Category Archives: Poem

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.


An “H” Food for Sweetie

Hominy bibbidy bobbidy –
Hominy bibbidy boo –
If I had a nickel –
I’d spend it all on you!
And if that nickel could buy a kite,
I’d fly it just as high –
as you make me feel –
each and every night –
So here is some hominy,
my bibbidy bibbidy boo –
I don’t really like it –
so I’ll save it all for you….
And if you need an “H” food,
to put across your lips,
I might suggest some hummus,
’cause it’s really good with chips!
Perhaps some ham covered in honey,
or halibut with horseradish sauce –
could complete an “H” food melody –
That could easily make you floss….
Hamburgers, headcheese,
hearts and pickled heels,
herbs and huckleberries,
heros and banana peels!
Bananas don’t rhyme.
They don’t have too.
They’re better than everything except the hamburger.
Bananas should be an “H” food.


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
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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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Angel #34

I live the twists
the turns
the scars
the burns…
I see the smoke
the charred remains
the blackened ash
of loveless stains…
Nothing stays the same.

John, John?
Take your pills
Undo the twists
and straighten the turns
smoothe the scars
and calm the stars…
And then sleep.
Dream about the nurses station.
You must please them too.
Because life’s not about you.
It’s about them.
Again and again.
The greater ones –
those who tower above –
whose lives are better –
filled with love –
but not you –
( they tell me )
you don’t deserve –
you’re only here to serve.

How dare you speak to them
John – these humans –
who God created –
anointed free will –
but not for you…
They say to me –
How dare you seek love
you filthy mess
talk to them –
as though they care.
about you.
Your un-metered poems
with no internal rhymes…
acting as though you’re real –
with a heart beat in time…

Fallen angels don’t matter.
Except for you – I say to you –
I know you’re one too.
When did you figure it out?
Between the trips to the nurses station?
I didn’t know –
Until I met you…

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A snippet from “To Helen,” by Edgar Alllan Poe

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes
I saw but them – they were the world to me
I saw but them – saw only them for hours –
Saw only them until the moon went down
What wild-heart histories seem to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!How darling an ambition! yet how deep –
How fathomless a capacity for love!

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One Night I Sang

I sat – tables in a row –
Chairs swallowing them each –
and every one – like satellite moons
half back high and swizzle sticks
shooting from their centers –
little crystal stars filled with –
slow melting ice and two fingered gins…
and her eyes shoot through  –
through the mist –
through the smoke –
through the lust and sweat and
beer stained carpet – and all the musical
notes swirling ’round the stage
don’t stop her eyes –
can’t stop her eyes –
eyes that feel me –
feel my inner nakedness –
my tiny little being in her majestic universe –
of smoke and beer and gin…
And  I sit among the swizzles –
my little stirring friends and I –
wishing I were her guitar –
and that she would rock me –
gently strum me into such –
a beautiful song as this…..
Oh how wondrous was –
the night I sang her song!

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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