Steven's Poetry/Writing: April 2003 Archives

Untitled--part of a sequence

Is it okay to wonder what You were
about when You took her away from us?
Can we ask why? It's better than crying
and finding no end of fault with doctors
who could not keep her here. And look how much
good there is still, maybe by her constant
prayers. As much as I sorrow that she
cannot see the son You won for me; still
she can see, the Son you won for us all.
But I cannot honestly say that I
don't want her back to be a grandmother
just for a while, just a moment--just now.

© 2003 Steven Riddle

Modern Coffee House--Written In Situ

I see myself in the humid
smoky dark of a 1950s coffeehouse
with a demitasse on a cracked
plate that no chinamaker
would ever call a saucer,
sipping the dusky brew and
listening with maybe a gentle
tap of pen on paper as the poet
beats out wave after wave
of anguish, disgust, anger.
Flash to reality--and I'm
here at McDonald's with a mess
of undigestable, most half-eaten
ends and fringes of things,
picking up more trash than any one
human could produce (but much less
than the average child's quota)
waiting for my boy to go down
the pink slide. And you know,
the thought of the one is so much better,
but the reality of the pink slide--unbeatable.

© 2003 Steven Riddle

On Your Birthday
I remember
and I know your
other sons miss
you like an arm
or an eye and
wish you were here
with our sons and
our families.
It's okay, you're
there where all is
made better by
your prayers. So--
pray for us O
mama, keep us
in mind as you
glory in His
presence. We'll be
there soon enough.
We all love you.

© 2003 Steven Riddle

Inspired by the Holy Father, I type these much-less-worthy works. But we all work in our own ways.

Ten Views from a Summer Boat

Moonlight on the stream's
inky surface, whitewash waves
ripple toward the shore.

Mosquito harbor
the wooden boat
alone, broken ripples

The slap, slap,
slap waves
that have not
found their way

Where are you
in the flickering
night? Where now?

Rope trailing
weeds in water,
underneath all.

Even at night
even on water
shadows of shadows
whiteness worn to silver.

Wave
water and wood,
the gentle slip of oars.
Where are we?

Candle-gathered unknown
spirits, paper boats
from chrysanthemum night
suddenly spring dive
in the memory of the river.

It is said the poet drunk
reached out to embrace the moon
and found himself
wed to darkness
as how could he not?

Water washes reeds in still
slow eddies
In pools so quiet they
have the
memory of ages, water so deep
it bleeds.

© 2003 Steven Riddle