By CD Richards
I've no idea what brought us here
or how it all began.
It's rather glum, what we've become--
I'm not a massive fan.
It's sad to say we've lost our way
and don't know where we are.
Through many years and countless tears
we've not come very far.
Just when did need turn into greed
and so begin the rot?
Perhaps our curse is nothing worse
than "I want what you've got".
We once gave rest to the oppressed
and didn't call them names.
Will fighting cease when men of peace
are not shot down in flames?
Remember when we both were ten,
our dispositions mild?
Divergent views were hardly news
and didn't drive us wild.
No tribal fuss, no "them and us"
on peaceful school bus runs.
How time has flown. Now we have "grown",
exchanging toys for guns.
When folk are sad or feeling mad--
unhappy with their lot;
to find release, they'll grab their "piece"
and shoot you on the spot.
I'm over all the noisy gall
of loud and angry men.
So, to my shed, I've upped and fled--
a safe and cosy den.
I'll work with wood, make something good,
some highly useful thing.
A lifted weight, to contemplate
the smile that it will bring.
The joy of craft will drown the daft
and repetitious noise.
A bird house for my lovely spouse,
a train set for our boys.
Of human ills, I've had my fill;
I'm hiding from this hell.
It's time to play "crab for a day"--
a hermit in his shell.
When I emerge, if on the verge
of doom, our world is stood...
my cave I'll seek, therein to wreak
stern vengeance on some wood.
| Author Notes |
Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes | Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
Photo by Nur Andi Ravsanjani Gusma from Pexels (modified cropping and colour by author).
Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes | Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
I can hear the mothers' anguished calls,
responding to the mournful cries
of the children they will never see again.
I can smell the rotting flesh
on which the blowflies feed
in the blistering sun...
the carcases of those suffocated or crushed
before they reached their destination.
I can remember the feel
of what used to be someone's skin
as, in the summer heat,
it would stick to my own,
while I watched
a nature documentary on TV.
I can recall the taste of warm blood,
and find it hard to believe
I used to relish it,
like some ghoulish vampire.
I can see the cattle grazing
on the green grass of the field next door.
None of them will survive
more than a couple of years
of the decades nature intended for them.
Short years, full of misery
unseen and unimagined
by those who first encounter them
shrink-wrapped on foam trays.
I see them, and I want to say,
"I'm sorry".
Sorry that it took me so long to understand.
Sorry that it took me so long to care.
| Author Notes | If you got this far, thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
Carpe diem. Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
By CD Richards
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
Ulysses: The Ulysses butterfly, also known as the Mountain Blue butterfly, found in Northern Queensland, Australia.
Callistemon: An Australian shrub, commonly called Bottlebrush, for obvious reasons. With apologies to George Gershwin. Photo by Julie (https://www.flickr.com/photos/these_are_julies_pics/4557770364/), used unaltered under Creative Commons 2.0 licence: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/legalcode Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
Image by trajaner from Pixabay
Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
As thunder growls and lightning rends the sky,
within the house, the boy is safe and warm.
Then, at the door, a whimpered, mournful cry,
a small black dog seeks shelter from the storm.
For many years, together they will stay;
through thick and thin, remaining best of friends—
but canine lives are short, and one bleak day,
the boy is left alone, the friendship ends.
Some decades later, looking back on life,
an ageing man has little to regret;
but mourns the fact that neither friends nor wife
could fill the void left by his childhood pet.
There, in the dark of night, he finds once more,
a small black dog stands scratching at his door.
| Author Notes |
After reading a wonderful poem about depression posted by Gloria, I decided, since it is mental health awareness month, to do one on the same topic. Mine is a lot less eloquent, but it's meaningful to me.
The term "black dog" has been used as a metaphor for depression for a very long time. Many know that Churchill used it with reference to his own state of mind on occasions, but it was used as long ago as the late 1700s by the English essayist Samuel Johnson, and before that, possibly by the Roman poet Horace, before the birth of Jesus (though this is sometimes disputed as a poor translation). This poem is dedicated to Whiskey, Ebony, Misty and Bella -- the four black dogs in my life (so far) -- you are all loved more than you can know. Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
On Mount Olympus, Zeus's son
prepares his brutal wars to wage.
While Shaddai, Lord of Kingdom Come
shall blot his foes from ev'ry page.
As Allah bids the faithful fight
and through each jihad honour him,
see Ares motion with delight
to Horus, at the party grim.
While down below, for all they're worth,
men kill and maim those not like them;
for xenophobes were blighting Earth
before God came to Bethlehem.
So, in a holy name, we seek
to spread our own myopic views.
We kill the brave, enslave the weak,
then watch it on the nightly news.
Perhaps some folk may dare to dream
one day will dawn a shining light
that sees all humans on one team,
unburdened by the need to fight;
but I suspect it could well be
the Jester has the final word...
for life on Earth and fantasy,
in equal measure, are absurd.
| Author Notes | Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
Photo: Curt Smith from Bellevue, WA, USA [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)] Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
A perfect bloom's a fragrant, thornless rose
Beloved, the mind that does not harbour spite
Consider fields of corn, devoid of rust
Does peace erupt if no one's there to fight?
Enjoying life with less, our burden's light
| Author Notes |
Photo by Julian Paolo Dayag from Pexels.
Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
It was revealed today that the Vatican finance minister, Cardinal George Pell, has been convicted on five charges related to the sexual abuse of children, including sexual penetration.
