Waide Aaron Riddle - Awards

AWARDS & PUBLISHED WORKS List of poems Grandmother Two Men Kissing Lost Hills, Ca. Blackraven ? What's In a Name? The Green That Is Ireland Grandmother's Roses Brother Teach My Children Washington Park I Dreamt Of Rain A Snowy Day In New York The Court Jester Dark Circus Beautiful Blue Evening In The Bloom of The Day Nothing Said There Is a Man Finish Carpenter Blues Galveston 1970 "I am a Poet" Jack O' Lantern Fever October 17th Timing Is Everything WINNER: Certificate of Achievement: Excellence in Poetry 1997 Grandmother Proud as the eagle that soars over the summer canyon As driven as the robin that nourishes her newborn Wise… like the ol’ owl atop the forest tree Thorough as the blue jay weaving a nest of strength against predators Courageous as the crow and raven who never yield to intimidation Protector of her heritage from the hawks and vultures She is as tough as leather …gentle as her rocking chair …that’s her leisure… Crocheting… humming Her face is lined with accomplished years With respect… With honor… She is teacher… Comforter… Saint She is Grandmother. (back to top) WINNER: National Author’s Registry, Honorable Mention 1996 National Author’s Registry, President’s Award 1997 Two Men Kissing Arousal… That’s what I felt when he kissed me His breath reminded me of pine Stubble… tickle… sigh… Lips soft and moist… rose petals His black hair silk through my fingers Olive skin… ocean spray… A green forest… Ice blue eyes… spring breeze… summer rain… Natural as sunrise sunset His tongue pleasant to my taste Body heat… Desert dunes… Fire… Arms encircling… snow fall… Passion… San Francisco nights Lovers… boyfriends Kiss me again and again Don’t stop… Lips to ear Man to man… Lips to nose Face nuzzles face… Lips to neck Calm… Serenity… Peace… Two men kissing (back to top) WINNER; 3rd place California State Poetry Society Monthly Poetry Competition 2002 Lost Hills, Ca. Trailers. Plywood shacks. It is my home. Not embarrassed or ashamed of it. It is my life. I’m happy. Dust blows as my momma clips a wet shirt to the clothesline. I watch her kinky, fried, permed hair in the wind. She smiles. I check out my new tattoo and I’m proud of it. Looks cool. Am I white trash? Maybe, but I’m happy. Momma wants a beer and so do I. Dad will be home soon from The Garage. He’s 100% grease ball. Turquoise. That’s the color of my home. A trailer next to a trailer next to a trailer. But, I’m happy. (back to top) Originally published in the California State Poetry Society Poetry Letter 2002 BLACKRAVEN Enter into night in this house of dark and no light. Where Evil lives and ghosts and specters remember… and never forgive. This house, known as Blackraven, haunted by death, where there is no God… there is no heaven. (back to top) Originally published in the Los Angeles Times ? Woe to those That make their differences Into their handicaps… For they will never achieve success. The wise make their Differences into motivation, Which stimulates The competitive spirit To succeed… (back to top) What's In a Name? (Haiku) Dead man on a cross. His name withheld by requests. Chaos builds. Amen. (back to top) The Green That Is Ireland (In honor of Ireland and it's people.) Lush, the face of Ireland is. Infinite rolling and cascading hills of rich green. Sometimes she is the fury of a winters blistering blizzard. Sometimes he is the awesome strength of a coastal white foam splash. Other times she is gentle and caresses her face with the petals of her wild flowers. Her fields are as soft as bed linen. Other times he is anger; a roar that echoes from past generations; battle cries that killed fathers and sons. Always proud. Always courageous. Carpets of green outline its canyons and layers of emerald trace its depths. Grandeur. As once my father told me as a small child, "This is the green that is the Irish. This is the green that is Ireland." And we sat in a mid- day sun shower and fell silent and breathless... beneath a behemoth rainbow of grand and majestic colours... I heard the song of birds... I smelled the perfume of the Irish earth. The flash of rain; sheets of sun glint. A crystal waterfall exploded over a jagged rock cliff. My senses overwhelmed by each shade, and blend, and transition and cast of the green. I kiss this nation. I kiss my country. And I close my eyes and I ponder the words of my papa from long ago; his affirmation was clear and undeniable. Truly, this is the green that is the Irish. This is the green that is Ireland. (back to top) Grandmother's Roses (In honor of all grandmothers) Year after year I'd watch her in her wooden rocking chair. Year to year from boy to man I'd watch her- to myself I'd wonder- Just what is a grandmother? How curious I was. I'd only stare... to comprehend such a simple question... of a grandmother to grandson relation. How do I dare? I thought, to compare her to? Do I really dare? Yes, I do! She is as young as an