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
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Requiem to a Venture Angel
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
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
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Autumnal Equinox 2009
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
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
Saturday, September 12, 2009
911 8th Anniversary
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
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
Friday, August 28, 2009
Endless Summer
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
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
Friday, August 21, 2009
General Old Age
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
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
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
RUGBY MEMORIES
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
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
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