Eclipse Concrete poems of Alan Riddell
With 50 word pictures( this short book of concrete poems was in 1972) truly innovative using a typewriter keyboard to create concrete poetry
.The current expanded digital keyboard of the modern era facilitates
greater pictorial shape poetry
( as illustrated for example by the 'emagi' reverse
ekphrasis poetic form) which owes much to the
concepts displayed half a century earlier .
Concrete poet Alan Riddell
with the typewriter did excel
Picture poems were his (u) (s) (p)
created with a simple tab-key
our heart just knows because it flows
repaying debts of love it owes
without any computation
exuding fragrance of a rose
poised in the void of cessation
love and light our meditation
each breath we embrace and release
in mood and mode celebration
bliss pheromones follow the breeze
enlivening with carefree ease
breaking through each ego built wall
causing frigid hearts to unfreeze
even in darkness we stand tall
because who we are we recall
beyond space and time at the source
as the flame that births love’s bliss squall
All innocent humans redeemed through Christ.' Who you have caused to die are now observing each throw of the dice, you
Won no power, with their deaths you caused..And stand in error..Oh fie on you all. For humanity stands despite the lies in
The now and eternity.' Under a loving Gods
Eyes.' Who gave you a stage.' To display all
You are.' Just as with herod ceaser and pharoah and lucifer that star.' They all revelled in their power.' And caused immense pain..For they percieved their
Special status would never wane.' So they
Built their treasuries..Yet outside of God reign.'
Which is allowed..' Yet is in sheols
reekless deeps its plain..God now
owes them no-thing.' And no thing exists of itself.' Watch
As for isreal temporal realm..That no more
Wrestles with God'
the world is turning, soon to
Be allowed to tear
Them down.) In the main.)
They Never See
They never see the damage in their hands,
only the wreckage left in someone else’s.
They walk through broken rooms calling it fate,
while mirrors stand untouched,
gathering dust.
They paint you villain just to feel like saints,
rewrite the script so they survive the story.
Truth bends easy when you fear yourself,
and blame becomes a language
they speak fluently.
Every road they take ends the same
not by chance, not by curse,
but by footsteps that refuse to learn
the weight of where they land.
They cannot sit with silence,
cannot face the stillness
where truth waits patiently.
So they run
loud, restless, pointing outward.
Empty pockets, open hands,
spending like tomorrow owes them something.
And when the bill comes due,
they pass it round the table
like it was never theirs.
But life keeps count.
Quietly. Precisely.
No matter how they twist the tale.
And one day,
when the noise dies down
and there’s no one left to blame
they’ll meet themselves
for the first time.
Life's for you to solve and decode,
That's how your lifelong river flows!
Mysteries all under the sun,
And it's for you to call it done.
Face the truth through unwinding roads,
Life's for you to solve and decode.
It brings you to where the wind blows,
The places that anyone goes.
Don't let the time belittle you,
See what the world holds for you too.
Life's for you to solve and decode,
For it will return what it owes.
The days hold clues to inch closer—
As you also walk to closure.
Final tip to bring on the road:
Life’s for you to solve and decode.
Maybe you feel as I
wonder, wonder why, and
what the home page pics reflect
I gaze on them and sigh
Perhaps their place there they did buy --
Just when and why did the change take effect
Have they written the most or best poems
What is it that the algorithm owes 'em
Caren Krutsinger writes ten poems a day
Sara Etgen Baker comments on hundreds ~ That's her way
Why on Poetry Soup's Home Page did they not stay
And for what kind of poets have they made way
Perhaps you feel as I
wonder, wonder why,
what the home page pics reflect
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The stolen hour pools beneath the streetlamp,
damp asphalt drinking the phantom light.
We unwind the taut spring of summer,
let the gears groan backward through their teeth.
Shadows stretch like taffy, pulling dusk
across the threshold too soon.
Each dial surrenders to the ritual theft~
morning owes us what the evening keeps.
They speak like the sky owes them answers.
I sit quiet, a stone in their storm.
Their voices rise
Mine stays buried.
They say “He’s watching.”
I feel watched.
Not by God.
By them. Their eyes
Soft, but sharp.
Like feathers hiding knives.
I smile.
It hurts and I nod.
It burns.
They pray.
I pretend. Because I love them.
Because I need them.
Because I don’t want to be the ghost at the table.
