alaskan poet

Thanksgiving Day Wish

2011-11-22T15:31:00.000-08:00

In less than 48 hours we will celebrate Thanksgiving, admidst total rancor of Blue and Red and the apparent failure of the SuperCommittee to reach a deal. Sadly these are issues beyond our control today; but sharing with friends and family are and a sense of gratitude to the bounty we and this nation have are. My Thanksgiving wish to all

Thanksgiving Wish
May the Autumn leaves in pastel beauty fall ever so slowly to the ground
Almost like a Pageant of the Masters--beauty in awe, knowing no bounds
To gently form on a windless day multicolored mounds
Where the sound of sated friends and family is the only sound
Where the main scent is turkey waiting to be carved
To a waiting group trying to pass off as being starved
No matter the chaos and the troubles this nation sadly faces
Look around the table and we seem to be still in God’s graces.
If today we are all Pilgrims cinching up belts and knowing why from Europe fled
There is no earthly force we cannot overcome, that we should ever dread
© Michael P. Ridley aka the Alaskanpoet 2011

911 REMBRANCE NYFD

2011-09-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

As we approach the 10th Anniversary of 911, it is only fitting and proper to post a tribute to the brave members of the the NYCFD. One of the iconic photos of that tragic day is that of John Kekoe heading up the stairwell with a stream of terrified innocents heading down, his helmet bearing the number 28, his ladder company. Fortunately he survived. Sadly 343 of his fellow firemen did not. In their honor and tribute:
Helmet 28

His helmet bears a 28 burdened by 100 pounds of gear heading up a panic flight of stairs.
At 20 floors, his eyes are framed in soot and ash, a deer in a hunter’s headlight stare.
Outnumbered by a cascade of office horror in downward panic flight.
Most men would have tired, been brushed away, but not with a 5 alarm inferno to fight.
Was it the training, or the inner steel of the highest of all noble human traits?
To not abandon crew and total strangers to a searing, deadly fate.
Not since Operation Typhoon, have we seen planes driven at targets to explode,
Even then, only against warriors— who among us could ever fathom such a Bushido Code?
A micro globe of innocents whose sin was to be at work, bathed in high octane flames,
Desert sand chrysantimums hijacking a one way ticket passenger laden plane.
How could he or would we ever have the courage to put ourselves in harm’s way,
Climbing 8 more floors in smoke, until at 28, the building rumbled and began to sway?
As a parent most of us to a man would with relish sacrifice all to save his child,
Or to protect a spouse faced with mortal dangers running near and wild.
But these were strangers, not neighbors, kin or friends, but with his life and limb in doubt,
What courage to continue climbing burdened down and fight the urge to flee and get out.
It is said that true heroes in combat are those not in photos or who never make it home for the victory parade,
Now joined by 343 resting eternally in fields far and near within the memories of the living, never to fade.
28 could have stopped then and there at 20 floors and put himself out of danger of deadly harm,
But like true heroes, no fireman will turn tail and run from the pleading of five alarms.
Those who do not know us, say America is a soft land with heroes too few and too far between,
At their peril, if they ever forget the image of 28 trudging up the stairs into danger’s mortal scene.
If the helmet was any number from ladder 1 to 176 frozen in that famous photo frame,
The courage to climb into harm’s way to save a stranger’s life and not flee would be exactly the same,
Whether there is an eternal heaven or an eternal flame, one will never know for sure,
Or whether to avoid the fires, one’s spirit must be helping, noble and pure,
If there is, be assured 343 firemen of NYFD will hose down daily the streets of paradise,
Sweeping into the gutters of hell those who would in the name of God cause the innocents’ early demise.
If there is, it is certain that after 911, no NYFD member would ever be admitted into hell,
For too quickly on earth the brimstone sermons would end, as the Devil’s damning fires they would quickly quell.
Michael P. Ridley aka The Alaskanpoet
© December 30, 2005

Ricky at 16

2011-07-15T14:27:00.000-07:00

On July 15, my youngest son Ricky previously introduced in the poem Ricky Long Lance turns 16. In fact he left the midnight showing of the latest Harry Potter movie about the very moment he came into this world 16 years ago. A proud father am I and of all my children I believe he will carry on as a 4th generation poet, if he only starts texting less.

RICKY AT 16

It may be a parent’s nightmare to see this age,
In only two more it’s time to leave the nest and head for the ivy stage
After all those nights of stories read
To a young son with lids drooping, fighting bed
The seeds of knowledge have spouted, seeking always to rise
To a proud father it does not come as a surprise
That is the bright side of the 16 candles,
Easy to applaud and cheers to handle
He’s been taught well and knows how to learn
But as the texting fury sparks are the bridges burned?
Phones are the things of the past
Text only, short, sweet, and make it fast
Thumbs and fingers fly and bits project
While Dad’s sore joints such movements reject
Before we worried only that after that first drive,
No way one’s low insurance rates would survive
But in California if you drive, text you may not
Maybe a lining as a father will get phone time long sought
The jury is still out in fact not even convened
But on your future path the lights should always be green
As you move forward texting in hand on your many quests
Meeting and passing with ease all of life’s little tests
One wish from a proud father who wishes for less texting and more time
Irish gods be with you and never, never lose your precious gift of rhyme!

Michael P. Ridley aka The Alaskanpoet
(c) July 15, 2011

D-Day at 67

2011-06-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

67 years ago in the early morning hours of June 6 after a weather delay members of the 82nd and 101st Airborne were jumping out of planes scattered all over Normandy while 5000 ships were on a seasick inducing ride to five beaches in Normandy--Utah,Omaha, Sword, Juno and Gold to begin the assualt on the Atlantic Wall. One's bucket list should include a trip to the beaches of Normandy, Pointe du Hoc and the American Cemetary. As a student in France, in great shape in 1966 I visited those beaches...it is hard to imagine the courage of those GIs wet cold miserable watching their comrades being shot all around them who on that day breached the Atlantic wall. While the Great Generation still lives in diminishing numbers honor them today in how you exercise your freedoms an installment of which was paid in blood.

D-DAY SUN HAS NOT SET
It has been 67 years since on a June day the Channel was once again breached
Both from the air in morning night and by thousands on heaving Higgins seeking the beach
Not a mere raid with more Canadian bodies to leave in bloody retreat
But five divisions to land at the Atlantic Wall as a final step in Hitler’s defeat
Our warriors are today in the last days of winter’s coming grip
Thick glasses, artificial joints, canes walking slowly to not fall or slip
The horror of all horrors to assault a well defended, waiting beach
Not knowing whether this would be the morning that the evening you would not reach
For over four years the Germans had the time to a deadly welcome prepare
A host of 88’s and “buzz saws” to hurl against khakis bare
Mines by the millions to rip the Higgins and gliders apart
Green seasick faces now climbing down the nets to depart
When the dust had cleared and fighting ended late, late at night
Almost 5,000 young men were laid low by the Dark Boatman’s fatal bite.
Never again no matter what is mankind’s military course
Will we ever see such a gathering of men and armada force
But heroes we will as a nation continue to breed!
Forces of terror should listen and so take heed!
The genes that climbed the Pointe du Hoc’s vertical cliffs
Or Dutch Cota armed with a cigar giving his troops a lift
Or the All Americans landing in Ste. Mere Eglise spires
Or the destroyers almost ashore point blank at the pill boxes fire
Still run deep in the generations from those warriors of June 6, 1944
Joined now by women and all with courage and brains to settle any score
We have been blessed with the warriors and heroes of that day
The forces of evil in Europe finally stopped and held at bay
More so we are still blessed that their spirits still live
In the hearts of those in uniform today a final sacrifice prepared to give
The Sun on the British Empire may after many years now daily sets
But on those forces against the evil terrors, the shadows are nowhere near yet. (c) June 5, 2011
Michael P. Ridley aka The Alaskanpoet

Ricky the Long Lance

2011-05-01T18:55:00.000-07:00

Being a father watching a son swim at a high school swim meet is a daunting task. In the water with caps on everyone looks the same, and no matter how hard you cheer it is doubtful if the swimmers can hear you ( I know that because in the 500 yard free, they ring a bell on the last 50 yards water level with the lead swimmer). Last week I had the great pleasure of watching my youngest son Richard Patrick enter for the first time the 100 yard butterfly and just smoke the competition. Quite a thrill and since the Alaskanpoet is a firm believer of the tradition of heralds this poem came to me. It is the least I can do for the hundreds of training miles swum in the early morning soaked in chlorine with no one watching and cheering. Great job son; the Ridley Turtle is surely fast!

RICKY LONG LANCE
At the start of World War II, the Japanese had a secret fish
A weapon in whose naval arsenal all would wish
It was called rightly so the Long Lance.
Our cruisers and destroyers never had a chance
Into the water with distance and blazing speed
The game changer all navies would need
Today the Long Lance lives again in human form
Among Sailors unleashed in a frothing storm
Not just propellers of kicking feet but also of strong, quick arms
Skimming across a pool so fast to raise all manner of alarm
Head not seen until half way across the pool
Woe to the opponent not from the Sailor school
A turtle in the marine world was given the chance to show another stroke
Never to look back, only to fly, across the water, a Long Lance uncloaked
One race is not a season, but your fly was to a father quite a thrill
A young son in first honing in on new records to kill.
Michael P. Ridley aka the Alaskanpoet (c) May 2, 2011

Rhymes on Newsworthy Times--Tornadoes

2011-04-28T21:37:00.000-07:00

The images out of the South are terrible, reminescent of the scarred, leveled wreckage of Hiroshima or Nagasaki--structures totally leveled and on the ground in little pieces. Unlike an earthquake that happens with no warning of the first tremor, a tornado must truly be a vision in the the gates of hell, a freight train in a full on rush howling to crush your home and suck up into a one way ticket to an early grave or riddle your body to shreds with debris moving at two hundred miles an hour. Hearts should go out to the victims but pride should go out to the survivors for they will rebuild and move on.

