Poems

For Benjamin

One child

One child can make a difference.
One hand can mold the clay.
One heart can beat the rhythm
that drives a roundelay.

One voice can lead a chorus.
One word can start the play.
One step can launch a journey
that takes us far away.

One love can last a lifetime.
One smile can light the day.
One mind can find an answer
that stops the drift astray.

One life can bring the magic.
Once found, it’s here to stay,
and joy may come unbidden.
One child can show the way.

© 2007 by George A. Ricker


last words
by George A. Ricker

I want no monuments of stone,
no rites to mark my passing,

just the whispered sigh of summer rain
that gently laves the window pane,
soft murmurings of loss and gain,
remembered joy, forgotten pain,

all bitterness surpassing.

© George A. Ricker, 2005


Mayflies

As mayflies dance their summer fun,
our lives are tales too quickly spun.
Still, it matters not how swift the run,
but that we feel the warming sun
and find the time to love someone
before we’re done.

© 2004 by George A. Ricker




“We are star stuff.” Dr. Carl Sagan, 1934-1996

Star born By George A. Ricker

I used to think stars cold and still.
When young, I’d sprawl atop a hill
and view the diadem of night,
that deepest black, bejewelled by light.

But then I learned how hot they burn.
Each seething elemental churn
sends forth the stuff of which life’s made,
becoming branch and leaf and blade.

I used to think them faint and small.
I’d stretch my arms to catch them all.
Those twinkling lights seemed near at hand
as sparkling grains of cosmic sand.

But then I learned they’re far away
and far too grand for words to say.
Star born, we seek the answers there
in starry nights beyond compare.

© 2006 by George A. Ricker


AMERIKA
By George A. Ricker

Hallelujah! We’ve seen the light!
Satan is left wing; God is right.
It’s as plain as plain can be.
Just ask George Bush and the GOP.

The Fundy set will see we’re saved
As long as we are well-behaved.
They’ll outlaw evil and order good;
And make folks act the way they should

When evil-doers disagree,
We’ll lock ‘em up and lose the key.
Make no mistake; there’s no dissent
When all our plans are heaven sent.

All other lands had best beware
Our righteous wrath; we know what’s fair.
So now with sights set on Iran,
Let’s bomb the bastards! That’s God’s plan!!!

Hallelujah! We’ve seen the light!
Night is day, and black is white.
Love is hate and pleasure pain.
War is peace; delusion sane.

© 2006 by George A. Ricker




War is ...

It’s the childhood interruptus
and the dove who cannot rise,
as the power that corrupts us
bids us heed convenient lies.

It’s the dying and the killing
by the willing of the wise
with a slaughter that is chilling
in the heat, the stench, the flies.

It’s a fatal thunderous shower
safely dropped from hidden highs,
leaving innocents to cower
‘neath death’s hard rain from the skies.

It’s the price paid by the masses
while their masters sermonize
and invoke a god who passes
for the cause that justifies.

It’s the wounding and the dying,
with the shattering of lives,
and our worst impulses thriving
while the best within us dies.

It’s the childhood interruptus ...
it’s the mourning dove who cries,
as we sanitize the killing
and the best within us dies.

George A. Ricker
© 2004


Vox populi…
By George A. Ricker

Well gather ‘round voters and lend me an ear
for the tale of the tally this election year.
The pundits all warned us way back last fall
that the 2000 race would be too close to call.

The experts agreed and said one and all
that the 2000 race was just too close to call.

So the primaries came and the primaries went
and the millions were raised and the millions were spent.
As first Bush and then Gore answered each party’s call,
all the pundits complained: this is too close to call.

Too close to call ... too close to call ...
Oh the 2000 race is just too close to call.

Once Nader had taken to wearing the green
as a small, steady blip on the polls’ radar screen,
he was seen as a spoiler who might cause Gore’s fall,
and the forecasters wailed “Lord, it’s too close to call.”

Too close to call ... too close to call ...
Coming down to the wire, it was too close to call.

Then election day came, and we went to be heard.
At least half of us did. The rest were not stirred
to vote in a race that they liked not at all,
while reporters reported “it’s too close to call.”

Too close to call ... to close to call ...
As the ballots were tallied ... still too close to call.

Now the popular vote says it’s Gore by a whisker
But the electoral college may make Bush the victor.
As Florida recounts, we’re waiting in thrall
‘Cause this goddamned election is too close to call.

Too close to call ... too close to call ...
It’s the voice of the people and too close to call.

© 2000 by George A. Ricker


Sunfall
By George A. Ricker

Through shortest day
and longest night,
behold the sun’s
rekindled light.

As winter fails
so spring returns;
no ice can face
a fire that yearns

To climb so high,
to brightly burn,
embrace the day,
the darkness spurn.

‘Til sun then falls
with fading light
into the chill
of longest night.

©2005 By George A. Ricker



The Finer Things
or
Why the old man keeps smiling

By George A. Ricker

When I was a lad, they said to me,
"Son, learn to take life seriously.
"Study music, art and poetry.
"Read deeply in philosophy."
I took up those tasks quite diligently,
But as I look back, it's plain to me
That the lessons learned most eagerly
Came shortly after puberty
When I learned to love the ladies.

Hell, women's lib is fine with me
'Cause I'd love 'em all and set them free,
How I love to love the ladies.

I've studied the masters everywhere,
But of all their works none can compare
With the sight of a woman tall and fair,
The moonlight captured in her hair,
And a look in her eye that says she's there
To pleasure give and pleasure share.
Oh, it's great to love the ladies.

I've heard music by all those famous guys
In concert halls and under the skies,
But the music I most dearly prize
Is the sound of a woman's whispered cries,
As she speaks her need in moans and sighs,
And together we climb to that highest high,
Then together fall and together lie.
It's so good to love the ladies.

I've pondered tomes by authors gray,
By poets witty and writers gay
And every opera and every play
But from what I've read, I'm compelled to say
That I'd trade them all for one good lay.
It's such fun to love the ladies.

And now life's tumult has grown quite still.
I'm very old and somewhat ill.
I've had my share but not my fill
And if I could, I'd be loving them still.
How I've loved to love the ladies.
To have loved and been loved by the ladies.

© 1995 by George A. Ricker

Land’s end
by George A. Ricker

The singing wind,
the crying gull,
the hissing surf
beneath the hull,

The fragrant air,
the crashing sea,
the dancing waves
so fair, so free,

That sunbound road
all seekers find
revives the sense,
renews the mind.

To the sea, my once
and future home
I shall return,
this journey done.

©2004 by George A. Ricker