Equally as bad as the widespread abuse of innocents by clergy is the constant denial and cover up, by the Catholic Church in particular. Is it any wonder people are leaving organised religion in droves? These are the people who stand in the pulpits of their tax-free citadels and decry the apostasy of society, demanding repentance from those whose "sins", if any, pale into insignificance beside their own. Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
Just as a flag can't fly without its pole
A furnace serves no purpose without coal
You are the one, my source of light and heat
No one but you can make my life complete
Each half of "us" contributes to the whole
| Author Notes |
Please note:
This poem is not an endorsement of fossil fuels! From Wikipedia: Two's complement is the way most computers represent positive or negative integers. To get the two's complement negative notation of an integer, you write out the number in binary. You then invert the digits, and add one to the result. This poem has nothing to do with computers or mathematics. Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes | Thanks for reading |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes | Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
I sat down to write an entry for the nonet contest. This came out, but I didn't feel it was appropriate for a contest entry; so I'll do another one - maybe :)
Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
Your dove-like eyes, so innocent and wide,
will sparkle, as upon them daylight plays.
Their purity and innocence help hide
the fact that they are pointing diff'rent ways.
Your hair is like a flock of roaming goats
atop the hill, they graze without a sound.
The wayfarer who passes by, soon notes
a strong perfume of wild oats all around.
Your teeth resemble freshly shorn sheep, who
are happy in their new, denuded state.
Of course, they're mostly chipped and broken, too;
just like a shattered piece of China plate.
Your lips are like a finely structured thread,
upon them, any man would wish to feed.
They look a treat when painted ruby red,
I'll leave it up to Freud how to proceed.
Your temples are a tower, tall and straight;
a fortress safe and sound, secure and strong.
Yes, surely, none so fine could e'er relate
to wicked men, who'd do another wrong.
Your breasts are like a pair of fawns, sent out
to play and frolic in the gentle breeze.
When gales arrive, they swing and sway about,
and when you stand, they hang down by your knees.
My gift to you, this love verse I have writ;
in style that's Biblical and oh, so quaint.
I hope it's not a pile of steaming dung;
one thing's for sure, my friend—Shakespeare, it ain't!
| Author Notes |
Inspired by Song of Solomon, Chapter 4.
This was going to be my entry in the Love Poem contest, but I discovered when I went to post, I had posted one months ago. Too bad, I'm sure this was a guaranteed winner with all true romantics ;-) Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
The headlong rush of moth to candle's flame
is understood by very few but he.
A fly, entrapped within the spider's game,
will come to rue his loss of liberty.
Why is it that we seldom can foretell
the sad conclusion of our errant ways?
Do pheromones control us with their smell,
ensnaring us within a perfumed haze?
No longer does the scent of you hold fast
the chains which bound my once impulsive heart.
These insubstantial dreams must now be cast
aside—there'll be no tears as I depart.
Watch as this moth evades the deadly light
and fades into the refuge of the night.
| Author Notes |
Thanks for reading.
|
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
Thanks for reading.
|
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
Image: public domain, sourced from pixabay.com
Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes | Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
I can't imagine going back in time
to live life as I did when I was young;
when failing to comply was called a crime
and blind obedience's praises sung.
Yet, some folk seem to need a guiding hand—
a father figure, showing them the way;
what's right or wrong, they cannot understand,
unless inscribed divinely onto clay.
Is forming one's own judgements mortal sin?
Don't brains exist so we can work it out?
A child needs their behaviours pencilled in;
an adult's one who's learned to deal with doubt.
Some Biblical advice for one who clings:
"When I grew up, I gave up childish things."
| Author Notes |
There is a much thrown-about argument in apologetics that basically says if one doesn't believe in an almighty being who dictates what is right and wrong, it's impossible to have a moral compass. Another way this belief is presented is that the non-believer is like a rudderless ship, thrashing about in stormy seas, with no sense of direction.
This is a nonsensical argument, and my little poem is a response to that claim. Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
Faith is belief without evidence. Where there is evidence, faith is not required. I've often seen the material in mountains relocated thanks to explosives, but never once due to faith.
Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
"Trump him now!" my brain commanded, when he played the Ace.
Ace just wasn't good enough; my Joker took the trick.
"Trick me once," my foe exclaimed, "but now you're out of time."
"Time to show you how it's done; you upstarts make me sick!"
"Sick of winning? Not a chance! Let's play another hand."
"Hand them over," I continued, "seems you're in a slump."
"Slump, my ass," he coldly glowered; this no-talent hack.
Hack — the word brought me full-circle, right on back to Trump.
| Author Notes |
Trochaic meter, 13 syllables per line.
For anyone who may be wondering, the game is 500, which is quite similar to euchre. The Joker is the highest card in the trump suit. Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
| Author Notes |
There are three main forms of symbiotic relationships:
mutualism: where both organisms benefit; commensalism: where one benefits, while the other is neither helped nor harmed; and parasitism: where one organism gains, and the other suffers. Where do we stand? Thanks for reading. |
By CD Richards
How could we know this tiny, gorgeous pup,
a cheeky mass of gangly legs and ears,
would be a source of joy as she grew up,
and bring us so much pleasure through the years?
Why should our silly expectations sway
you from the better knowledge in your head?
The sheep were left to go their merry way,
it's more fun rounding chickens up instead.
Your pump was strong, the vet said, to the end,
but human ones are weak and prone to blight.
The loss of you, our loved one and our friend,
has torn our fragile hearts in two tonight.
Dear Misty, "Thank you" can't begin to say
the happiness you brought to us each day.
| Author Notes | Misty had been bravely enduring a failing respiratory system for several months. Last night, she lost the fight. My heart is broken. Thanks for reading. |
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