April's sunrise with rolling waves of purple and violet mists. She is as beautiful as the fields of rich green with warm orange hues... dusted over due... As cool as a summer's rain passing over an ocean blue. Her soothing words of wisdom and love hold motion... in the wind... with this as my muse. I used to ponder the quest to conquer the question, a difficult yet simple test, I answer at my best... It is her love. A love that can nurture, touch, move and affect my soul so deeply. That is my Grandmother. As a rose is of love; and if I could I would honor and give her a forest of them. If I could I would celebrate every grandmother with a galaxy of every colour. A bouquet of praise and gratitude. A rare moment of solitude between a grandson and his grandmother. A moment for just the two. (back to top) Brother (In honor of all brothers) In a daydream that seems so real, I turn back the storybook pages of my childhood book. I look back into those years with happiness and reminiscent tears. You are always there, my brother. I always see you, my hero brother. A smile that reminds me of Tom sawyer. A kid's spirit that's energetic and above all taller. We ran in the grassy fields together surrounding our home... Oh... how we used to chase the winds with our kites...as they would glide and roam the breeze swept skies. Those sunny August summers; we were innocent brothers. Those magic orange and yellow falls which eventually Destiny would finally call. She had built our highway and we would take a separate course... of course. Neither right or wrong. We would follow our own heart. Our own music. And song. One would go left. One would go right. One would go fight. One would live in the city lights. One would believe in church and principle. One would honor and worship with those in the temple. One would go left. One would go right. Both would write their highway they saw ahead in sight. In the map of our lives we are two brothers connected. Both roads respected. Though turn, bump or detour may separate us, our goals can never crumble... perhaps only stumble. A brothers love is never compromised. Only solidified. In my storybook, you are a man, a teacher, a hero. As I turn the pages... I cannot help but to be inspired. You are my brother, whom I highly admire. (back to top)
"Teach My Children was written many years ago. After many re-writes and re-visions, I came to what I believe is a solid and confidant master copy. I then set out to find a home for it. But, much to my dismay, every editor and small press that I submitted it to, slapped a reject on it, and it never found that special home. Recently, I was emotionally shaken and disturbed by the events of the terrorists rampage in Beslan, Russia at Middle School No. 1. In response, I place my poem here. I dedicate the words and it's message to ALL the mother's and father's who lost son's and daughter's to the terrorist's action's on September 11th 2001. To the beautiful people of Madrid, Spain, a train explosion, which tore apart so many of your lives and families, and to Middle School No. 1, your loss is too great to comprehend. Senseless and cowardice acts that have horribly destroyed. I give this poem to you." - Waide Aaron Riddle Teach My Children Teach my children all of you that lead. Teach my children all of you that follow. Teach my children all of you that are educators and full of faith. Teach them about the sunrise and the possible day ahead. Teach them about the sunset and how to reap, enjoy and ponder life's gifts. Teach the importance of thankfulness. Teach comradeship, friendship, honor, kindness and courtesy. Teach the joy of individuality and skill. Teach them pride and integrity and self- respect and forgiveness. When to say "yes" and when to say "no". Teach them beyond the fence and beyond all borders and beyond all barriers. Teach them strength and assertiveness. Teach them how to love and listen. How to save and protect. Teach them the earth, the sun, the moon and everything that spins and flows. Teach my children sportsmanship and perseverance. How to win and how to lose; how to compete and how to be gracious to a new winner. Teach them song, dance, music, movement, the art of art, creativity and self- expression. Teach them about death and how to mourn and celebrate it. Above all, though, teach my children to be a humane human. (back to top) Washington Park Snow swirled and spun… Falling from a gray November sky. High above the Denver skyline… Winter has it’s calm… Floating white powder… a white heaven. The crystals gently tickle pass my nose, frozen on my overcoat. Washington Park… under gray-white…the pines with ice coated bark. …a light blue radiance tints it just right… The cold holds charm…a billowing breeze…the crackling of ice-covered trees. Fresh powdered snow…the gusts dust me with the frozen glitter. The snow falls more heavily… From above… He sits next to me on the park bench. With