Their faith is loud.
As mine is a bruise.
Not purple and not visible.
But tender every time they say “saved.”
I want to scream
As much as I want to run and
I want to be held without being fixed.
I want to belong without being erased.
And I want to stay.
Because leaving feels like dying.
And I want to leave
But staying feels like disappearing.
But I don’t know which ache is worse.
~~~
Power is sweet—
But it rots the tongue that never lets go.
I walked through Russia—
Putin, your winter has come.
Teach the young before they forget your name.
Museveni—
Since 1986 you’ve ruled like time owes you breath.
It doesn’t.
Kagame—
Two decades and more,
Can’t you hear the youth knocking on your gates?
Lukashenko—
You turned elections into mirrors of yourself.
But mirrors break.
Obiang—
Forty-two years in power—
Even kings grow old,
Even gods fall silent.
Leadership is not possession—
It’s a sacred loan.
Return it with honor before death reclaims it by force.
A true ruler births successors,
Not statues in his own shadow.
The people are not your servants,
Power is not your bloodline.
It is fire—
And fire burns the hand that clings too long.
When the curtains close,
Will you be remembered as a leader—
Or a warning?
llama arrives in the tea room all polished and puffed up
putting on airs, as if she is almost too chic to dine or sup
persnickety, pampered, and proud of her new sophisticated look.
She looks like she has just written an uppity etiquette book.
We try to ignore her, maybe she can find another table in which to dine.
Scoot over, says my empathetic cousin. I roll my eyes and say “fine.”
Llama is batting her fake eyelashes and flashing her high heel shoes.
I pointedly do not speak to her until I remember she owes us dues
she still slams doors
like the world owes her rent,
still drinks the bottle
to the bottom,
still laughs at the blood on the floor
like it’s a carnival trick.
I kept thinking—
hell, maybe she’ll soften,
maybe she’ll learn
how to hold a hand
without drawing a knife.
but love doesn’t cure venom,
and I’m no doctor.
I’m just another fool
who tried to tame fire
and ended up burned.
Living off the glory your ancestors lived through
You need to go out and live your life for you.
Patriotic pride from an historical stride,
a war that was won before you were alive
the struggles for freedom
the heroes who died
born into freedom
you didn’t decide
History owes nothing but the offer of wisdom
live for tomorrow, you are not a victim.
dream state to waking state
frying pan to the fire
we thus live on in dreams
freed only when we tire
no one comes, no one goes
heart seeks satisfaction
save debts of love soul owes
there’s no cause for action
sans thought we yet remain
standing outside space-time
by cleansing our soul’s stain
heart feels love’s bliss beat chime
my own tiny Kansas environment owes me an apology
I have wanted a dog run built and it keeps getting promised
yet the powers that be have thrown rain into the equation
for two or three weeks, it is as if we have had a small tsunami
society is moving on without my input, aide or suggestions
I am tethered to my house, watching my puppy who chases cars
Worse, he runs around them as they drive and he follows pretty girls home
Two pretty girls keep bringing him back, and they all three seem to like it
I live in a fantasy world when I am not concentrating my energy on dog
A happy painter, a cartoonist, a poet, I keep busy.
in my art studio is a stack of thirty-two drawn out canvases.
I draw them out while I watch TV. I am adding paint to eleven others.
I am peter pan, but in female. I never want to grow up.
Never want to be part of the approved society, for I do not seek approval.
I seek fun, satisfaction and joy, and I am rarely disappointed.
My days are full of dragons, rainbows, faeries, and mushroom houses.
Gold on ancient atoll?
Gone be prospector's hope!
Gore, doth coat the brazen bull?
Golem, get the rope?
Best for those politest men?
Better think again.
Bone a-broken, dive in den?
Flicker on the fen...
Torn like life tormented?
Break upon, O wave.
How the gods lamented!
O shroud hung on the grave!
Yellow as a predator's eye?
Dun the desert doubt.
Riddles, rivers, thy reply?
Time will sort it out.
Plight of all the human race?
Leaving like a trace.
O defeated, thy disgrace!
Cholera, catch case!
Syllable, O sylvan!
Each to preserve a life!
Dreams once started, thus began!
Razor's edge or knife!
Wail, O watching widows?
We'd really rather not.
Soul a-sold, what doth ye owes?
Death, be but a thought!
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