Where Has Time Gone

Time does not keep
nor can time tell.
It does not fly
or toll any bell.

It passes quickly
when you are well
So much slower
as you waste in hell

We can not see it
It’s invisi-bell
We can not buy it
It’s not for (sell)

Time is not a master,
Nor is it a slave
It is merely a witness
From birth to grave

Copyright, John Allen Richter

“Forever – is composed of Nows”
Emily Dickinson

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.

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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Pebbles

There is a pebble in my shoe…
I like it there.
It could have been a bumble bee,
so let’s just agree that would suck.
Unless you like bumble-bees –
then that wouldn’t suck as much.
But it would still suck a little.
But I wouldn’t complain.
Because I love you.

I just hope you like pebbles too.
‘Cause that’s what’s in my shoe…..

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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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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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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Richmond Explodes

I shouldn’t have known
the things I did before
when mother wasn’t looking
and father doing his chores.
Chores, chores, work away
Mr. station wagon man –
stacking limbs and eyeballs
and feet and hands –
stuff them in – if you can –
“Not discreet, not discreet!”
cried the paper man – who
didn’t know his own toes
were on fire – smoking –
smoking – dying on his own
time…  Fading away from
a day – just a day – any
day when feet and hands
and golf balls fall from the sky…
“Not discreet to leave them in the street!”
as the paperman hacked his own words away,
his soul chasing after…
Station wagon blue, station wagon blue,
what to do? what to do?
with arms and legs from gunpowder kegs?
To the morgue, station wagon man,
We’ll sort them out later.
Later, later, I touched Tammy
Newton’s boob in old station wagon blue.
It was still attached.  She
said she liked it.  She didn’t know
her grandmother’s arm had been there
before mine.  But father did.
I shouldn’t have known
the things I did before.

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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********* Gladly offered to the fine poets at dversepoets.com

Poet’s Notes about The Poem

At 1: 47 p.m., early afternoon on a cool sunny day, beautiful Saturday, April 6th,1968, four linear blocks of the downtown area of my hometown, Richmond, Indiana, exploded violently. I was 9 years old. There were hundreds of people downtown at the time. My father and godfather were headed downtown also in dad’s 1965 White Ford Country Squire station wagon with blue interior. But they were still six or seven blocks away when the explosion occurred. Dad said he felt his car slide sideways about 10 feet by the blast. Dad drove to the melee just as the fire trucks were arriving. They commandeered both he and his station wagon to carry the wounded to the hospital. Most of the four block main street was a complete crater, caused by an underground gas pipe exploding. A secondary explosion occurred at Martin Arms, a gun and sports store that kept several barrels of gunpowder in their basement. Forty one people were killed. Most of the wounded were ambulatory, I think, so dad’s car became a repository for body parts to be later identified at the morgue.

That’s the same station wagon we seven kids would ride in during our biweekly trips to grandparents in Indianapolis. There was a girl in this story but her name was not ‘Tammy.’ I changed it to protect her innocence. And I don’t remember if the ‘boob’ incident was before or after the explosion, but think probably before. I was only seven at that time if I remember correctly. She was a close friend of sister Sue and often ‘slept over’ at our home. One day as she walked past my bedroom she saw me sleeping in only my tighty-whities – which is pretty much how I still sleep today. But she teased me about it incessantly and I just hated that! It seemed so embarrassing. I didn’t want a girl seeing me in my underwear! So one time she came with us on our trip to Indianapolis. After a long visit she and Sue declared that they would sleep in the back of the station wagon on the way home – which is where we little ones were stationed. So here was my chance! After the four others in the back had all fallen asleep – in the dark night listening to the hum of the tires on the pavement – I moved toward ‘Tammy’ and slid my hand and arm very slowly up her shirt. I thought that if I could squeeze her breast and wake her up then she would be embarrassed and never tease me again. Unfortunately after i moved my arm and hand over her soft, smooth, warm skin and tummy, and cupped her breast in my hand, something came over me and suddenly I decided not to go through with it. I didn’t understand it at the time, of course, i was only seven, but I knew enough that I would never want to embarrass, or hurt anyone who made me feel like I just felt that dark night in the back of that wagon. Weeks later she teased me again and I just blurted it out: ‘I squeezed your boob when we went to Indianapolis! ‘ She didn’t look shocked at all. In fact she put her hand on my shoulder and said ‘I know. That was nice.’ She never teased me again. Women. After all these years i still don’t understand them. And I don’t think she lost any relatives in the explosion. She remains just one of the many women I have come to love during my trek through this life. If you ever read this, ‘Tammy, ‘ wherever you are now, I thought it was nice too. Thank you for visiting.

Nothingness

It comes and goes and we pretend –
we pretend to want it – to need it –
as though nothing else matters –
or could fill our lives more….
Mother nature fills our hearts with helium –
and so we walk on air as though –
as though we oursleves matter.
But we don’t.  Our lives are minisculeant
little nothings pretending a lie.
Pretending we matter – or to find –
oursleves better than another?
Or pretending that anything,
anywhere – something –
any creature could ever love us back!
Silly, love does not exist!
There is only “Oh, my – what happiness
being in love”  but then –
“You are not what I ordered.”
“Can I get a refund?” How to remove
a monster from your life – by the sincerely
Mr. Hyde – the doctor’s not in just now.
Would you care to read a magaizine and wait?
No thank you.  I’m late for my taping of
Dr. Oz – who knows my dreams and secretly
follows my life to fix everything there is.
Except death.  Death prevails – it is tangible –
an excerpted reality of what love would do –
if love could do – in its inexplicable vacuum.
I will not allow love to suck my brains out.
Not when I can more easily offer them to be
trampled, stampled, and stapled shut into
a schism of love’s madness.  I don’t need the
man behind the curtain – or the woman – faking
and flailing herself – moaning of love when
only Toto knows of such.  Only she needs the
wizard’s prized heart – which only
mimics the boldness of her hatred.
And the Tinman will laugh and
shit out her precious little dog.
Until then –
she knows that love is only pain.
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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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My White Pages

Here my tiny being lays within the whiteness of
this page.  I tried using my fork to tiddle-wink
the words onto it – to tattoo them like a tiny
tear drop on a felon’s face.  Failure, again,
my face cries and the whiteness glows on it –
ghostly face white with nothing to say.  Words
tiddle-winked completely over – or – failed
to tiddle at all.  Or should it be winked?
Should I know – with no words to show – at all?
My blank face and blank mind – so much less
than those others, who speak, and write – and never
leave white glowing trails from empty words
behind them.  My glowing trails are blank spaces.
“Answer me, boy, answer me!”  I don’t and I can’t
and I won’t!  The words are gone – and I can’t
squeeze them out of a turnip.  Perhaps if I
could boggle the words across the page and –
some might melt into it, saturating it through,
leaking into pages beneath.  There’s always
pages beneath, pages hiding and waiting to
prove me blank, just waiting there, waiting
to strike when my aloneness is multiplying
numbers, like Yahtzee scores, always counting
words that aren’t ever there – not to me, but
it’s only a game, they  say, they say – But
I say it is only a long, desperate, awkward
pause that shakes my soul beyond these bones –
and they say “Spit it out boy!  Are you just
dumb? or Stupid”  —  haha – laughter laughter.
I’ll take my words, my turnip and felon tear and
climb down the hole – my away place – and hide.
Some day my page will flower like a turnip patch.
And my glowing spaces will be them – trailing
behind in dirty glowing spaces.  And the spotted
baby deer will fill his tum with my
colorful memories……  my some day page.

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© 2015 John Allen Richter
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