The South Will Rise Again

As humans we have erected the pyramids and built the Great Wall,
Add to that the Hanging Gardens and the Colossus of Rhodes standing tall,
With the Suez and Panama Canals, oceans we have linked
Hoover Dam, Golden Gate Bridge never a task from which we’ve shrinked
A pipeline to cross the arctic from Pt. Barrow to Valdez
A tunnel through the Channel to escape the waves and howling breeze
Our engineers seem not mortal but gods this earth to shape
From the ocean deep trenches to the lunar scape
Mother Nature has no choice but to yield
When we as humans put engineers and dollars into the field
Or does She? Did we count our chickens far too soon?
Images from Japan and our South of structures in total ruin
Our houses seem to have taken their blueprints from the pigs
As the lupine funnels blow, smashing all to pieces and into little twigs
It’s not a movie with popcorn to enjoy with your date
It is the black winds of hell knocking at your gate
Cars tossed into the heavens, roofs blown away
Crouching in the cellar, train coming right in your way
Mother Nature on a steroid windy rush, trumps any engineer
Any structure should its early demise, shake and fear.
Save one with so little protection it is almost a joke
Just a little force and it snaps and it broke
But not its heart and not its soul emerging from the structures dead
Already plans to restore and rebuild surging through its head
Parts of it may be Ground Zero, but the South will again rise
It may be bruised, battered and scarred but no demise
The US is a land of quakes, floods, volcanoes, fires, drought, blizzards and hurricanes
The only safe place is in your mind as Mother Nature may come but it will wane
But if I were in Tornado Alley my new home would not be the same
I might take the hint on how the howling funnels to try to tame
Build a home on cylinders to rise up to enjoy the view and sun
But would retract into the earth when the tornadoes had begun,
Or I would build my home into a hill of earth and concrete
The Winds of Fury I might then usually defeat
Or it becomes an RV on wheels with Doppler radar
To run fast from the winds spotted from afar
But whatever choice it might be, my life would go on
Blessing the ending of each night and the beginning of a new dawn

(c) April 28, 2011 Michael P. Ridley

Gutenberg Hares on Easter

2011-04-22T17:05:00.000-07:00

Easter is a great time of spritual and emotional renewal of faith, a time for families and a time for reflection. But it is also a time for children, Easter Egg hunts and the visit by that creature of myth, the Easter Bunny, leaving an Easter Basket instead of cookie crumbs and half finished glasses of milk. But chocolates are quickly eaten and eggs spoil rather quickly and books last forever. Imagine a world where the baskets were full of books and poetry....Imagine the Gutenberg Hare

The Easter Bunny and the Gutenberg Hare

During Easter week the Easter Bunnies are so busy, free time is very rare,
Picking chocolate eggs and rabbits, Easter grass and candies for children to share.
On Easter morn, hard to find a doorstep without the signs of an Easter Bunny there.
But in this chocolate kingdom, a new suggestion voiced from the Gutenberg Hare,
“Fellow rabbits I do not want to break tradition,
Never accuse me of treason or sedition,
We all bring the joy of Easter in a long anticipated rendition,
But in your sweet baskets perhaps a small welcome addition?”
Now rabbits may squeak but they rarely complain or moan,
Yet from the twitching tails and noses came a collective complaining tone,
“Our baskets are overloaded; handles already cut through to the bone,
Any addition would be too much weight to carry alone!”
The Gutenberg Hare slowly raised his paw above the rabbits’ complaining din,
Even though a gentle, studious hare, this was a dispute he must win,
For the joy of Easter should not be only a chocolate web to spin.
Slowly he bent over into an open, non candied laden bin.
He lifted and put into his Easter basket a book every child would want to read,
“Friend rabbits, chocolate is divine; on it children will always draw a bead,
But to leave a good book to read
Is like a farmer planting the seeds,
Of morals, thoughts, fables, or heroes to do good deeds,
Teachings and lessons to show the way or teach how to lead.
Lucky is the child, who has a large chocolate to savor and not waste,
While reading a book for sweet knowledge is also a long lasting taste.”
And so with a voice vote that closed the friendly debate,
For no rabbit on Easter morn wished to be late,
To the lucky houses chocolates and candy baskets left on porch or stair,
Followed by a basket of books left by a Gutenberg Hare.

Michael P. Ridley
© 3/24/2005

A Bucket to Empty

2011-04-19T18:08:00.001-07:00

It never ceases to amaze me how many people have never seen the wonder of Alaska. I have given up trying to know if there is global warming such that the bergs from Le Conte may never again come ashore at Sandy Beach at Mitkof Island be become my private playground of ice slides and forts. God help us if the glaciers ever become extinct. This poem came to me while talking to another member of the bar who was indicating that although she had never been to Alaska she was contemplating a trip. Hope you enjoy. another poem just posted on my other blog: www.alaskanpoetcommentator.blogspot.com and for those of you who enjoy brevity go to my twitter: www.twitter.com/alaskanpoet--always numerous 140 character iambic poems on news events of the day.

A Bucket to Empty

Listen to the Johnny Horton song
Time to empty the bucket before too long
If Gore was right, the glaciers we may not save
Even though John Muir is praying in his grave
Alaska is shedding its icy pelt
The glaciers are in an ever increasing melt
But it will remain North to the Future, the Great Land, the Last Frontier
Where Nature deals the smiles and awes and deals the pain and tears
It is the land where the pioneer spirit without question rules,
Lessons not found or no longer taught in any urban schools
Here no man is an island even if reachable only by sled or plane
And then only if the skies are not closed with snow, fog or numbing rain
Here when Nature causes general quarters alarms
We drop everything to try to save others from deadly harm
Be it a sinking seiner or a blizzard from the Arctic Gates of Hell
There are no spectators, we all answer the tolling of the bell
Even with TV, the Iditarod is more than just a race
It’s a historic symbol of how a disease was kept in place
Go see the glaciers as a bonus, a treasured treat
But even better yet will be all the open hands you will meet
Take a ferry through the Narrows and try to touch Green Rock
Watch the boats leaving to make a dent in the salmon stock
Stop in Petersburg the Alaskanpoet’s stomping ground
Kayak to Le Conte in nearby Frederick Sound
Watch the seagulls gather and hover as the fleet empties its holds
Dollars from the ocean, if men are brave, strong and always bold
Then pause at the Memorial and count the rows of silent plaques
Of those fisherman awash in waves and cold who until the end kept coming back
And know another muse, who after 50 years a pioneer, lies to upon the Narrows gaze
On the eternal stream of boats heading To The Westward to Icy Straits, and sheltered bays
The Northern Lights will never melt or their greenish dance abate
But no excuse for this trip to delay or,as a cardinal sin, never take.
Michael P. Ridley, aka the Alaskanpoet
(c) April 19, 2011

Winter Irish on St. Patrick's Day

2011-03-17T12:46:00.000-07:00

Top of the morning to all on this St. Patrick's Day 2011; hope all are enjoying themselves and avoiding the sacrilege of turning perfectly good Harps into green beer. What was once a very solemn religious holiday honoring the patron saint of Ireland has become the equivalent of Mardi Gras, Bacchanalia and Cinco DeMayo, and New Year's Eve rolled into one in terms of celebrations and parties. to be Irish one needs to be more than a button, a green shamrock, green shirt or dress. God may have invented whiskey to prevent the Irish from ruling the world but he also invented poetry to enable them to rule the hearts of the world. This Irish Alaskan Poet hopes you enjoy the following written on this St. Patrick's Day, 2011

WINTER IRISH

Like the summer patriots to men like Thomas Paine
To the colors in the warm rays and leaving in the cold and rain
The summer Irish on this day are flocking from near and afar
To the closest tavern, to the closest pub and to the closest bar.
Awash in green to down a pint or two of Guinness or Harps,
To listen to the wail of the pipes crisp and sharp,
Gathered not in church but around tables with friends
Bushmill shots until the wee hours finally end
Every lady is now a colleen
All are decked out in their finest green
For this day all are Irish that’s what the shamrock buttons say
As the day wears on most can barely stand only sway
The lines are not to mass but to the pubs into the street
Patiently waiting for the shots and suds to greet.
If one were to think back when the potatoes began to rot
Famine stalked the land, nary a crumb or potato to be bought
The Irish fled by the millions from that Emerald Isle
Human sardines in steerage across the ocean miles
To a land devoid of outstretched hands,
No ticker tape parades or marching bands
But signs in most windows “Dogs and Irish not allowed”
Bias rampant but onto these shores they continued to crowd
Today a button or green is not needed to one’s heritage to rejoice
For among us are the works of Yeats, Becket and Joyce
Or the works of Wilde, Shaw and Swift
When in the Dark Ages, who stopped civilization’s drift?
The Irish monks writing to preserve and to keep
Knowledge from sliding into the dark, dark deep
That’s why the Winter Irish should be held in awe
That’s why we toast Erin go Braugh!
Still for one day all should be Irish, today enjoy the “Gaelic Right Stuff”
For if you are lucky to be Irish, you are lucky enough.

Michael P. Ridley
(c) March 17, 2011

Ryan at 17

2011-03-16T22:09:00.000-07:00

St. Patrick's has always been special in the Ridley family from the 50's with my father painting a green stripe on the three block concrete main street in Petersburg, Alaska to the the O'Ridley O'Cooley O'My started by Tim and I in 1987.
More so than ever before since my son Ryan was born on that day. It has always been a Ridley tradition started by my grandfather for me to write a poem on a birthday. I hope you enjoy the following given to my son to celebrate his 17th birthday.

RYAN AT 17
What do you say or write to a man to in a year be?
Do you as a father extol the growth and maturity you see?
Or his fierce devotion to a water sport?
In the cold morning hours to his sleep abort
Football players may get all the women, all the fame
Put most swimmers into an envious shame.
But the swimmers in the morning cold must focus body and mind
Lap and lap nearing tranquility and leaving troubles far behind
To become part of the water and barely above the choppy waves
Kicking toward a win knowing what bursts to spend and what energy to save
Many a son lucky enough to be born on the day of the Pot o’ Gold
Knowing with the shamrocks they could put future efforts on hold
Not so this noble, handsome Irish son of the Brotherhood of the Fish
With the kind of mind, character and soul to handle what life will dish.
Ryan at 17 for the only time same birthday and age
Makes a father proud to see what he has written in his daily page.
It only seems like yesterday when a doctor with derby of green
After your mother in cramps could not pose and only lean
Brought you into this world on a full head of eager steam
On St. Patrick’s Day no less, blessed with your parents’ genes.
The future is a blank book as this father rejoices on this day
Enjoy the cake and candles and surpass the challenges that may come your way
If by chance after the morning swim you begin to shake and shiver
Join the 4th generation and add the muse to your expanding quiver
Michael P. Ridley
(c) March 17, 2011

Keep Our Guns Send Our Butter

2011-02-17T10:29:00.000-08:00

The news each day show a growing wave of chaos in the Middle East..from Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Yemen, Bahrain, and even Iran. We can only hold our breath to see how the chips will fall and whether the theocrats of fanaticism or whether the winds of freedom will take root. Will these be a move to a growing jihad or the first steps of democratic rule in societies almost fuedal and with respect to their treatment of women totally so. Lost in the smoke and stones is another lurking dragon seed waiting to sprout with all its havoc--rising price of food across the world but most prounounced in the third world to the tune of at least 1,000,000,000. Most nations in the era of UN cease fires and nuclear protectors face danger from within not from without, yet we continue to send the advanced toys of military conflict--tanks, F-16s, helicopters, to foreign military like Egypt in the hope of buying their allegiance. Read on for perhaps a better solution

Food Should Be The Weapon Of Choice

Napoleon knew that armies did not march with their feet.
Otherwise, even before Russia he would have seen defeat.
An army marches on its stomach and must be fed
Or the jaws of defeat will lie directly ahead.
Ideas of freedom from a tryant's draconian rule
May without warning cause people to pick up stones and lay down tools,
But those protests and strikes may be like a candle in the wind
Use of armed force, massive and deadly, the urges may quickly rescind
But a hunger which gnaws to the bone each and every day,
Weakens the mind and causes the body to totter and sway,
While the developed countries are obese and one's own rulers well fed--
That's an eternal flame of anger and protest we here should dread
God help us if prices take away the loaves of bread
Like Marie, all rulers may soon lose their heads
And into a vacuum, the rivers of revolt and unrest will flow
Years of feeding corn to cars will in the flames light up our woes
Silos now empty of grain we used to buy and store
Our farmers have cash but we should hear the coming roars
"Feed me! Feed me! Food now I cannot afford!"
What the hell I'll pick up the stone and sword!"
While people starve, we send to generals with false ribbons coating their chests
Not the hand-me-downs of arms but the upgraded and the very best
Enough tanks to rumble the ground and jets to cover the air,
While stomachs are grumbling and pantries stand empty and bare
We have spent billions on sent arms to keep the status quo
Doomed to failure, states now toppling like dominoes in a row.
If we replaced the feast of arms with platters of all manner of food to eat,
Maybe, just maybe, with full stomach, revolt at the world table will find no seat.
(c) February 17, 2011 Michael P Ridley a/k/a the Alaskan Poet

