4 generations of Ridley Rhymes

One of the great joys of being a father is to watch your child germinate and sprout their talents before your very eyes. My grandfather was a poet; my father and my mother were poets and I have been waiting with baited breath to see whom if any of my 4 children might receive the blessing of the muse gods and to see if three generations of Ridleys would add a 4th. After almost 25 years in suspense, my youngest son Richard Patrick Ridley aka Ricky an artist in his own right at 14 came through. With his permission his poem follows as does my poetic response. Hope you enjoy and are surving the chaos of the malls.

The Amazing Delights of the Back Bay Sights
Oh, Queen
There are many delights to be seen
Here at the Back Bay
Where everything is so green and gay.

Even the plants seem to be in complete bliss
They seem to think that no problems exist
As they simply wobble in the delicate air
And absorb the sunlight without any thought of despair.

And the wind rustles
As the animals bustle
While the hares scurry looking for food
And the birds sit still protecting their brood.

The river is to the critters is a merry ball
Where they all flock and sound their wondrous calls
Yet the river flows slowly
And the sun shines on it glowingly

The result is a beautiful fusion
Of various colors which may look like an illusion
As a result of the wondrous hues
And the majestic blues

Oh how I wish London was like this place
Full of beauty and grace
Yet it is a city without many delights
And can never compete with these amazing sights
© Richard P. Ridley
2009

Next in Line
He came into the world, the last, almost to escape the Bastille womb,
Fates conspired to be a day late but weeks' early into an IC room
With a bookend of names of an artist and an Alaskan muse,
The bones and tea leaves told me we could not lose
Maybe names a future do not even come close to predict,
The genes march out to often alter or interdict.
Waiting and wondering would he be one or would he be both,
But always in amaze at his progress and growth.
Just when it seemed the muse would not sprout,
And the art gods of paint gods would win the bout
Right behind a sketch that would make one grandfather beam,
A poem to fulfill his father’s life long dream
Now four generations spanning across the bridges of time,
The youngest now showing that he, too, can rhyme.
© Michael P. Ridley 12/11/09