earth’s gaping mouth.  Only shines to watch the
night crawlers come out from deep within – some
smelling like musket balls and tonic and gin,
cigarettes and nasty-nasty…  Oh how the worms
have seen us all, silently waiting for us to fall.
And we will.  Flecks of Pete Rose and all.

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Odd Little Man

The world didn’t stop – street lamp glowing –
throwing – hues of light upon the corner’s darkness.
Walked I – walked I – right on by –
lest the man say “You there, odd little man –
with odd little head – why do you walk so fast?”
Fast walk I, walk I, said I,
that in my stare step world
I should get on past – lest I
not see my footprints further.
To let me know I was here,
that something lived and I
did see the hues of the street lamp –
who didn’t cry itself to sleep,
but as I walked by I said softly
“you deserve to be loved.”
Nothing more than glowing cherry-red
footprints to show his existence now –
To know that once the warmth of his
hue made me feel real – something
other than odd little man –
with odd little head –
something other than just he
who nods gracefully, loviningly,
to those cruel others not even worthy
to light the lamp….
The beautiful, loving lamp.
And I hide in the shadows
until they leave or until
I lay down in his hue –
soaking up his radiance –
pretending it is my own….
and for just a moment –
I become normal.
Famine stricken,
ravishing love,
leaving dabs of cherry red glowing footprints
so I can find normalcy again tomorrow.
Will you hold my hand and come with me?
You make me feel normal.

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Prim and Proper Buts and Participles

I think it shall be called –
How to make a poem float,
by the incomparable and always
dry – master of ceremonies.

Float, float, poem,
when I let you go down the stream…
flurry your seams with resin
as you dodge chunks of misused grammar
and scopes from submarines.

Submarines, submarines,
always on the prowl –
always checking for those prim
and proper participles…
always sifting through
rhododendrons on the murky
river floor….  Dying, of
course.  Too much water
for them, just moist to the
touch – when not covered in
several tons of carp waste..
You thought I said crap-waste,
didn’t you?  Dirty little
peeping eyes…

“Rhododendrons don’t live in water,”
nor do they concur with proper
nouns and adjectives –
itself’s very spelling a mystery to the rules.
“The poem can not float!”
“The poem can not float!”
Screamed the ring master…
“Remember your rules of threes!”
but can only remember Sister Collette
trying to beat them into me.
“One! Two! Three!
You little rule breaking bastard!”
“Listen boy or your poems will never float!”

But dead rhododendron leaves
replaces rules of threes.
That’s why I sighed, and cackled loudly,
when I threw them in the river.
They make my my poems float.
With all their ‘wuzzins’ and reasons
to start sentences with “But…”
and made-up words that can sometimes –
tickle imaginations…

And apostrophes don’t count –
when you only hear them –
because they sigh very quietly.
And rhododendrons are much prettier…
than they spell.
You thought I was going to say –
smell – didn’t you?
Silly peeping eyes –
you can’t smell them under water…

Float little poem, float.
But I can’t.
But you will.
But I shouldn’t.
But, and yet, you will.
Float, float, poem… Please?

Psssstttt….  You’re making me look bad…

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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