Valentine's Day 2011

2011-02-08T14:29:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day is almost here and soon the skies will be dark with Cupid's arrows to blot out the sun with spent feathers fluttering to the ground like a late snow storm. The pressure is on to find the perfect gift, a polaris free from fad or drift. Never fear if the Alaskan Poet can still hear the baying of the wolves and the rustle in the bushes of hungry bear, without fear of failure the perfect gift is suggested. Hope you and your Valentines enjoy along with daily 4 line iambic tweets on twitter.alaskanpoet.com

The Perfect Gift

Love is like a Noble gas that without warning fills the room
Or the flower that never wilts, always in perfect bloom
The laws of physics, love often refutes
No matter the objects, it seems never to dilute
No eyes, yet it always seems to see
No arms, yet it always lies alee
Surely no ears, yet it always seems to hear
Not just the sounds but also a lover’s inner fears.
And when it comes to the tactile sense
So very lasting, so very intense
With nary a twitch, nor slightest sniff
All manner of aromas it will easily sift
The future it may not always be quick to foretell
But a honed sixth sense within surely dwells
Like a nova it may burst into white hot flame
From gifts for passion to unleash and worries to tame
The roses, candles, chocolates, jewelry and cards
Soften up the heart for the moment of the bard
For roses wilt, candles burn, flicker and no longer light the room
Cards find the trash and chocolate no matter how fine is finally consumed
Not the roses are red and violets are blue
No, another melody of a different, warming hue,
No. the muse who in the soft quiet of the night
When of all the senses only love has any sight
And can hear the heart in rhythmic beat
And can feel the warm glow beneath the sheets
Leaves then the poem that will be the perfect gift
Up the highs, sooth the lows and mend a not too often rift
A poem of many stanzas tailored to one’s lover unique
And why with all the blessings no need to another ever seek
But a poem with a central rhythmic core
“You cause my heart to beat faster, my soul to soar
No matter the time, nor date of year
Each day with you has a Valentine to caress so dear.”
Michael P. Ridley
a/k/a the Alaskan Poet
February 8, 2011

Martin Luther King

2011-01-13T07:27:00.000-08:00

It is right and fitting that we honor Martin Luther King. The fears expressed by the Kerner Report that we were becoming two nations, one black and one white, to some large extent been eased through the work and dedication of Martin Luther King and his followers. Nonviolence as a means to overcome inequality and discrimination is truly a powerful force.
It seems that sadly we are still on the path of becoming two nations, one Red and one Blue and the chasm fueled by social media and the internet mean that chasm grows quicker, deeper, and wider at hyper speed. On his day this muse suggests listening to his "I have a dream" speech and resolve to discard the need to reach a conclusion in nanoseconds on your deemed opponent and replace it with the need to ponder, assess, gather and then after the passage of time, respond to the issue not attack the person. In symbolic terms remember purple is the sign of royalty or the trim worn by the Praetorian Guard and if you mix red and blue you get purple
Sadly Dion in "Abraham, Martin and John" was right--the good die young.

Martin Luther King, Jr

We honor all the warriors like Cincinnatus who left the plow to wield the sword,
But only the few—Christ, Gandhi, and King who bent the sword into the plow we should forever reward.
Each city has its faded, green, moldy statutes, swords held high of warriors on a bronze horse,
Or weathered markers of epic battles where for a moment the rivers of history turned course,
Too often, the monuments are flags and eternal head stones on well preserved lawns,
Row after row of young men in eternal rest, never to see again the morning dawn,
What of the battles not for gold, oil or lands to reclaim?
But rather for a simple seat on a bus to the work cramps tame
What of the battles not for resources or taxes to forcibly extract?
But rather for a simple seat at a counter instead a lunch shoved into a sack
What of the battles to claim minds and souls not by reason but by torch or by sword?
But rather for a simple seat in class with enough books for the learning train to board
What of the battles where human lemmings raised the bridge and widened the moat
But rather for a simple seat in a booth to pause, reflect and cast a vote
Wrong battles, wrong glory, wrong hell to honor, even if then for the right reasons
But rather a simple song to overcome without guns even if to the warriors seems near treason
Battles somewhat alike in innocence lost and civility left to bleed
But King’s nonviolence proved to be in the end more than a slender reed
Such a shame and such a waste to be taken from us far before his time
But even as his aides pointed from a balcony, something is far worse than such a crime.
God save us all if after so few years, we forget his deeds
Turn our backs, close our hearts and shed his creed.
If on his day we carry within our hearts an oral, beating monument to a dream,
Where only character, honor, and integrity will determine the members of a team,
We will have a chance to put more swords into the productive plows
More men to see the dawn, and the growth that their Creator has endowed.

Michael P. Ridley
© 1/11/2011

The Year In Review 2010

2010-12-29T22:21:00.000-08:00

Thank God our year is just about done, a lot of hardship and sadness and not much fun. But we are a hardy bunch and a fearless lot and this recession has taken its last and final shot. A wave of Reds in the House, and in the Senates a lot fewer Blues. Better at least for this year a President whose consensus skills finally grew. To each of you may your resolutions be sound and avance the cause of inner peace and may your efforts not quickly cease. And for the nation may Red into Blue be a purple blend; such that all of this partisanship comes to an end.

The Year in Review 2010

The year in review has become an almost sacred, annual rite
As much as an ageless Dick Clark counts down the seconds on a cold Times Square night
Photos and print by the score of the births, deaths and events
With the pundits and pollsters telling us all what they all meant
In terms of images 2010 was a banner year
From the Tarp billions that left us deep in arrears
To the BP spill spewing oil in torrents that would never end
To a World Cup into watching frenzy billions would send
To the misery count that seemed to run a full speed
Haitian earthquakes Pakistani floods, homeless and starving we tried to fill their needs
To the back room deals that enabled Obamacare to past
While millions outraged searching for paint and feather vowed it would not last
To the foreclosure never ending tidal wave
As GM rose up from its grave
Not since the release of the Pentagon tapes was so much laundry laid bare
As Wikileaks to the world our secrets did quickly share
We are almost out of the combat in Iraq
But failed to put the Iranian genie back in its sack
Like all years the Reaper was busy and the Catcher was caught
Haig’s attempts to stay in charge went for naught
Francis’s jockeys could no longer avoid their fate
Nielsen’s Airplane would not save him at the gate
After all these years, Horne’s golden voice was still
And the Byrd no longer roosts near Capitol Hill
John Wooden coached his last hoop through the net
With his Harley chopped Hopper glides into the fading sunset
Even with a thousand voices yelling “I’m Curtis” into the sky
Reaper fooled not; Tony it’s your time to be a thespian to the big Guy.
Maybe the muse should have followed in Yahoo's picks
Only those mentioned who received the most clicks
My list could go on but an old man is bumbling across the stage
The cries of an infant ready to start opening the new page
Hopefully in the New Year leaders who are more tolerant and sage
With a lot more purple and a lot less finger pointing rage.

(c) December 29, 2010
Michael P. Ridley aka The AlaskanPoet

Olive Crest Christmas

2010-12-21T14:44:00.000-08:00

Olive Crest is a great charity assisting abused and at risk children in Orange County California. Recently I was fortunate enough to attend a Christmas fund raiser for the faciility complete with a toy drive, admission and door prizes. Even in the depths of the recession, the event was well attended and a goodly amount of dollars raised. What follows is a poem I wrote on the event. Hope you enjoy it.

Olive Crest Christmas

Our wallets have survived Black Friday and Cyber Monday’s test,
But the season’s parties move forward without pause or any rest
The Christmas list seems to grow longer and time is running out
Tranquility is fading as the credit card balances begin to sprout
It seems we are judged by the number and expense of given gifts,
If our list is neither long nor worthy, our egos slowly drift.
As we race from mall to mall in deepening shopper rut
The most precious gift to give--our time and love is the first to be pared or cut
True, we do not have to cross moor and mountain and our choice is more than three
In the end, no matter the stress, something very soothing with packages beneath a tree
The malls are crowding, the parking spaces rare, and too many are somewhat rude
When we seek the Peace of the Season, the ads surround and always try to intrude
Here is a peaceful thought to soothe from an Alaskan bard
As one races off to the next function to greet and pass out cards,
In a 24/7 world we need to justify the admission cost
And the time from iPad and cell phone forever lost.
But here at this fundraiser for so little you can find the proverbial two birds
And for a couple of precious hours, escape the aimless shopping herd
To meet again old friends for memories to renew
To marvel and be thankful for how enduring friendships grew.
With a smile on one’s face, cleansed by a tranquil wave
Know that on this night some Peace you will most likely save
But what takes the cake and why this night wins hands down
It so easy--links back two thousand years to that thorny crown
We may not fill, but a child will not have to open a barren chest.
We should be honored to have the chance this night to help those at Olive Crest.

(c) Michael P. Ridley a/k/a the Alaskan Poet
December 6, 2010
A very Merry Christmas to all.

Christmas 2010

2010-12-21T06:05:00.000-08:00

Today is the shortest day of the year; symbolically the forces of darkness and evil hold court in full regalia for the last time as the Earth once again begins its tilt to the Sun and light and hope. Light banned by the shadows now comes back in a surging force to chase away the gloom of night. It may be fitting that Christmas is so close to the Winter Solstice and the beacon of the gift of Peace leading us out of the darkness. For a poet this is a special time of images and emotions and hope. May each of you have a most Merry Christmas with loved ones and family and may the gift of Peace be easy to find and cherish today and in the coming days and years.
test day of the year; symbolically the forces of darkness and evil hold court in f

Christmas 2010
We must be a rugged and hearty rebounding lot
Trying to avoid the gifting frenzy and not get caught
In the decorations in the stores from the eve of Halloween
To most media ads now being a sea of red and green
To the frenzy of Black Friday kicking off at 12:01
Hard to believe another Christmas season has again begun
Cyber Monday in hyper click just two days behind
Just need an app to escape the malls surging grind
The pull upon our wallets, we have slowly grown to expect
The impulse to use a card is so hard to keep in check
The online malls beckon-- just point and click
The world is a cart with so many choices to pick
Ever mindful of the greetings to be politically correct
Sherpas in the malls with heavy bags we trek
The lines become longer, the selection dims
Then in a flash a purchase of the expensive whim
The lists get longer and the time gets short
Slight joys to see the children waiting to visit Santa’s Court
The muses are scratching with worry their heads
Will we scrap the 12 days to sing of 12 months instead?
A simpler time and life is just not meant to be,
But the answer is not to get a bigger tree
Nor the credit card limit seek to raise
Seek the gift always in vogue, always in praise
Give the gift of peace and the gift of love and self
No matter how hard to find on any shopping shelf
Serenity projects calm, serenity projects peace
Giving self is so valued in our short term lease
Whether it is to forego the 24/7 lines
And with loved ones share more time
Or extend a helping hand and volunteer
Others are not so fortunate in this recession year
Never forget love makes the world go round and round
If it stops, our spec is just a globe of barren, fallow ground
The mind can live without the latest Nook or body without the latest dress
But the soul and heart often lost in the gifting blizzard need the Peace caress
This Christmas may Peace and Goodwill graft deep into your heart
Lasting gifts not found in malls or in any online e-commerce mart.

