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
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Memorial Day 2010 Musings
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
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
Saturday, April 17, 2010
young Spitz, young Phelps
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
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
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Is the Melting Pot Dead?
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
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
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Valeentine's Day
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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