Thanksgiving has come and gone. The "starting gun" has sounded, officially setting off the Christmas rush. Stores will be crowded, parking spaces, becoming non-existent, and the joyful sounds of shoppers echoing throughout the canyons of the city("Same to you buddy!", "Hey, butthead, that's my parking space!")Neighborhood Christmas lights and decorations have been going up since the passing of Halloween. Some are elaborate and garish, others simple in their presentations. A contest, if you will, trying to outdo one another. Or rather, who can out-spend the other, a battle of egos, so to speak.

Carolers, those small groups of both young and old, have all but disappeared, in this city, anyway. It was a good feeling,  sitting in your home, and suddenly hearing the voices singing Christmas carols. Jumping up, running to the door, and seeing a group standing not far from your porch singing "Silent Night", "O' Come all You Faithful", or another, and wishing you a "Merry Christmas!" as they continued down the street. Now, step out on your porch and you could get a gun stuck in your face.
It's now a different time, different era, with different attitudes. Christmas seems to have become a "me first" season. It's  time for a change.

copyright: richard riddle-emended November 26, 2015

Where is that inner child,
why did it depart-
And take with it the stories,
That were close unto your heart

From Mother Goose to Tennyson's
"Idyll's of the King",
folklore and fairy tales-
Of which the minstrels sing

Knights in shining armor                            
atop their steeds of grace-
Protecting king and country
as they ride from place to place

There’s Jack and his stalk of beans,
“Lil Red and her hood-
Hansel, and his sister-
traips'n thru the wood

Rainbows and leprechauns,
elusive pots ‘o’ gold,
Oh, how many, many times have these
tales been told-

Fairies ‘neath the mushroom caps,
elves in their acorn hats,
Dancing 'neath the moon-ring light-
as fireflies flicker, to the “music
of the night”

And from the heavens, a horse appears-
adorned with wings of flight-
And from its head, a single horn-
the pure, and blessed, unicorn.

The minstrels, with their lutes and lyres-
amused the population-
But, could it be, these tales be true,
or just your imagination?

That inner child, it's still there
It hasn’t gone away-
It just needs to be awakened-
on perhaps, this very day.*


r.riddle December 18, 2010-Copyright

HR Mgr:  So, Amber, you're applying for the file clerk position?
App: "Yea."(Keeps brushing her hair off of her right eyebrow)
HR: "You didn't fill in the space for your last name. Does Amber
         have a last name?"
App: "Yea."(giggle). "Dexterous."
HR: "Amber Dexterous, interesting." and you say your former job
         was "entertainment dancing."  
App: "Yea."(Brush-brush!)
HR: "Poetry in motion, I'm sure." "Amber, are you a stripper?"
App: "I'm not a "Strip-AH! I'm a Dan-SAH!"
HR: "Okay, okay! So, do you use poles in your dance routines?"
App: "Nooooo, but, I do like the Canadians!"


copyright: richard riddle February 14, 2015

I should apologize for the "wordplay", but I won't! This piece was written for entertainment purposes only, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally written and posted in December, 2014, I like to re-post it occasionally for all the new writers, poets, essayists, and, of course, any new 'readers'*.

On December 16, 2013, in my work titled "Thank You",  was the first time I used the term "Poet's Train" for all of the contributors to the HP site. For that is exactly what it is. It also reminds me of times that have passed.
My grandparents lived in Joshua, Texas, a small town not far from the city of Fort Worth. Their house was only about 100 yards, or less, from the railroad tracks. Every evening around six o'clock we would hear the faint moan of the first whistle. My brother and me, both little tykes(6-10), would run to the back porch, anticipating the subsequent whistles from a huge piece of machinery. As the whistle grew louder, we could see the column of smoke billowing from the coal-burning engine as it neared. All of a sudden, there it was. We weren't the only ones that stood and watched, for there is something magical about trains, that attract both young, and old.
Our biggest delight however, did not lie with the train itself, but waving to the passengers and engineers as it passed, seeing them wave back, blowing that whistle in gentle acknowledgement, as if saying, "Good to see you, thanks for coming, have a great day!"
So it is with the "Poet's Train." When a piece is posted the whistle blows, each piece becomes a boxcar. Each writer, a passenger; their computer, the engine, and every reader waving as it passes. Its length, infinite, with no caboose. It will come the next day, the next night, with new passengers, with new cargo. I love it. I really do!

copyright: richard riddle, December 19, 2014

I never know when its going to happen-
waking up in the middle of the night and not seeing you,
or feeling you, next to me

"She fell asleep again on the sofa", I say to myself-
Quietly, I get up, walk toward the living room-
it is then I realize, again, that you had left this mortal earth-

Nine years ago.

Love never dies, does it?

copyright: richard riddle Febuary 06, 2015

The store would soon be closing-
it was fifteen to the four-
When the bells began to jingle-
as the old gent came thru the door.

A "dapper" chap with a bowler hat-
a three piece suit, to look his best-
And when he turned, you could see it--
a watch fob, draped across his vest.

With a pale and wrinkled fist
in his hand, he firmly grasped-
A black, and polished "walking stick",
which added to his class.


He stood there as if frozen,
poised upon the floor-
As his eyes perused the displays,
neatly placed throughout the store.

"Gentlemen, I would like to see,
your "time pieces" of variety-
Pocket watches, by which they're known,
and since a child, I've always owned."

From his accent, he was English-
with a bit of Scottish brogue-
Perhaps, here on a visit-
or on a trip around the globe.

"Allow me sir," the clerk replied-
to show you all our stock-
Some pieces are rather old and rare-
and kept under key and lock."

He laid his hat atop a case-
and propped the stick against a wall-
Then began an examination
of those "time pieces", one, and all.

The mantle clocks began to chime-
and a cuckoo came alive-
The old gent seemed astonished-
that his "time piece" noted "five."

"Gentlemen, I must apologize",
showing a little red upon his face,
"But, I'll be back on the 'morrow'
to this fascinating place."

With hat in hand, he placed it-
hiding hair of solid gray-
Then doffed his hat, and smiling-
stepped through the door and walked away.


At closing time, they still weren’t through-
for they all had a job to do-
They had to clean the entire shop-
and each had a choice, broom, or mop?

Shades were drawn across the doors-
as each began their chosen chores,
When one called out, in a voice so thick-
“that old gent forgot his stick!”

There it was, the "stick", often called a "cane",
for their use is much the same-
Standing *****, against the wall,
with a shaft, a half inch thick, and thirty-six tall

But, it was the "hilt", the handle,
also called a "haft”-
That was the perfect compliment
to that "straight and perfect" shaft.

It glistened, and reflected-
and a joy to behold-
For that haft was fashioned
in 18 karat gold.

Oh, it was beautiful, don't you see-
from a pharaoh's treasure, it could be-
How could such a piece be left behind,
a piece so intricately designed?

On many accessories of it's kind-
there is a space, that is designed,
Either on the top, or on the side-
to which a name can be applied.

Ah yes, a person, perhaps someone of fame-
for in old fashion, style, and script,
Was etched the name of
"Noah Zane."

The cane was wrapped in  jeweler's cloth,
and placed inside the safe-
For the "old gent" would be returning
to this "fascinating place."

With a sigh, I have to tell you,
tho' sad, but it's a fact-
That "old gent" who had the stick-
he never did come back!

Shops of like were "queried"
both jewelery and the pawn-
And neither hint, nor clue was found-
for that "old gent" was gone.

So, what has come of the "stick",
or "cane" you wish to call?
I'm sitting here looking at it-
for its mounted on my wall.

(Thanks folks, for your patience)
copyright-richard riddle- April 15, 2014