(c) Michael P. Ridley a/k/a the Alaskan Poet
December 21, 2010
http://alaskanpoet.blogspot.com
ull regalia for the last time as the Earth once again begins its tilt to the Sun and light and hope. It may be fitting that Christmas is so close to the Winter Solstice and the beacon of the gift of Peace leading us out of the darkness. For a poet this is a special time of images and emotions and hope. May each of you have a most Merry Christmas with loved ones and family and may the gift of Peace be easy to find and cherish today and in the coming days and years.

Elizabeth Edwards RIP

2010-12-08T10:14:00.000-08:00

The news today 12/08/2010 included the death of Elizabeth Edwards from a rampaging, virulent breast cancer. Here death was expected but not within the hours from the announcements yesterday of her condition. Death of a parent when children are still young is never a pretty sight and one can only pray for comfort for the children. Elizabeth did not roll up and await the boatman; she lived her life to the fullest while enduring the pain of an unfaithful husband who sired a child while they were still married (thank God we as a country were spared the pain as he failed in his quest for the Democratic nomination to run as Presdident in 2,000. A mother to the end and the reports of her death prompted this poem.

Elizabethan Painter
We are all born with a clean slate and plenty of paint
And brushes bold and brushes fine or faint
The scenes varied, vibrant but never cast in concrete
Victories painted today may be repainted as defeats
Scenes of virtue or scenes we paint to delete
The joys of marriage stolen by a cheat
The mural of life painted could be all we leave
Memories on a mental canvas as mourners come to grieve
There are many roles we can choose to play
Many paths to choose and how to weigh
But one choice that for all does not exist
No matter what we do, no matter how we resist
What final role to play as a brave woman in great pain
Stroking boldly to keep her emotions in reign
It is to be the role of mother to the very end
Look out for the children until the boatman comes to send
“If you believe you will never die
Raise your hand, raise it high”
She knew their hands had tons of weight
No way to escape our common fate
Today, the cans have been drained of paint
When the mural dries, images of strokes of saint
Even with death coming in a hyper rush
Right to the end she never dropped her brush
Hopefully her ex still has some drops of paint of better fiber and hue
To paint over the poor choices made that he must surely rue.
(c) Michael P. Ridley December 8, 2010

Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-23T10:33:00.000-08:00

This is a special time, a truly unique American holiday, filled with family and friends, football, platters of caloric corncopia and the residue of vestigal resolutions of this year only one serving of turkey. We have a lot to be grateful for as a nation as one war seems to be winding down and another seems to have a definite end date. True we may be frisked like common criminals trying to board a plane but at least we have a Presidential tradition of pardoning the Presidential turkey. Hope all of you have a lot to be grateful for (for me having 4 wonderful and awesome children tops the list, especially since one can write poetry to keep the string going at 4 generations) Missing only a trip to Rose Bowl by the Cardinal. Hope you enjoy the poem and try daily servings of 140 character 4 line poems on news events of interest on my twitter.com/alaskanpoet Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving 2010

How much is fact, how much myth ingrained in our national lore—
The first Thanksgiving on Plymouth's not so golden shores?
A boatload of Pilgrims driven not by gold or land on a one way trip
Too far north, too cold and in starvation's nearby grip
To on earth, find the peace to worship and to pray
Free of persecution they could not keep at bay.
One half gone, the rest on the slimmest of reeds
How to make it to planting without eating all your seeds?
You could not grab the cell phone and say I quit, I want to leave
As more grave sites gave cause to question why and to grieve
On a cold, spring day with only your faith to keep you warm
Imagine the fears, imagine the sense of alarm
When out of the woods an Abnaki brave did appear
Loss of all your dreams, the sum of all your fears.
If he could have seen the future, a spear perhaps thrown
A tidal wave of migration would soon be calling up his loan.
Instead, these Pilgrims received the skills to survive,
Until the next ship braving the stormy seas could arrive
From hunting to using dead fish for the soil to which plants to eat
Lessons taught by those whose future would soon be in full retreat.
How else could you give thanks when the harvest filled the cupboards bare
Than to reach out beyond your band with outstretched hand and share.
And so they did on the First Thanksgiving
Platters of food to push away any misgivings
Hard to find today a Native American in Newport Beach,
But over 400 years the events still teach.
Very simple, so hard to confuse
Two words, not separate but in fuse
You cannot give Thanks and expect your God to receive
Unless you also Give to others their misery to relieve.
In so doing no matter how much turkey eaten there will be no guilt
You've tried to sweep away the fences, tried to make the divisions wilt.

(c) Michael P. Ridley
November 23, 2010

Veterans' Day

2010-11-11T09:44:00.000-08:00

On this day we should honor those serving and those who have served and in our prayers hope the number decreases not. General Old Age is a poem on this blog that is one of my better ones which makes writing about Veterans' Day difficult. Be that as it may, this came to me this morning. Ironic, that the poppy which fuels the opium funds that enables Osama's legions to attack us was once the fund raising symbol on this day. God Bless America:

Veterans' Day 2010

Today instead of sale fags in the wind, flags should fly at half mast
Honoring the veterans now and those veterans throughout our past
The War to End All Wars in that role did completely fail
How many Americans after went down the Martian trail?
It may be that the human will always reach for the sword
And maybe discourse is a luxury we cannot or chose not to afford
But if we ask the veterans who were there
Ask or plead if the horrors they would share
Then maybe, just maybe if leaders are of sound mind
And leave emotions of revenge behind,
We on this crowded planet might have the slimmest chance,
To bring out and enjoy the plow or chip and stow the lance.
We must not fail, the atom stakes increase each day
Somehow, someway, we must hold the dogs of war at bay
If we fail to take note, to take heed,
We send thousands more to die or to bleed.
But that, sadly, may be the future; but on this day
Honor all those who served and went into harm's way!

Michael P. Ridley
(c) November 11, 2010

Orange County's Three Horsemen

2010-09-14T09:49:00.000-07:00

In the Apocalypse the Four Horsemen of war, famine, death and pestilence are unleashed upon mankind. In Orange County, like many counties struggling with unfunded public pension fund liab and high salaries and sinking tax revenues, the news today (9/14/2010) is troubling--three of our esteemed public officials reneged on their promise to take a 5% pay cut. Instead of Four Horsemen we should count our blessings to be set upon by only Three--War, Famine, and Pestilence. Death is not yet here and as long as more of us start drinking tea many never be unsealed. The following captures some of the outrage in reading the news.
The Three Horsemen
It is not as upsetting as the City Manager for Bell,
But the latest news should make our outrage swell.
We live in budgets awash in dripping red.
New jobless figures we await with fearful dread.
Our public pensions are like a bloated leech,
Sucking out any taxpayers' blood within their reach,
But no matter how deep into our pockets we may try to dig,
We may never, ever escape the chains of this fiscal brig.
Orange County has Three Horsemen we now must unseat--
Sunstrom, Guillory and the tax collector Street.
All county heads tightened their belts and took a 5 percent cut--
Not these three, they selfishly kept their wallets shut.
If these public "servants" were struggling at making ends meet,
Or like the rest of us staring financial ruin lapping upon our feet,
The outrage would be muted, for we are a forgiving kind,
But at six figures, their refusal only blows one's mind.
Our clock is ticking--the sands have almost left,
We taxpayers must rise up to end this sugared coated theft.
A public pension and higher immune salary is not a holy grail!
We are in this leaking boat together—time for Three Horsemen to help us bail!!!
Michael P. Ridley
© September 14, 2010

911 9th Anniversary

2010-09-11T06:38:00.000-07:00

On this day 9 years ago the citizens of this nation and 76 others were subjected to suicide attacks that killed more people than we lost at Pearl Harbor or Omaha Beach. What follows is a poem I wrote this morning. Preserving safety and preserving tolerance and first amendment freedoms is a tightrope balance maybe not even the Wallendas would wish to cross, but somehow this poet is convinced we are up to the task and the forces of evil will be relegated to the sewers of hell where they belong.
911 Images
The song "We are the world" comes to mind on this solemn day
As we come together not to pretend, but to really pray
In less than an hour the forces of evil sought to slay
Not just the GI's but any citizen that stood in their way
The ashes of fallen towers turned the horizon into a deadly gray
On their side, discourse and reason in total decay
To carry a briefcase or laptop should not make a worker a prey
Or to catch a plane to go home should not be a final price to pay
Citizens of 77 countries against their will thrown into the fray
New burdens accepted on our shoulder weigh
We mark a war of no boundaries, no quarter, but resolve may not stray.
It will never be easy, no piece of cake, no catch the bouquet
We must always hold the external forces of evil at bay
While our freedoms we can never betray
A clear message to those misguided seeking relief only 77 virgins can allay
You are pirates, parasites on humanity to be killed on this and every other day.
Michael P. Ridley
© 9/11/2010

Labor Day

2010-09-02T13:37:00.000-07:00

The Alaskan Poet has been way too busy completing North to Alaska--Islands of Stability in Seas of Change and tweeting at Alaskanpoet.com. Labor Day Weekend years ago was a time of great enjoyment--jobs were there and if not the loss was only temporary. Today may be different. this poet has no answers other than the chasm between Blue and Red has to end. Poem follows:

Labor Day 2010
It is the end of summer, the time for to gather and put the last burgers on the grill.
A day to honor labor and mark the faint beginnings of the autumn chills,
The next generation gathered around the barbecue
School to start, soon time to get what will be due
It is the kick off of the elections if we are so cursed
Of election years --I will do better my opponent worse
Always to honor what the American worker can achieve
And with the flags, barbecue and family what a nation we can weave
This year it may be different as too many of us are without jobs
The winds of misfortune our well being and future has robbed
The private sector numbers are a stream of jobs lost,
While our public sector grows no matter the cost.
After the last burger, the last beer,
The last end of summer cheer,
Maybe, just maybe, it is now time as we near the brink
To pick up another self reliant drink,
Tea may be the choice of our English friends
But here, maybe the greed of incumbents we can end.
Time for Red and Blue to merge
Term politicians we now will purge
Cut the public sector’s greedy take in our till,
Then maybe then today we can enjoy our last summer grill.
Michael P. Ridley © 2010

Viking Reunion Nights

2010-06-28T09:58:00.000-07:00

The Alaskan Poet leaves for a reunion, a true Viking in 1965 at CDA he also holds that cherished honorary membership of a Viking of PHS Class of 1965. Reunions can mean a lot of different things to graduates years after the notes have faded. To those of the class of 65, what a tidal wave of change was heading to us like a 9 Richter spawned tsunami. Fortunately, the waves receded and most of our class survived and prospered. If you are celebrating a 45th, hope you enjoy the poem even if not a Viking. Petersburg is a special place--a definite Bucket List to see---coming through Wrangell Narrows with the Devil's Thumb on the port and off in the distance, Le Conte's receding face and the beckoning of Frederick Sound, more so for the people that dwell there than the sights. Hail Vikings!

