Tammy Sue

I once knew a girl named Tammy Sue…
She was the prettiest thing i ever knew.
I never told her that in fact,
Because I was just a lad
Much older now, looking back,
I wonder what if i had?

The day we met was a summer dilly,
Me mum said come for a ride.
“I’ve got a friend near the eastern lillies,
with a daughter about your size.”

Mum, mum i cried,
why must we always twirl?
You know i don’t like leaving the house,
much less for meeting girls!

“Get your butt in the car,”
She said with that look…
of peril i’ve seen before.
So i skedaddled my butt
Into the seat –
And then i closed the door.

Wind, wind, rushing us by,
Passed a stop sign or two.
Then up a hilly drive,
On in to meet my rue…

Once inside the living room,
Family portrait on the wall.
One of them pretty!
And spinning around i found –
also very tall. 

She was indeed quite pretty,
and so i couldn’t figure why…
She seemed quite curious of me,
As if she’d never seen a guy.

And there I am, Just John you see,
A guy with never nothing.
That such a pretty girl as my Tammy,
would search for any something.

She wasn’t just looking at my eyes, you know?
She reached in through the hole.
And nestled in next to me
On the day she touched my soul.

Over the years I’ve wandered much,
And have wondered of Tammy Sue.
And I regret some things i’ve done.
And  things i didn’t do.

When I tell you, it will be hard for you,
but even harder for me now grown.
Because on that day of long ago blue,
I walked away, and left Tammy alone.

Eyes so brightly enigmatic,
and that I did not merit.
For i was but a rough shod relic,
Just  a slimy little ferret.

There’s a rule of attraction
I’ve always known  to be…

A girl as pretty as Tammy,

Was never meant for me.

Against the feelings in my bones,

And though I was never sure,

I left my Tammy all alone,

For I wasn’t worthy of her.

Climate Change Reincarnation

Waiting for the clouds to wane-
the fog lifts ever so slowly.
From birth to death and then again-
our stations always so lowly.

Tho’ even we kings with all our might and power,
blessed with things like toilets and showers,
and little pots of mums that die slowly in the fall.
We see the message, the epitaph, written on the wall.

Fatten ourselves with milk and honey ’til life is done,
ignoring others who suffered and perished with none.
Is that why He sent His only Son?
So we can see what we’ve become?

Quietly the geese said goodbye to me today,
much earlier than I thought they may.
Perhaps it is their own little cognizant way
to say perhaps, or perhaps to say,
“We’re getting to hell out because you people have gone nuts.”

Is it more important to “save the planet” or to love one another?
Christ only mentioned one. But can we do both?

Death’s End

Tickling Death chases dawn,
smeared lipstick down her chin.
Torn knee pantyhose,
a stumbling fall,
one eyelash half unglued.

And yet comes life,
a starlight gaze, breaking Sun.

Moreso that, the lackluster gaze,
of Tickliing Death’s shadow, fading away into the cobblestones,
hiding for another day.

Until dusk again, old girl.
Better luck for you is only some day away.
That day, that holy day…
That day I’ll acquiesce,
and not kick your puny ass.
For that day God will rise,
and call me to a greater cause.
So that day you may have your way.
you cunt whore, your world, your life of pain and despair.
You will part your lips and swallow me whole,
leave me under your vanity skin so shallow.
Like a seed to grow and destroy you.

And I will be your last –
for after you will be sent to reign over the only dead.

 

 

Ploppity plop, fibidy poo –
what’s a boy to do?
Climb a hill, take a spill,
or count to twenty-two.

Little frogs and bugs with claws
fit nicely in a pocket
while empty boxes taped together
make a fine little rocket.

Climbing the highest trees,
through itchy poison oak,
or solving mysteries
with a dagger and a cloak!

So many things a boy could do,
so much fun to play.
So live as though the moment’s true,
For there comes another day.

And another.
And another.

Until some day little frogs and bugs with claws
are not fun anymore.

 

Life

Black darkness swallows whole my innards –
this life of flowers and bees and persimmon trees –
constantly adorned by bluest sky and puff puff clouds –
with rolling waters so cool and clear –
sighting God’s love far but yet near.

And we, those cast from heaven,
to walk the soil of years’ past shit.
To toil and grasp hands in filth,
to plant a seed of new life born.
And sprouting from this cesspool death,
is God’s beauty beyond the norm.
A green leaf pops up through,
and we attend our Sunday pew –
to give thanks for life come anew –
and sustenance which we can chew.

Oh God, oh God, your plan is clear –
that we be damned year by year –
sentenced to hunger and pain of life,
suffering intolerance and radical strife,
to bring a war – to bring the blood –
to kill a man for words lacking love.

Am I Cain or am I Able?
Living for love or for the sabre?
To which of these do I owe my fate
– being destined to walk upon this earth?
If Cain were sentenced here –
this life of toil and crime –
it would certainly make sense –
But why Dear God did Able come –
What was his offense?

If misery could be given a name,
I would call it Life.
As the only relief that I can find,
is my dearly beloved wife.

Thank you for the most wonderful thing I know.

Reason to Believe in Spirits

Recently I’ve been taken with a most intelligent woman, Judyth Vary Baker.  Judyth is the proclaimed girlfriend/mistress to Lee Oswald, the man accused of assassinating JFK.

For many years Judyth kept quiet about her knowledge and relationship with Lee due to the frightening prospect of being killed for it.  She hid away silently until Oliver Stone’s movie about the assassination came out.  Then she felt the story should be public and she has been defending her story against the naysayers ever since.