no words, he hints. His gloved hand holds mine, Time means nothing… He is Love. He whispers the most beautiful words…ever so quietly… into my ear. I listen. I hear his love. His head rests on my shoulder. It’s suddenly warmer than colder. The bow of his neck is smooth… I love that part of him… The short trim of his mussed hair. The hint of the scent of Cool Water lends to this moment. …He is Love… From the gray, white and blue… Blankets cover the park in brilliant white and blue hues. Washington Park With my Love… My muse… (back to top) I Dreamt Of Rain …the sky turned from blue to pale gray and stayed that way all day. …from the pale gray it rained, and it rained all day. COOL……………………………………………..SOFT like petals from a flower. thoughts calm. …a country road under thunder and storm, a warm shower of a summer rain, the earthen smell of grain…rain smell, it’s perfume in my nose, nothing else like it, no dream-words to describe it… …i………….dream……….…on… a forest breeze on my face, rain splatter, water taste any negative erased………………………………… i face the waves of dreams coming my way……….STEAM off concrete after a wild summer shower…i’m in the middle, i giggle…a creepy cold of an October wet… SOGGY. MUDDY. SLUSHY… and oh so YUCKY…an icy bite of a December down pour… it’s like a lions roar…the Ice Angel will be heard. and then August Earth HOT SCORCHING A furnace of rainwater splatters me, the sensation frees me and i am welcomed by the blue to pale gray again. …………………………………………………………………………….COOL……… gentle drizzle, the kiss of mist, the smile of sprinkle, the sleepiness of fog……………… (back to top) A Snowy Day In New York ...Solemn…Sleepy New York City Snowfall……….winter calls……….silver and gold dolls………. Snow drift……….shovel and sift……….Christmas gift Snowflake……….double fudge cake……….cookie and bake Taxi here. People there. The holiday spirit is everywhere. Bloomingdale’s and fairy tales and Santa at Macy’s. Treasures from Tiffany’s All part of the city’s history. A Broadway debut, busses on 5th Avenue. Times Square……….The spotlights glare. Central Park……….romance sparks. Rockefeller Center……….Ice skaters enter. Radio City Music Hall, people applaud, actor’s bow The final curtain call. MANHATTAN! Storefront windows draped in red and green satin. Madison Square Garden, Greenwich Village, Brooklyn and Queens. Always the places to be seen. Chinatown, Spanish Harlem, Little Italy. Silver night. Lovers holding hands. Stop. Kiss. Under a frosted street light… New York…The City… 24/7 Winter’s heaven. (back to top) The Court Jester The act begins. The court jester bows. The jester’s gesture wins applause from the crowd. Silence… motions His Highness. Bells, bangles, baubles Trinkets for the wealthy and royal snobs. Tall tales and comedy skits and jokes for the village folks. He swears he’s no hoax. Tricks with a quick mix of acrobatic kicks. He has their attention! He insists his mysteries are of the non-fiction. The king is pleased as the queen smiles with ease. A glittery costume of shiny tassels. He tells of the legends of the dragon and magic castles. A sudden spin and he’s a flashy blur. A whir that startles his audience. …purples and blues…orange and yellow hues…violets and pinks… …fire and ice colors…a spectral marvel… …a gleam and sheen of blinding red and green… A cloud of rainbow smoke. An exhale of crimson fire followed by a cobalt flame. Commoners and royalty scream at his game. The act finished. The jester vanished. The crowd roars with pleasure at this royal Christmas gift that is such a treasure. The village musicians and minstrels break into a musical ditty. The masquerade and charade is over. What a pity! Now, let the holiday dance begin, as the choir sings in. “What a merry ole’ time it has been.” “Cheers to the court jester.” “For it is he who has won us again!” (back to top) Dark Circus Welcome to the Dark Circus… Every Christmas, traveling from tomb to town, under a sky of blue and red stars. “Ladies and gentlemen…” The ring master greets you in black and white, like a vampire dressed for the night. The hunched back court jester, made up in silver and gold and red, you’d swear he’s already dead. Meet Ivan, the handsome juggler, possessing eyes as blue as the moon. And the ugly old hag, with a bag full of glittered black ‘Devil’s Dust’. The gypsies and minstrels will gladly take your donation, while the beautiful Asian magician will seduce you with her hypnotic levitation. Let the ghosts of eighteen naked dancing men surround you …gladiators and warriors of ancient Rome… The Dark Circus is their home. Beauty in their nudity as they caress each other. A dance that is art. Masculine touching masculine. Dancing in waves of sodomy and oral pleasures that tongue and lips treasure. The audience is in shock! Only the timid will walk. The Dark Circus will leave you with a devils smile. The blue and red night is coming to a close, it’s just about through, the ring