REUNION NIGHTS
We have all marched the Pomp and Circumstances trail
Tassels now turned, we all knew we would not fail
Each class knows that it alone is unique
Fame and fortune waiting for it to seek.
But in one year the sands were shifting in flooding tide
Taking all of us for at least a wild decade ride.
The Viking ships of old battled only currents and unknown fears
Sheltered by compass, strong arm, axe, sword and spear.
These later Vikings faced a chasm cultural shift,
All icons parted and were now in constant swirling drift.
Constant here to set the salmon net, haul in the halibut hook, fell the tree
Lower down, all was moving, compass shorn, tidal waves from an Asian sea.
Radar blips most likely false on a ship of Joy
Soon a generation offered to Mars to maim and destroy
Be you of the class of 65 or 70 when the end was almost near,
Our time was a far different chaotic set of years
The jungle claimed our bodies, the music changed our souls
The pill released us, but the highs took their toll
A tough time for a nation, a tough time for its youth
Where in shifting sands would one ever find the truth?
Lower away the cities burned, shots heard, flags stomped to the ground
A nation for many years torn apart, in chaos always unbound
Save maybe a few places where images of longboats never did fade
And to a neighbor on an island so easy to help or aid
Lots of fads, lots of a craze here and now and then past
In a Viking lore what might always last?
It’s not the car, not the job or anything else on short term lease,
Or any other pleasures we seek for short term release
No, it is the Viking creed spawned within on these island shores
That has lifted these classes to exceed, to always soar.
Judge not by race, color, creed, career, or looks
Rather how well a choker is set, web mended or a baited halibut hook
And the fact that one’s word is a Polaris in the cold arctic night
Count on me; I am here; I will always make it right.
For some so lucky the warm summer rays are just now beginning to fade
For others, the leaves are now turning color to fall, never to shade
Lastly, some of us feel the first hint of snow;
Fire waiting as we now reflect on what we did sow
But common to all as we move upon this life’s journey trail
Heads high, toasts through the mist, hail Vikings hail, hail Vikings hail.
© June 24, 2010 Michael P. Ridley

Fathers' Day

2010-06-18T15:49:00.000-07:00

I trust fathers will enjoy june 20, 2010, Fathers' Day and and children with fathers will be able to spend time with them either in person or by phone. I hope all enjoy this Fathers' Day poem.

Fathers’ Day 2010
In a world of morals like sands in perpetual shift
It’s usually the fathers who stop the moral drifts
The economic pillar fathers now thankfully share,
In these troubled times, it takes a working pair.
Men in whose ancient genes very deeply ingrained-
The need to stalk into the forests or hunt across the grassy plains,
Now with relish change the diapers, burp the child
A new sense of gentle in a world wanting to run wild.
Honor thy mother and father—a commandment to heed
Lasting words if the soul is to prosper and to succeed,
Now is compressed in a Day in May when Moms go first
Aisle upon aisle of gifts in never-ending burst.
In June we dads too have our day in the sun,
Praises from daughters or growing sons,
Some cards, a brunch, maybe treated, if lucky something other than a tie,
We beam and smile and our emotions surface and run high
A great Day but a small child said it best when asked to define
The difference between the two Days so close in time
So easy for a child the nuances to sift,
“Just like Mothers’ Day save we spend less on gifts.”
For those dads who have written the tuition checks
The month hosts graduation days no longer poverty to inject
Save those with their new ties, huge brunch, and cards
But high school seniors now with college needs to bombard.
© June 18, 2010
Michael P. Ridley

ACG Meanings on the Bay

2010-06-11T15:24:00.000-07:00

As a venture capital/corporate lawyer, I attend a lot of networking functions. Last night the Association for Corporate Growth, a really excellent organization, held its "Summer Bash" function at the Balboa Bay Club, but unlike of most functions, various entities including the Orange County Performing Art Center had tables to promote their offerings. Sarah and Christina were at their post. The following honors them and the arts they so ably assist and the other "C" all of us should likewise support.
ACG NIGHTS
In a world where hope has failed and gone berserk,
Too many of us are scratching for any kind of work.
There is still time next to the bay of stately yachts,
Moored like a High Seas Fleet, rarely used or for naught
For two women of grace to “man” a table for the arts,
No matter the aroma of fine foods, they would not depart.
Even in the summer as we feel the recession chill
Somehow, someway the venue seats you must fill.
For a county of color devoid of music, or drama only live on stage,
Is like a paper, no headlines, only the drab of an obituary page.
Pass out the cards, shake the hands—for the next deal always strive
But without art, even with wallets thick, the soul will never be alive.
In tough times in the Golden State, hard for the corporate "C" to subside,
But on this night, the culture "C" was nourished, strong as a Fundy tide.
© June 11, 2010
Michael P. Ridley

Chair to the Beach

2010-06-09T06:10:00.000-07:00

One of the great joys is life is the chance to aid a fellow human being without being asked. June 6 was such a day for the Alaskan poet. I ride ACCESS and had just spent most of Sunday not writing poetry but working in my office feeling sorry for myself and worried about missing the tip off to the Celtics/Laker game. After being picked up instead of heading straight home, the van had to go in the opposite direction to pick up another passenger, a person confined to a wheelchair, I suspect for all of her life. After picking her up and heading to my home near the beach, I learned she had never been to the beach. I suggested the driver use Seashore instead of Coast Highway so she could see the waves. She was so thrilled I suggested the driver go further past the turn to my house to a street where the bus could stop, she could be taken off in her chair and could be wheeled down a concrete ribbon to within 30 yards of the water. I waited in the van while she and the driver spent the next 15 minutes near the waves. I could feel the joy from the van 75 yards away. 20 years from now i will not rember the game, the tip off of which i missed, but I will remember her joy. I wrote the following poem at the end of the game.
Chair to the Beach

Ever since Lucy with brave heart came down from the trees,
Stood erect to view all on two legs one could see,
With strong legs and feet there is nothing we could not reach
From the highest mountain, to the most secluded beach.
But if in the lottery of birth, the legs were not there
Moving slowly only by the grace of a chair
Could you ever see the sight of waves breaking on the sand?
Chairs are not HUMVEES- they move only on flat land.
But if on a Sunday you could find a ribbon to the shore,
To watch the spirits feel the mist and not confined, to so soar,
A chair moving as close as the ribbon would permit
Watching the waves that will never end, never quit.
A joy and a smile a fathom wide,
So close to the incoming tide
Never accept as a given, the magic of God’s grace
Even if only a series of waves in a never ending race.
A game of Lakers, a game of Celtics have to recede,
The mist of ocean spray waters a helping seed.
All of us who are blessed with Lucy’s ambling traits,
Must extend a caring hand to those with a different fate.

© Michael P. Ridley
June 6, 2010

Memorial Day 2010 Musings

2010-05-28T06:04:00.000-07:00

Another Memorial Day Weekend is upon us, the start of summer, picnics, barbecuese days off from work and soon out of school. As we savor the steaks, ribs or hot dogs and maybe another cold beer, maybe this year as some of our citizens scour the dusty streets of Iraq, or the poppy hills and mountains of Afghanistan, peer at North Korea bent to nuclear self destruct, or sail the blue waters months on end to keep our borders secure, reflect on this day and honor each in his own way their memory and sacrifices and pray no new flags of active forces in the field will need to be folded to the bugle's mournful refrain:

Memorial Day Thoughts

After the last flag has been folded and the taps weeping fades from the air,
In a generation or so the drums begin to rattle, the trumpets begin to blare
The memories of the carnage and broken lives too soon in purge,
Another set of wrongs or thirst for power begins to emerge.
Even surrounded by two wide blue water moats
We too are often drawn to the Martian boats.
A new generation sent by white haired and balding men
Sent afar to pick up the gauntlet once again
No matter how many or how few into combat we would send,
The struggles had a beginning and finally a victory or truce to end
Marked by more plots and flags fluttering in the breeze
Costs of bringing another tyrant or foe to his knees
But now our soldiers face a most unwelcome test
In a war without lines drawn or that ever takes a rest
True, only a new flag folded here, a new flag folded there
Another prime life scarred here, another confined to a chair.
No sweeping battles, no headlines to report
Tours again and again, no longer can time be short.
The Greatest Generation crushed evil and most came back
This new band of Spartans is now under unending attack.
A thin new khaki line living and dieing by the sword
So we here have the chance to enjoy all of life’s rewards.
How do we honor on this Memorial Day our vets and forces in the field
While the barbecues smoked and sizzled and too few church bells pealed?
Maybe Miller’s final words whispered to Ryan in a movie scene.
Live a good life—all else cheapens their deeds, mocks what honor means
Live a good life—so when your short term lease finally comes due
A legacy of honor, honesty, helping hands, morals always true.

© May 28, 2010
Michael P. Ridley

young Spitz, young Phelps

2010-04-17T07:42:00.000-07:00

I am blessed with two sons, who having seen their father hobble with damaged knees from rugby have wisely eschewed football, rugby, or lacrosse and have taken up the sport of swimming. Their school is a powerhouse in swimming in Orange County; the season has just begun so as a father one has the joy of watching their hard work come to some fruition. Both are fast and getting faster---maybe some of the genes from Alaskan Poet who swam in Alaska during the summers when seining was on hold have taken hold. The following poem was written after watching the Sailors demolish a swim team from Los Alamitos. Hope you enjoy...also check out my almost daily tweets on my twitter account twitter.com/alaskanpoet

Sailors in the Pool
Navies own the oceans and the blue waters they do rule,
But in this Harbor, the Sailors own the pool
Blue clad Speedos coiled upon their blocks
Pool side torpedoes of awe and shock
Waiting for the whistle to launch and gravity to defy
For a moment then to break water churning on the fly.
Hours upon hours of swimming in the cold early morn,
Dreams of glory never die, always reborn
In a world shrinking so fast knowledge a day ago may be obsolete
Time measured in almost nano seconds of a touch pushed by kicking feet
Each stroke seems another rush to devolve
To an earlier age when gills would solve
The need to turn one’s head to inhale
On the surface the wake leaves a frothy trail
Speed is something not given but must be earned
Hours with no spectators through the waters churn
No matter the yells or applause or cheers
Only the sound of water rushing past one’s ear
Sailors in blue Speedos to conquer time and lane
Hard work and effort in fashion, never to wane.
© April 13, 2010
Michael P. Ridley

Is the Melting Pot Dead?

2010-03-09T11:16:00.000-08:00

All poets have a romantic bent, and sometime harken to a simpler, less rushed and more tranquil time. It is no wonder that the Alaskan Poet loves train travel, especially travel on Amtrak Sleepers. Instead of being ferried at 30,000 feet, unfed, unwelcome, cramped and violated after shoes and belt off and subjected to all manner of delay, one is up front viewing the land and having the ability to converse with fellow passengers either in the Parlor Car if fortunate enough to travel on the Coast Starlight or the Lounge Car on other trains. On the internet, computer plugged as close to the office and productivity as you chose to be. When one wishes to eat a full meal in a dining car, one is mixed with up to three total stangers for a reasonable great repast, served by people who are happy to see you and try as one might, one finds oneself in pleasureable conversation.
Coming back from a pilgrimage to Jack London Square, I found myself at a table with three women in their golden years chronologically but so full of energy and spark the room was lit. Moynahan was wrong; the Melting Pot still lives in this land, at least in Washington and the statehouses, of too much red and too much blue and so little purple. Hope you enjoy the poem this last trip engendered. 140 character poems are now on my twitter---alaskanpoet, added to almost daily please join my list of followers.