Whether you agree or disagree with Judyth is your own business.  I currently believe her.  ‘Nuff said.  I only wanted to bring something very interesting to your attention.  One of Judyth’s blogs mentioned an address in New Olreans that Lee lived in while she was dating him.  Because I’m interested and a bit of a kook, I decided to look up the address in Google Maps Street View.  What oi found scared me a little because normally I don’t believe in spirits, or rather that they can affect the living in any way.

Above the house and to the left – (in the picture in Google Street Maps – 4905 Magazine Street, New Orleans) – can clearly be seen writing in the sky from an sky-writing airplane.   The lone word seen in the sky?  “Love”

Did Lee affect the world in a way to get that message to Judyth?  Is the real Lee Oswald really dead?  I don’t know, won’t say either way anyway.  But it certainly is just as odd as everything else about the JFK assassination and events surrounding it.  And possibly one heck of a love story too!

https://www.google.com/maps/@29.9203048,-90.1082778,3a,44.5y,2.87h,95.69t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sXn03vOdompT_NfHhKd9Gjw!2e0!7i13312!8i6656!6m1!1e1

Better Headstones

Silly tenure –
Mausoleums…
Angels standing tall –
Marble faces –
outstretched wings –
eyes mere chisled balls –
Grass cut so neat –
trimmed around the stones –
Death trimmed nice –
quite complete –
garnish the moonlit shone…
And I, who ran through orchard high –
to find my angel there –
him speaking but in German tongue –
of years long gone by…
Tell me Angel, oh thee of stone –
Why do you speak to me?
On this dark dark night –
of moon shadow sight –
At quarter past hour of three…

“Oh my dear sir”
parted thousand year lips
“If only you could see
the wisdom and quests ‘neath me –
Of those lost in age from love –
of headstones weathered and worn –
of hearts beaten and torn –
names dribbled to sod –
lost to years and God –
Remnant lay in Earth –
Lost and forlorn…”

And I – a simple man –
known of Earth – but with a plan –
Through that of German tongue –
from age of Thor and thunder –
That I am but a simple man –
whose death shan’t be asunder…
And now I know –
From paupers to kings of past thrones –
The thing we really need ….
in this world of loveless creed…
are simply better headstones.

So quiet your thousand year old stone angels –
and just use granite, right?

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Wonderland Tea

Great Mad Hatter – was he
Belle of the Ball
But really tea amidst the trees and leaves
where fairies are said to run
upon moonlight escapade…
Catch one if you can –
foresting to and fro –
On wing they go – sometimes.
mistaken as insomniac grasshoppers –
and eaten by –
no wonder why –
the ever endeaverous Mr. Owl…
Who must spit out the fairies –
for their dust makes him sneeze!

And today Mr. Hatter rules the roost –
of crumpets and tea and thee – Sweet Alice –
Who knows not what to think
of this insanity drink –
That makes you grow –
from head to toe –
larger than the Hatter’s tree –
Past the dodo’s nesting there –
grow up above – into thin air
Looking down, can you see?
That which is the Hatter’s tea?

Grand gestures – and so theatrical he
insanity befalls —-  ’til the hours are wee
Dancing and singing and shouting about –
until all have left – except we three…
The Hatter, myself, and thee.

And may I please say dear –
if it won’t chase you away dear –
How lovely you look tonight!
And might I be bold –
as allow to unfold –
that you are my best delight!

And so abandoned my heart
at the very thought
that you discover
my secret aloft –
That the Hatter, my dear
is not far or near
nor dancing there
nor shouting here
For if you ever – even once
found the Hatter kind and tame –
then please know sweet Alice –
He and I are the same…

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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A Man’s Grave

Quiet day – slumber..
Wasting away it’s own time.
For neither wind nor song of bird should rile this place –
Nor cricket scamper across its green.
Here lies majesty – an earthen treasure –
Of love and life and mind sublime –
So that only the rose shall slowly open its petals –
to receive the sun.
And there within such beauty rose –
a captured love of mindful prose –
that he of past somehow arose –
to project the love –
to protect the rose…..
Duty done, now can doze –
In quiet grave – we suppose…
As all creation stands afroze,
In awe and honor of all things being –
Edgar Allan Poe’s……

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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Roses that grew in enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe –
Fell on upturn’d faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in ecstatic death –
Fell on upturn’d faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and the poetry of thy presence.

A snippet from “To Helen”
by Edgar Allan Poe

 

 

You Are My Angel

We are angels
to and fro
all complete
head to toe

Born in image
of God’s delight
In free will
lies our might

Choices made
Lo, love born lost –
triggered hatred
as icy frost

So cast we out
of Heaven’s gate
down to Earth
and here we wait

Learn to love
His one command
failing that
forced to stand

Wings all clipped
staggering within
this glorious place
of love and sin

Which to choose?
Which to choose?
Free will at its best –
Most fail to see
hatred’s epiphany –
Love is just a test.

For hatred is innate –
sin is born within –
Love is not a choice
But a key not to sin…

And now I know
in all the worlds foils
having found your heart
hidden in Earths toils.

So I turn the key –
I turn the key –
Which your great love
gave to me….

And within I find
such peace of mind –
and the dear beauty
of knowing you’re mine…

And with your love
my wings will grow
And I shall fly to Heaven
with you in tow…..

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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