master tips his hat and says, “Merry Christmas to you.” (back to top) Beautiful Blue When I look into your eyes I see a summer rain… Falling on an ocean… Sunlight shimmering through cloud. Raindrops… Glistening… (back to top) Evening It is the falling of day into evening…transcending… purple to cobalt and back. I shiver in cold. Not sad, but filled with awe. This majesty that is painted before me… touches me… holding my tongue. The great Divine shouts its power. Lifting and shading crystal covered peaks that give way to rugged cliffs. Speckled deer sprint through layers of powdered snow. The night wind whips through my soul and gusts over a frozen lake. A water- fall iced solid in time. The stars begin to glint over- head. The purple- cobalt falls ever deeper… and… it is as quiet as sleep. (back to top) In The Bloom of The Day (for Carlin) In the bloom of the day I can hear God. I can see His face. And everything is good. And everything is beautiful. In the bloom of the day, in the blues and purples of sunrise, in the pinks and reds of sunset, He is there, and everything is good. And everything is beautiful. I see Him in the dance of stars in all the heavens. I see Him in summer rains and shades of rainbow. In the magic of a butterflies flight, in the color of every season, and everything is good in the bloom of the day. Everything is beautiful. I can hear Him in the cool of the breeze. I can hear Him in the crashing of the ocean, the roar of the sea, in the movement of the river, and in the trickle of the forgotten brook, stream and creek. In the echo of cavern and cave. In the field of dew moist flowers. In the bloom of the day, everything is good. And everything is beautiful. His whisper is in the flutter of the robin and sparrow’s wing. In the bloom of the day I see joy. Joy in the golden shine of your eyes. Joy in the happiness of your smile. And everything is good. And everything is beautiful. (back to top) Nothing Said (for Pablo) Streetlight Ever so gentle Silhouetted the midnight darkness Within the entry hall. Sadly, I thought the evening was coming to an abrupt close. You said nothing. Then you kissed me. A kiss that lasted several hours. My world Rocked and rolled In waves. In your bedroom nothing was said. But everything was communicated. In gray darkness With gentle streetlight We rocked and rolled In waves together. Just before sunrise, you held me in your arms… we fell asleep. It couldn’t be more perfect. Nothing was said. Nothing to say. Everything spoken. (back to top) There Is a Man (for Tom) There is a man that is a hero. He is strong and boldly confident. Never weak. Never unsure. Never hesitates. This man is self- driven and lusts for all that is good and available in life. He demands it! He has had more lives than that of the cat… and then some. This man… this amazing man can make the rain into lightening and lightening into thunder. He can make the ocean’s roar mightier than the lion. He is the hero of my heart. Capable of breaking and mending it. He gives mercy and grace and forgiveness to those who ache. He fights like a warrior. Lone, against a million enemies and will triumph over all. He is courageous and brave, meeting Death’s angels’ face- to- face and head on. A man, a hero, bound in a white knight’s armor and carrying the sword of God; Swinging and striking till Death runs away in fear. There is a man who takes on the world and honors it’s challenges. Never showing doubt. There is a man whose eyes are of radiant hazel. Pools of awe. Full of starlight and moon glow. Many times kind. Sometimes romantic. Sometimes explosive with fire and rage. Other times as cool as green and cool enough to melt away wax. He is a man of many stories and tales. Yesterday and today. Both tall and small. A man with a smile that can change any dark moment into a beautiful painting, so beautiful it brings upon tears. There is a man who is my hero. That man is you. (back to top) Finish Carpenter Blues (for Tom) His eyes match his work shirt. Blue. Ripped. Torn away at the sleeves. Tattoos riddle and wind along his biceps and triceps. His face is rugged, worn and handsome; lined with wrinkles of experience; studded with ‘bad boy’ scars; smudged with muss, grease and dirt. The smell of saw dust. His jeans faded, tattered in a couple of places… flesh visible. He hammers to nail. Tips his baseball cap. He measures, he slices, he fits carpet. Welds a steel rail. It’s not perfect till his eye sees perfect… then…perfect… His tool kit runneth over. Wiring wires to more wires. He re-adjusts his baseball cap. He paints wood, and with each forward and backward brush stroke it becomes as smooth as velvet. He is precise. Articulate. He folds and scaffolds. Saw to wood. Wood chips, dust and debris drop to the tarp. A CUT! BLOOD! He doesn’t even flinch. He sprays water into gray dust- mixes- and he has made cement. Heat bends and burns and turns. His hands are rough