MELTING POT REVISITED

Maybe he was right and the melting pot has long congealed,
Save only when strangers gather at a common meal.
Water may be the universal solvent, just behind wine and beer,
We need our space and the images we wish to appear
The reptile mind stirs and a stranger means the walls must close,
Bristles to stay away, like the thorns upon a rose.
But food too is a wonder-- barriers to dissolve
Shedding of the fears and trusts to evolve
Four humans thrown onto a table in a dining car,
You cannot retreat, you cannot raise a snobby bar,
The track to the band around a fire to reverse,
So much to enjoy when airs drop and words converse.
It matters not the degree, age, looks, gender, or career
Only that strangers can pass an hour in laughter almost tears,
Drawn together on ribbons of steel,
A great way to spend a luncheon meal.
Michael P. Ridley
© February 21, 2010

Valeentine's Day

2010-02-04T16:27:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day is always a special day especially for a poet, floweres wilt, candy goes stale, perfume evaporates, and diamonds are either too small and never worn or too large and wipe out the credit cards. But a poem lasts foreever. Treat your valentine like every day is February 14th

CUPID

Can you believe the skill that puts a probe on Eros 190
million miles in space?
Or the GPS that finds you within an inch of any given place?
Yet, when it really counts, when love must do its part,
Cupid uses only a bow and arrow to find a romantic heart.

In a sea of missed encounters, how does a single arrow
find its mark?
There's no laser to guide it through the cold or cynic's dark.
Is it a shaft of graphite or a flowered or candied head?
Is it the bow or the strength of the archer instead?

Maybe the string when drawn back and the bow fully bent,
Guides Cupid's calling card that forces all to relent.
Maybe it's the alignment of the feathers
To push through all manner of nonromantic weather.

Actually, it is so simple and not really that profound.
What is needed to prevent the arrow from missing
and falling wasted upon the ground?
Only this, to make Cupid's arrow run swift, lasting and true,
Words meant and spoken, Valentine, I love only you.
(c) Michael P. Ridley February 14, 2001

4 generations of Ridley Rhymes

2009-12-18T17:11:00.000-08:00

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

Christmas Spirits

2009-12-15T17:03:00.000-08:00

This is a wonderful time of the year, more holiday gatherings and parties and time with friends, family and family than one could hope for; kids out of school or returning from college, lights, trees, and the inner glow that can only come from the gift of peace that this poet hopes all can receive and share. May the Christmas Spirit be with you always and my the magic of Santa Claus flow with each heart beat in each and every vein. Merry Christmas to all and Happy Holidays to all.
Christmas Beliefs

All of us come into this world unable to sit, stand, crawl, flush or talk,
Helpless, with only a blank sheet craving for all experiences to unlock,
We come into this world as a child and sadly many of us at the end so leave
And yet for many of us too quickly we lose the child’s skill to believe.
Slowly, but surely, as the child matures,
The childhood fantasies and tales not long endure.
The Easter Bunny who leaves the baskets at our door,
It is only a question of time when he will exist no more.
The tooth fairy fights the longest for no child will money forsake,
Leave a tooth under the pillow and dollars in to rake.
But the hardest loss to accept is that of Santa Claus,
The jolly bearded man with gifts all children hold in awe,
Look only to a child’s eye opening to a child’s forming soul,
Of changing fears and dreams laid on to innocent goals.
How hard to retain the excitement of the sound of reindeer hoofs
With the speed of light laden with gifts to touch down upon a roof.
With stockings empty and cookies left out last night
Now filled yet only crumbs—rubbing eyes so tired to catch a Santa sight
Eyes sparkling like searchlights in the dark running down the stairs
Cameras clicking, parents beaming, there is only magic in the air.
The spirit of giving, the sense of peace, the need to share
Whether the cupboard is full or the cupboard is bare.
Not just the presents in colored ribbons and wraps
But at least on this day, the gift of peace that will not lapse.
Sadly with TV, internet, and a wireless global room,
Laws of physics, peers and flight the spirit may entomb.
The rational side quickly, too quickly invades,
The childhood belief waivered and strayed.
Pushed by not the thoughts of peace to comfort and warm,
But the need to rescue the malls from the red inks’ harm.
But if one believes our adult frames transport of our soul with our minds,
A hope and thought on how the belief in Santa may never unwind,
It is to try to daily give more than to take, in order for more to receive.
The thread of giving, peace and goodwill to each day always weave
Life’s fabric through the spring, summer and the final frost,
With a Christmas spirit so woven will never be lost,
We will all hear the tinkle of sleigh bells in the night time air,
Ending another day of giving, another day we sought to share.

Michael P. Ridley
© December 15, 2009

Thanksgiving Spirits 2009

2009-11-24T05:55:00.000-08:00

Before the initial first signs of decorations and ads becoming a torrential flood and the anxiety of will there be a Black Friday in this recession year darken the skies like an impending thunderstorm, here's hoping that all of us have a momnet to pause and reflect and be grateful for what we have spiritually, physically and emotionally and our ties with friends and family and after so thanking, give of our selves. A very Happy Thanksgiving from the Alaskan Poet: Please feel free to share the following over Thanksgiving:
Thanksgiving 2009
Some Thanksgivings when the nation is way ahead of Friday black,
Dollars flowing and the cash registers chimes do not lack,
So easy to surround with the Thanksgiving portrait of dollars baste,
Family and friends waiting for the never ending taste
Of the bounties of a never ending, always expanding fruitful earth,
With caloric dances and appreciation in full on birth.
Grateful is so easy when it’s a chorus of seconds and thirds,
Only weighty concern is too many leftovers from such a massive bird,
And whether there will be enough time to relax and digest,
The last mincemeat pie and still put the dishes and kitchen to rest.
Like sailing a sloop in gentle seas with the wind a beam,
So easy to give thanks for another year of the American Dream.
If perchance the green leaves of profit past have left the accounts bare,
With the frost of foreclosures and the chills of layoffs now in the air,
The TARP spread with such hope to keep away the red rain,
May have now failed to protect those amber waves of grain.
Wonders of whether the Baby Boomers may have seen the high water mark,
Lights on the city on the hill now dimming slowly into the dark?
Or is it a time to cherish more the love of families and friends
Than the baubles and trinkets left behind when the lease must end?
Or is it a time to cherish the right to worship if one should chose,
Or to cherish the right to elect, only by ballot can one lose,
Or is it time to give and share with others to bring back the village sense?
To cherish the lack of drama and of chasing of selfish dollars too intense?
We may be wobbling, woozy, and shivering in pangs of self doubt,
But if we have our families and friends, despair must prepare for the rout.
Thanksgiving is not the size of the bird but the size of the love you wish to share
If the spirit is right, if the spirit is sound, there is nothing we cannot repair.
Happy Thanksgiving, we have before and will now pass this test
Spirit and faith sound and right, we, family and friends are truly blessed.
© 11/23/2009
Michael P. Ridley

Survivors

2009-11-03T07:21:00.000-08:00

One of the reasons why I like being a lawyer in venture capital is that you are exposed to the entrepreneurial spirit of really passionate people who will try to move heaven and earth and an investor's wallet to bring their company to fruition. TCVN every year has a survivor competition in which entrepreneurs make 30 second pitches to a panel of investors on why they should invest in their company. I met the founder of Rays a print magazine soon to also be an E-mag. How better to suggest to her on the need for a poetry column than to create the following. Will know soon whether I am going to publish and offer for sale Rhymes for the Holiday times, a collection of poems on most of the holidays and seasons occuring thoughout the year.

Journalistic Musings

There was a time far away when late at night,
With embers crackling and flames burning bright,
A muse might wander in slowly to sit before the fire
Telling tales of losses and dreams all humans seek to aspire,
Handed down from generations, sometime blind,
Not tales of scare for children but musings to open the mind,
Sad, the need to then read was not to so explore,
But to count the grain through the store house door,
Numbers ruled until the creative and abstract fled the menial fate
Human spirits to digest more thoughts, dreams, memories never to sate,
Prose ruled supreme and the muses swept to the corners dark
No place on the pages for the rhymes to embed or park
In a world of speed readers, plots and facts to compress and retain
Slowly watching the musings create images seems against the grain.
A poem is by nature an oral key to a receptive ear,
Which floods the senses, smiles or the wispy tear.
Even if you couple prose with photos no memory could produce,
Even so who better the reader’s mind and soul to seduce?
If a new magazine wishes to truly unleash the rays and be renown,
Know the campfires can still burn and a muse piece emotes hands down.
(c) October 27, 2009 Michael P. Ridley

The Red Ghost Of Halloween

2009-10-30T06:46:00.000-07:00

On the of eve of Halloween, 71 years ago, Orson Welles terrified many in this nation with his radio broadcast of H.G. Welles War of the Worlds. The phone lines were jammed as countless thousands believed the Earth had been invaded by a Martian horde. Little did Welles no that the day after Halloween could be even more frightening. Hope all of you have a great Halloween and enjoy this Halloween poem:
Halloween Ghost

The town streets now quiet life the front eye of a hurricane of running feet,
Earlier raining on doors with howling winds of trick or treat
Squeals of joy as bags meet the candy cascade in sheets
Ghosts, ghouls, goblins, imagination waves filling the street
The tidal surge of costumes by nine has passed,
Sighs of relief-- enough candy bought to last
But in the near distance the winds again begin to stir,
Houses decorated have become a different lure,
The little ghosts are in bed, candy sate
The new wave all have a different trait,
Adults from the confines of the workday stress now freed
Costumed to allow the inner spirit to the body lead
We all most days wear at least a partial facial mask
Be it in poker, with friends, family or to complete our daily task
But on Halloween we can be the full on masked or costumed deal,
From legends of our past or to the future most surreal
For one night the inner spirit rules and is now unchained
With others carefree in spirit until the hours of the night slowly wane
The daily duties soon kick in and bring the freed, inner spirit in reverse
As the costumes shed the hint of an even scarier and haunting curse.
A new costume awaits us on TV and on many a retail block
The Christmas buying season has now begun, our wallets to unlock.

