Friday, December 18, 2009

4 generations of Ridley Rhymes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Christmas Spirits

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