and strong. Brick against brick. An electric saw- a solid grip and he saws through marble. His body is steady but strains. His step remains planted. Marble squares placed masterfully. He smoothes out wallpaper. He lifts a generator. He fixes an alternator. He chops wood with an axe… whittles it into a bookrack. He stains a chair. Finishes a desk. Applies the hinges to a cabinet. Rewires with pliers. Polishes off a tub with the help of a rag and a firm rub. He creates from numbers and rulers and angles. He is an artist. Making the awe in awestruck. Making the beauty in beautiful. He is a Master Craftsman. He is a Finish Carpenter. (back to top) Galveston 1970 The little boy awoke to the distant sound of an airplane…outside…overhead. Groggy. His Saturday afternoon nap interrupted. The trailer was fresh with ocean breeze. Windows open. Curtains billowing. His home. Mama still snoozing next to him… the purr of her snore. He looked out the window and saw daddy bent under the hood of the Chevrolet. Fixin’ somethin’ The boy squinted his eyes at the summers sun bright. The oceans white foam raced against the beach sand. Salty… he could smell and taste it. The little boy fell back into his nap. (back to top) "I am a Poet" I am a poet that demands to be heard! I am a poet who speaks to provoke and scandalize, seduce and celebrate. My words alarm and at times even cause harm. I am a poet who challenges the freedoms of expression. My voice has been censored, my sentences banned, my paragraphs burned. My work has been whispered about, honored, and in time, critiqued for relevance. My letters stimulate educators to educate and students to analyze. Classrooms, libraries and museums honor me as if I am sacred. I am a poet that will be heard! I am a poet who gives solace and comfort in times of devastation. I am a poet who brings the Christian and Jew together yet drive them apart by old translation and new interpretation. My morning sonnets give peace. My exclamation point creates threat. My translations start war. My contradictions inspire revolution. I am a poet who sees beauty in tears and reason in anger. I question salvation and believe in redemption. I am a poet who is older than the first word drawn and younger than the last word spoken. I am a poet and I will be heard! (back to top) Jack O' Lantern Fever * Originally published in “All-American Texan”, “4-Front Magazine” and the “NO HO LA NEWS”. Tick tock chimes the old clock. It’s midnight, time to fire the night. Strike the match! Crimson orange light. Pumpkin bright. Slice it with a knife. Jagged teeth. Scary eyes. How about a piece of pumpkin pie? Mystical. Magical. Ancient and phenomenal. Celebrate and participate, in this Halloween ritual. Eerie… creepy… ghoulish fun. In the pumpkin patch, ‘round the bon fire, near the cemetery… Hey, that’s where it is! Grab a white sheet! Hold your pumpkin tight! ‘Cause I hear it’s going to be a bumpy night! Don’t take it seriously. Have a little fun. That’s what it’s all about. ‘Cause if you don’t… We’ll just have to kick you out! (back to top) October 17th Denver. Dawn. Cherry Creek. I walk the century old cobble stone road just as the sun’s pink makes way for Father Autumn to greet me. A firm fall breeze billows. Colors raining down upon me. A web of red, gold, orange, yellow and brown. Leaves… (back to top) Timing Is Everything (for Sean) He kissed me on Abbot Kinney, in front of an antique boutique. It was 10 in the evening. You know, the kind of boutique that has holiday lights nailed to the front façade year round. Tacky, but cool at the same time. He kissed me again at 11:30 as we ate chocolate ice cream. We shared a pint, sitting on a bus bench at Sunset Blvd. & P.C. H. Passersby saw us and smiled and gave us the thumbs up. At 12:30 in the morning he kissed me as we stood at the surf. It was foggy & the city lights were muted down to a gritty film. His face was illuminated in dark gray, almost invisible. 2 am in a Santa Monica hotel on Pacific, we opened the windows for the whole world to watch. No, we didn’t make love, but rather, we had pure unadulterated sex. The kind of sex that has no rules, no regulations and definitely no limits in pleasure. Sex that has a delicious physical hurt and is sometimes painful but feels damn good. A little slapping. A little spanking. A little clumsy. A little klutzy. A little wrestling. More sweat than a hot workout. Rapid breath. Animal grunting. Carnal reflex. Primal positions. A little giggling. His salt tasted like sugar. The smell of sex was swept away by an ocean breeze, only to drift back again… and again. No debates & no arguments on who’s top or bottom. Animal instinct rules. 6 am rolled in with the waves. We settled back then went back to it. Exhausted, but still very hungry. The morning sun soon shone itself and the day was just beginning.
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©2003-2004 waide aaron riddle