© 10/30/2009
Michael P. Ridley

Requiem to a Venture Angel

2009-10-08T16:45:00.000-07:00

On October 1, 2009 this country suddenly lost one of the great supporters of venture capital--Luis Villalobos. His contribution to entrepreneurhip as the founder of the Tech Coast Angels and an investor, mentor, director and friend to countless entrepreneurs was legendary. He was without a doubt one of the smartest men and clients I ever knew. Alexander had a sword to untie the Gordian Knot--Luis had a mind and a sense of intergrity, honor, decency and yes humor honed to slice through even the most difficult "Gordian Knot" an investor or entrepreneur would ever encounter. He will be missed by all and by this poet but his deeds will live on as long as men and women dare to dream and create.
REQUIEM TO A VENTURE ANGEL

For too many of us, life is but a game of charades,
False fronts, smiles and waves in search of more accolades,
Driven to capture and hold fame’s fleeting center stage,
False scripts to appear generous, caring and sage,
When the boatman calls the short term lease and appears for one’s last ride,
Across the river to unknown eternal banks on the river’s other side,
Those memories quickly fade and the footprints quickly wash away,
Mankind must now soldier on unmoved to yet another day.
But if a man is one of a select few without charades,
No desire to set smile as grand marshal of a passing parade,
But rather the real deal of integrity, honor and intellect,
Problems and risks to with ease sort and dissect,
A rare modern day planter not of apple seeds but of entrepreneurs’ dreams,
With money to invest and advice to help find the crease, find the seam.
To against all odds help the dreams take root,
To slowly, among the halos finally mature and bear fruit.
What monument for such a man would you build,
Dreams to gold, a leader in the alchemist’s guild?
We all know statutes rust, pit and coat to mold,
Names on buildings fade and such memories do not hold.
No need to chose, for the monuments to some extent already flourish and exist,
Not only his investments but his angels on the coast, halos in the morning mist.
As long as there is an angel and dreamer willing to against the odds take the risk
We honor Luis, and his memory will remain so clear, sharp and brisk,
A poet partner trying with him to help the dreamers escape the startup brig,
A band of five in leaning into the hostile winds then known as TRIG,
Sheds a soft tear but chuckles at the image of Luis with his power point slides,
Of wit and charts a year in sharp review, devoid of humor or hint of false pride,
Now showing the Chief Gatekeeper which eternal souls made the best return,
What it takes to overcome the risks, needed passion and effort to so earn.
Go in peace our dear friend and mentor from the city of the lupine,
You will be missed, but your halo creed here will last for a very, very long time.
© October 8, 2009
Michael P. Ridley

Autumnal Equinox 2009

2009-09-23T07:18:00.000-07:00

September 22, 2009 marked another autumnal equinox and the beginning of fall. We in California live in the Golden State which may be a bit tarnished today but still a land of dreams and entrepreneurs popping up like crabgrass on a lawn, despite the best efforts of our bureaucratic and political gardeners to regulate them into oblivion. We may be golden but in the fall we are like black and white with only shades of grey compared to New England's fall canvass of colors of its deciduous tress. Some say like a tree a man in the fall of his life cannot hide his true colors. Hope you enjoy the poem. If you want to receive preview pages of North to Alaska--Islands of Stability in Seas of Change, email me at mridley@octechlaw.com
Autumnal Equinox
Only in the autumn do the true colors emerge
Of reds, yellows, oranges in hues to splurge
Pixels of changing life in a sudden unrelenting surge
The bland uniforms of green to quickly purge
A canvas without brush to suddenly appear
With the global warming maybe later in the year,
Like a masterpiece reflecting into an artist’s inner mirror
New hues created without hesitation or fear.
One could tarry and never rush,
Colors vibrant, colors so very lush
Here up close or in the distance the miracles to brush
Another short term lease, the canvas soon the carpet plush
Almost by baton unseen, the colors begin to fade,
Slowly like drops of rain begin to cascade,
Confetti of colors in a welcome parade,
A colder sun through what was leafy shade,
Stark branches now only remain
Colors gone on forest floors now lain,
Warmth of summer quickly wanes
Harvests of fields of grain.
Fall is here and may be too in the cycle of a man’s trek
With winter snows soon to fall to summer dreams now check,
A moment to pause and to look back on summer acts now suspect
No longer able to hide his true colors, the past chose to select.
© September 22, 2009
Michael P. Ridley

911 8th Anniversary

2009-09-12T06:50:00.000-07:00

Friday, September 11, 2009 marked the 8th anniversay of 911 and the loss of more Americans in just a few minutes than the number of soldiers, sailors and airmen who were killed at Pearl Harbor in a matter of hours at Pearl Harbor or during The Longest Day June 6, 1944. Sudden death is always tragic, but the victims of December 7, 1941 had as part of their job description the possibility thought then remote to be in harm's way and those in the Higgins Boats or jumping out of planes knew for certain they were going into harm's way. Our citizens and the citizens of the world who died with them were merely going to work or taking a plane.
The day is full of stark images but the one that has forever seared this poet's mind and soul is that of fireman Kehoe wearing helmet 28 walking up the stairs at the World Trade Center into potential death to fight a fire and help people he had never met. That image spawned the following poem. We still observe December 7 and to a lesser extent D-Day. 50 years from now when most of us today have long since gone, my wish is that the day is marked with reverence, resolve and with respect to the brave passengers on flight 93 a deep sense of appreciation and gratitude. I memory of those who died on 911:
Helmet 28

His helmet bears a 28 burdened by 100 pounds of gear heading up a panic flight of stairs.
At 20 floors, his eyes are framed in soot and ash, a deer in a hunter’s headlight stare.
Outnumbered by a cascade of office horror in downward panic flight.
Most men would have tired, been brushed away, but not with a 5 alarm inferno to fight.
Was it the training, or the inner steel of the highest of all noble human traits?
To not abandon crew and total strangers to a searing, deadly fate.
Not since Operation Typhoon, have we seen planes driven at targets to explode,
Even then, only against warriors— who among us could ever fathom such a Bushido Code?
A micro globe of innocents whose sin was to be at work, bathed in high octane flames,
Desert sand chrysantimums hijacking a one way ticket passenger laden plane.
How could he or would we ever have the courage to put ourselves in harm’s way,
Climbing 8 more floors in smoke, until at 28, the building rumbled and began to sway?
As a parent most of us to a man would with relish sacrifice all to save his child,
Or to protect a spouse faced with mortal dangers running near and wild.
But these were strangers, not neighbors, kin or friends, but with his life and limb in doubt,
What courage to continue climbing burdened down and fight the urge to flee and get out.
It is said that true heroes in combat are those not in photos or who never make it home for the victory parade,
Now joined by 343 resting eternally in fields far and near within the memories of the living, never to fade.
28 could have stopped then and there at 20 floors and put himself out of danger of deadly harm,
But like true heroes, no fireman will turn tail and run from the pleading of five alarms.
Those who do not know us, say America is a soft land with heroes too few and too far between,
At their peril, if they ever forget the image of 28 trudging up the stairs into danger’s mortal scene.
If the helmet was any number from ladder 1 to 176 frozen in that famous photo frame,
The courage to climb into harm’s way to save a stranger’s life and not flee would be exactly the same,
Whether there is an eternal heaven or an eternal flame, one will never know for sure,
Or whether to avoid the fires, one’s spirit must be helping, noble and pure,
If there is, be assured 343 firemen of NYFD will hose down daily the streets of paradise,
Sweeping into the gutters of hell those who would in the name of God cause the innocents’ early demise.
If there is, it is certain that after 911, no NYFD member would ever be admitted into hell,
for too quickly on earth the brimstone sermons would end, as the devil’s damning fires they would quickly quell.
Michael P. Ridley
© December 30, 2005

Endless Summer

2009-08-28T16:17:00.000-07:00

On the 27th of August TechAmerica successor to American Electronics Association had an end of summer party where several of our high tech companies also had booths. Despite the uncharacteristic heat that close to the ocean, the energy level of the attendees, many dressed in Hawaiin shirts was awesome. Do not underestimate the entrepreneurial spirit of Californians, regardless of the budget mess we find ourselves in. Were are to some extent escpecially on Rose Bowl Parade Days blessed with an endless summer and how fitting to have a herald to record. Hope you enjoy.
Endless Summer
In the Mid and Northwest and New England anxious glances to the clouds in graying skies,
Waves of leafy color from the north creeping slowly south as the summer begins to die,
The crowds along the beaches might be the same in number, but a subtle change,
Less people in the water as the temperature moves slowly into a lower range,
Shorts, sandals, sunscreen, sunhats now hard to find, in very short supply,
Winter clothes creeping into the aisles, as the summer begins to die.
The days turn shorter and the mornings herald soon the taste of frost,
Soon school bells tolling for the summer dying and soon lost,
In the Golden State, our days much more slowly become a little short,
But on close exam our summer is eternal, it does not abort,
Our schools are filling up but clad in shorts and usually a mellow tan,
Heads moving up and down to the beat of waves upon the sand,
Our beaches are still full of swimmers in frolic near the shore,
No arctic force can close even so slightly the summer door,
Even if perchance the temperature does drop and our mountains clad in snow,
Our beaches are of summer sand and waves, no winter seeds can grow,
Endless summer of friends and family who can relax when the work day is done,
And stroll in tranquil thoughts, feet ocean kissed and eyes awash in the setting sun.
We are the Golden State; we may be one of the chosen tribes,
A land of dreams, the will to succeed, always moving, never to subside.
This may in the lands of seasons come as quite a shock,
But to us with 49er blood, it is almost too grok,
In such an endless summer, freed of winter’s frosty grave,
Hope remains eternal; there is always yet another wave.

© Michael P. Ridley
August 27, 2009

General Old Age

2009-08-21T07:08:00.000-07:00

There is a great museum in New Orleans the World War II Museum that is worthy of a trip to see even in hurricane season. The following poem has been added to the library collection and may soon be on display. Not a plug per se but my good friend Doug Spinn has a private rail car trip to San Diego on 12/5/09 honoring Pearl Harbor. www.larail.com for details. A great way to honor the diminishing Band of Brothers that answered the call in WWII. North to Alaska Islands of Stability in Seas of Change is almost converted into typed manuscript. If you want preview pages, please contact me at mridley@octechlaw.com. Enjoy the poem and take a moment to reflect on your father's, uncle's, grandfather's, mother's, aunt's or grandmother's devotion and sacrifice to what Ike called "The Great Crusade."
General Old Age
They answered the call by the millions, regardless of inner doubts or parents' fears,
Whether by draft notice or marching to recruitment, some even lying to be able to volunteer.
This was a war not for gold, honor or to occupy another's land,
No, this was a war to not let the gains of tyranny gel and stand,
Dropping plow, lathe, apron, even books and all manner of tools of trade,
A river of men and women to don khaki and join in the Great Crusade,
Ours was not a warrior nation, in standing armies we stood among the world almost last,
In every prior struggle once done, our armies and navies faded quietly into the peaceful past,
Our navy was our oceans that made Europe and Asia distant and remote,
Deeper and wider and more protected than any fortress moat,
No planes no matter how fast or how high they could soar,
Never, ever could they bring the horsemen of war upon our shore,
Our army was 3000 miles of land any foe would have to cross,
Behind each tree and wall, a citizen armed to cause deadly loss,
Or so it seemed, until that early, peaceful December Sunday morn,
In two hours our fathers' and grandfathers' generation in an instant was reborn,
From the sleep of isolation, a nation island in restful and secure peace,
To now chain the dogs of war others saw fit to unleash,
16 million Americans in the colors soldiered and served,
Over 400,000 never reaped the long life they so richly deserved,
These Crusaders lost a few battles and suffered a few defeats,
From time to time either orderly or in disarray they were forced to retreat
But the best generals the Axis could ever put upon the field,
In the long run each and every one died or had to yield,
The oceans soon became guarded American lakes.
No enemy admiral would ever survive in our seamen's wake,
Our airmen drowned out the sun with deadly, lethal planes,
Our foes fell from the skies like the monsoon rains,
There was not a general or admiral they could not best, their deeds fill many a page,
Save one general with forces all would wish never to have to engage,
Yet the battle has at last been joined and throughout this land it will rage,
This general takes no quarter, there are no prisoners and the war is in its final stage,
The men and Crusaders of summer in the winter of their lives are meeting General Age,
More leave the field of battle daily than the carnage of their blackest days,
We have hindered his march, but soon we will no longer be able to delay.
Armies reducing to Corps and then to Divisions and then to Brigades,
The numbers of the Greatest Generation slowly continue to fade,
Regiments to Battalions, then to Companies and then to Platoons and then to Squads.
While we still have the time, it is they we should honor and laud,
For sadly, soon there will only be empty reunion halls,
Full only of the memories of heroes who answered the call.
And the prayer that this General will soon never, ever have to fight again such a war,
There will be no combat veterans aging and waiting their turn to storm an eternal peaceful shore.

Michael P. Ridley
© September 16, 2007

RUGBY MEMORIES

2009-08-04T06:55:00.000-07:00

In 1966/67 I was a student at the Stanford in France campus at Tours; the great tradgedy of Vietnam was heating up; DeGaulle was in the process of booting the U.S. military out of France (leaving of course the thousands of soldiers buried there saving their bacon in WWI and WWII, the streets of Paris were adorned with red flags welcoming a state visit of the Russian premier, and this 215 lb sophmore just off another summer of commercial seining was introduced to the game of rugby--wing forward, a lethal stalker of scrum halves playing in a league against the French whom we to a man despised. Four knee operations, torn rotator cusp and separated shoulders, cracked ribs later, no longer at 62 play the game. Long intro to being in Oakland on a pilrimage to Jack London square revising my manuscript--North to Alaska--Islands of Stability in Seas of Change the weekend of the 31st and stumbling into a combo bachelor and bachelorette party. Groom was a former rugby player and most of the men there had also played. As soon as they discovered I had played at Stanford and Yale, I was welcomed immediately into the band of brothers. The following poem came to me immediately to the pleasure of the attendees. Hope you enjoy it.
RUGBY MEMORIES
Artists go to Paris for the lure of romance,
Alaskans are drawn to the muddy fields of France
To without pads and helmets only hands bare,
To fight the French in the rugby le guerre
Years have passed and the knees are way too old
Only memories of red and white and moves so bold,
Scrum halves with eyes of fear trying so hard to escape,
The wing forward’s tackle and ribs to break,
And better yet memories of combat not mortal but to the max
Never ending no time to blow or relax
Ended by a whistle and then covered with sweat, blood and grime
The shaking of hands along the warriors’ line
Followed by now two bands of brothers sharing a well deserved brew
Scores long gone, only knowing your honor ran true.
© July 31,2009 Michael P. Ridley

Happy Birthday to a great son

2009-07-11T15:01:00.000-07:00

All of my children have received a birthday poem on their birthday, a tradition my grandfather started for me at age three when I first learned to read. My youngest son Richard Patrick Ridley, one of the brightest kids you will ever meet and a great swimmer received this. I thought many of you would enjoy.

Ricky at 14

A caterpillar may view the day as the end of a path,
But to the butterfly it is the beginning of a new artistic craft,
Like the crab or lobster who too becomes far too confined,
And sheds his shell to free from the cramping bind,
Or the hermit crab who not only molts his shell,
But must find another larger shell in which to dwell,
Even the lowly serpent we almost always despise
Knows when to shed his skin or face an early demise,
Wings not used slowly wither and then die
Never to soar to new to new success ever high
My son, a lamp of learning to chase away the shadows of dark
Each year still not in motion hits or passes each and every mark,
On the 15th turns the ripe young age of 14,
A handsome, fit, and very smart young teen.
It is still too early to know how far you will be above the crowd,
But your character, manners, and goals make your father so very proud.
From the first day hooked to all manner of tubes separated from us by glass,
You have surged forward each year, each day to surpass.
Today my wish for you as you watch the wisps rising on a 14—candled cake,
That you are touched by His Grace and watched over by the Lady of the Lake.
Although I could rhyme on and on about your wins and lack of defeats,
No birthday poem could ever be complete.
Without symbols of history on the earlier day you chose to arrive
The Crusaders regained a holy site to allow Christianity to survive,
The first Europeans came ashore on your father’s adopted land,
And the stone of our linguistic roots was uncovered in the sand,
Spirituality, Adventure, and Learning—a trinity of a man’s worth
So fitting, all on the very same day of your early birth.
As you blow out the candles, your father bursts with pride,
His love, prayers and thoughts will today and always be by your side.
© Michael P. Ridley
2009

lAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN FULL VERSION

2009-07-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

Many people visiting the blog have asked for the complete poem; here it is. Alaska is more that a pretty face of unbelievable beauty or images of humans surviving in an unforgiving place, it is a state of mind. North to Alaska--Islands of Stability in Seas of Change will capture that state. If you enjoy the poem comments or posts are very welcome. mridley@octechlaw.com

LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN
Come with me, beyond the seas, to the land of the Midnight Sun,
Northern Lights, glacier bays, icy peaks and mighty salmon runs,
Where a man is not judged by race, color, creed, money, or even looks,
But rather how well he sets a choker, mends a seine or baits a halibut hook.
It is known to all who visit or live there as truly The Last Frontier,
Where you know by actions at once a man’s core, there is no façade or false veneer.
It’s a land of the bush pilot clawing through ocean fog and mountain mists,
No radar or tower, with one mistake and in an instance he ceases to exist,
Or the gill-netter fighting sleep, drifting toward Five Fingers Rocks,
Hoping for a full net as his boat and gear are way too deep in hock,
Or the logger in a jungle of Sitka Spruce eaten by mosquitoes and gnats,
Another tree to fall, choker to set, no time to rest or even chat,
Or the bravest of them all who is hidden by the 50 foot swells,
Lifting crab pots in a frigid Alaska Gulf ocean hell,
Or the innkeeper eking out a living in a tourist season far too short,
Hoping the reservations all come through and none will abort,
Or maybe the pipeline worker in parka shaking to his very marrow,
As the cold arctic winds blow long and hard across Pt. Barrow,
Or the Aleut with harpoon in hand not moving on an icy ridge,
Be this the day, with one toss I store another seal in nature’s fridge,
Or maybe even the tourist on a hike about to find the ultimate rush,
That sound, that rustle, that noise, is it a Brown Bear coming through the brush?
In a land where nature has stacked the deck and holds all the cards,
Where life outside the cities is never easy and always very hard,
For those who live, no matter whom or where, there is a common, admired trait,
When nature strikes, all is dropped and one rushes to save another from a deadly fate,
Contrast that with the pleasures and beauty we have in Newport Beach,
Where the values are as far from Alaska as a man could ever reach,
A man too often is faceless, honored not for character or strength of name,
But his FICO, and if not a Beamer, Benz or Rover to drive, he must hang his head in shame,
Too often judged by the skill of a scalpel for his trophy mate,
Or the length of the unused yacht in the harbor he uses as bait.
What values to you teach when a million dollar house is only a shack?
Where do you find the moral core that enables you to into adversity tack?
How do you shed the veneer that takes so much time to polish and shine?
God help you if in the material race, you begin to fall behind.
A suggestion not very novel nor even very bold,
Visit this land of human warmth and frigid cold,
Bring back visions of the Northern Lights to store,
To share with a loved one when you stroll upon Newport’s sandy shores.

Michael P. Ridley
© August 8, 2007

Independence Day Newport Beach Style

2009-07-02T06:44:00.000-07:00

Summer Patriots

It is far too ironic that on the day we celebrate independence from our former English liege,
A large part of Newport will be like a city under martial siege,
With police on every corner though not in riot gear and barricades on every street.
That cherished right of auto movement has been curtailed, it has met defeat.
In recent years our neighbor city further up the coast,
Thousands of celebrants turning all manner of couches and sofas into toast.
Symbols of farmers, blacksmiths or tanners behind a hedge, fence or tree,
Armed with flintlock by force to try to set us free.
The image of fife and drum and three men with bandaged head and wounded leg,
Replaced today by those gathered round the coolers, gathered round the keg,
The badge of honor goes to whomever can most and forever consume,
Or who gathers the most thongs throughout his rooms.
In 1777 it was a day to reflect, of fireworks and a thirteen cannon salute,
Marking the first Independence Day the fragile seed of democracy began slowly to take root.
In most of the country this is a day of parades, Souza, reflections, fireworks and family barbecues.
Sad, in this Golden Land of beach and sun, it is a day of too much wine, too much brew.
Any excesses you cannot blame on Washington who on this day in 1778,
Handed out rations of double rum to his soldiers who helped forge this ship of state.
A thin blue line and thin green line are poised on our border,
Against overwhelming odds to try to prevent drunken chaos and disorder,
For those summer patriots whose guzzling will not relent,
Who feel such independence is a God-given consent,
No matter how close you look at their blue and green threads,
No way will you find the slightest speck of Redcoat red.
If the summer patriots despised by Paine choose to party and not reflect,
At least accord the thin blue and green lines some honor and respect.
In the party daze remember freedom is not cast in stone nor etched in concrete,
It is more fragile than a snowflake or butterfly and in the hall of nations may quickly lose its seat.
Look only to Troy who felt with their walls alone were beyond any Greek’s reach,
Remember this short lesson history will teach,
After the celebrations of rivers of wine ran their sleepy course,
Troy was destroyed by conscious Greeks coming from their Trojan Horse.
For our rights soldiers are dying daily on Iraqi sands or in Afghan not Bunker Hills,
Party to the max, is that how one respects that sacrifice and final bill?
If for only a moment, image an army unpaid, in rags, many without shoes,
But no matter the hardship forged in the valley, their faith remained true,
They would not let go when they grabbed the lion’s tail,
No matter what, against trained English steel, cannon, and muskets they would not fail.
Each pledged one’s property and each pledged one’s life.
In countless battles many our forefathers paid the ultimate sacrifice.
So done, wave the flag with meaning and fireworks applaud with hearty cheer,
But maybe this year as you pause and reflect, use a little less wine, a little less beer.

© July 4, 2007
Michael P. Ridley
Have a safe, sane and more importantly reflective 4th of July

Fathers' Day

2009-06-19T14:26:00.000-07:00

Fathers' Day

It is a bookend holiday with homage to all the grads at first

At least at college no more checks to quench the learning's costly thirst

At the end it is Yankee Doodle Dandy and Independence Day

Not for dad as the stress of bringing home the bacon turns all hair gray

It is in between and still in the shadows of the piles of gifts

That moms surrounded by children of all ages slowly sift

While dad if he is lucky avoids from his children another tie

But if lucky a new set of clubs, electronic or grill toys a wife may buy..

This year rightfully so it is on the longest day of the year

Dads may be in the daylight to be seen admidst the cheers

For a father is a special, special breed,

Who passes on the character and integrity seed,

Without which no child will long succeed,

And like the Higher Power above

Wraps his children in unconditional love.

Land of the Midnight Sun

2009-06-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

Come with me beyond the sea to the Land of the Midnight Sun,
Glacier bays, Northern Lights and mighty salmon runs,
Where a man is judged not by race, creed, cut of clothe or even his looks,
But rather how well he sets a choker, mends his web or baits a halibut hook

Beginning lines of a great poem from an Alaskan poet to his core and part of a numerous collection; book North to Alaska, Islands of Rock in Seas of Change soon to be released. Michael P. Ridley 2030 Main Street Suite 1300 Irvine, CA 92614 mridley@octechlaw.com
Band of Brothers another poem created. In honor of D-Day General Old Age is available for purchase. Please contact.

When the winds of change
ice down the Wrangell Range
and the ice slowly begins to melt
winds of change tightens one's belt
will the islands of rock
absord the shifting shock
when the deadiest catch will the human spirit prevail
when as a crew together none of us will bail