John Allen Richter

John Allen Richter Poems

The brown tipped grass peeked through the snow -
With stems quite cold and forlorn.
The north gale came and so winds did blow
and nodded their heads in form.

As I stood there, wondering “Who am I”
and what should I tell you about myself
an angel touched my shoulder and said
“Excuse me sir,

If Heaven's path were made for one
and ne're a choice but to walk alone
then I wonder what should become
of my absence in God's lovely home…

Story book dreams, feathered seams,
glory finds comfort by two’s;
Zeros and ones, petticoat suns,
the best of life to lose……

The blackened burl of charred remains -
stands the gnarl of great walnut tree.
Stretching his arms into the blue -
as though his very life to plead.

The world didn’t stop – street lamp glowing –
throwing – hues of light upon the corner’s darkness.
Walked I – walked I – right on by –
lest the man say “You there, odd little man –

They don't tell you, you see
about the things
the inside things
the real things

I often felt that Robert Frost -
was in my own inflamed heart -
For when all else seemed harringly lost -
my pen had no trouble to start…

If ever I should fall in love,
t'would be a gal of your vortices -
the only hope I'd pray to find
is one without rigor mortises…

Within a moment, can solemn worry -
from a care-free life loving lore,
foresee the grieving wretch of me,
with the great loss of dear Elinore.

Milk and honey flows through our lives -
not hearing those others' caged cries...
Laying gruffly in our silken gowns -
complaining of our tarnished crowns -

I saw the dog house
while rowing down main
in my pancake boat.
It was kind of soggy,

I speak, sometimes
when life gives cause
but sometimes, sometimes
winds of whispers drown me

In later years - while my very bones ache -
lamenting the creaking noises of youth gone by..
only thoughts of your sweet tenderness -
verify my will to remain alive.

This grey day poured itself thick as sludge
and my weary self destined to drudge
through sadness long as the width of pain.
Lo, angels sang and God be judge

I remember mama down in the kitchen
Cooking those eggs
I Heard her pop ’em on the griddle
I can still smell the coffee brewing in the kettle

Oh Mr. Sparrow, your song preceeds you so -
the uproar from your belly -
should find such pleasantness near.
My ears do swallow it whole -


I never grind the pepper shaker,
when shaking alone will work.
Unless it's needed - as a salad needed seeded,
then I'll grind it like a twork!

There was once a lady in
my childhood library -
with posture quite great
but with arms very hairy..

Words, like rain drops, come as spear tips -
ripping through the softness of my soul.
Yet I lay still - waiting for an end -
motionless - accepting the pain's fullness.

John Allen Richter Biography

Third person narratives are somewhat pretentious, I think, at least for we poets who are still living. If I would start this by claiming " John Allen Richter" was this or did that or the other - then I would feel a little silly. As Abraham Lincoln once exclaimed after viewing a photo of himself - 'So here is the creature itself! ' And so too, here am I before you - no mystique, no mystery, no great intrigue as might be conjured by a narrative from someone else. I am he, John, the simple man who has been given an insatiable desire - sporadically - to sit and write things down. You will either like them or not. But I hope that you will. I was born in a small Indiana city of about 40,000 souls called Richmond in the late 1950s. My father was Frederick Richter - (as is my youngest son) - and my mother was Valerie - a beautiful aussie from Melbourne. Dad was stationed there during WWII and once told me that he won her in a game of cards. I always thought he was bluffing. I rarely felt he deserved the winnings of that card game. I have also been blessed with five beautiful sisters and one very admirable brother. At 17 years and one week old I joined the United States Army. While growing up we all watched the Viet Nam war on television every night - good old Walter Cronkite and the news. There was no way that I would miss it. Unfortunately it was too late. They had already pulled our soldiers out before I enlisted. So I went to Germany for three years and found the best beer and women that I've ever tasted. And in that order. I was married twice - once to a friend - Tawnya Jester - a match which resulted in our son James Cody. And a second time to Betsy Scott - resulting in another son - afore mentioned Fred - and daughters Sarah and Chelsea. I divorced in 2012 and am happily entanglement free at the moment. Now for the meat and potatoes. Poetry. I write poetry because I have no choice. It wells up within me and simply must come out - as well as any other bodily function or pus-filled pimple. Poetry is just a little less messy. Edgar Allen Poe said that 'With me poetry has not been a purpose, but rather a passion.' I feel exactly the same. I don't think my poetry is very good. I read other's poetry often - and find myself sometimes comparing it with my own. I rarely win those comparisons. I've been writing poetry as long as I can remember. And by that I mean my earliest memories at 3 or 4 years of age. My mother used to write it down for me because at four years of age I was illiterate. She once showed some of them to my father, which quickly initiated an eye-roll. My mother always beamed about them though, as mothers will do, I suppose. My poetry was pretty well hidden until grade 6, when a teacher - named Pamela Smith Snyder - encouraged me to pursue my writing. She introduced me to Emily Dickinson - who soon after became my soul-mate. I'd like to thank you for visiting my page and hope that your brief stay was pleasant. And as always I will encourage you, and everyone, to be someone else's Pamela Smith Snyder.)

The Best Poem Of John Allen Richter

Moonlight Ride

The brown tipped grass peeked through the snow -
With stems quite cold and forlorn.
The north gale came and so winds did blow
and nodded their heads in form.

As for I, a moonlit ride -
on my horse, steady and slow.
With her cold and shivering skin below -
I said 'Not much further to go.'

She low'r'd her head, and back again,
to ring her bridle bell.
As if to say 'Why dear friend,
did you put us in winter's hell? '

'Well, ol' nag, it's like this, you see…
for forty nights I've been alone.
And down the creekbed lives Miss Weatherby,
and I'd like to kiss her some.'

Just on que the old nag said squarely,
'Twenty miles in a blizzard storm?
To get something that finds you rarely
when beautiful weather's the norm? '

'Just my luck, ' I said with disdain,
'To have such a cyncical horse.'
But wondered if I could be insane,
for talking to a horse of course!

Naw, no, I should ever think not.
For my ears wouldn't give such slack.
For if I were insane,
…..I think it would be plain,
That my horse wouldn't answer back.

'I'll ask you to quiet down, Nellie,
because we're almost there.
Miss Weatherby's a cheeky sort,
who'll spook and run on a scare.'

Nellie laughed and said with a thrill -
'So you think I'd be the source?
Well, my friend, better check again.
You're the one talking to a horse.'

John Allen Richter Comments

John Allen Richter Quotes

Time makes a day like a year when you're young - and a year like a day when you're old. I'm not sure which is better - diaper-rash-wise...

It's no wonder why God made the heart a muscle. It takes a lot of strength to love sometimes. Like when your teenage son comes home with a rainbow Mohawk haircut and complains that you just don't get it. Valid argument.

Love is something that happens after the pitter-patter, after our feet come back to the ground. Love is like eating dessert first, and then working through the gristle later. Love is the gristle. The happy-happy part is just Mother Nature putting a little something in our step....

...and then God made woman. I'm OK with that. In fact, if I didn't have one I would probably write my own post-it notes to constantly remind myself how stupid and useless I am. My only regret is that we can't blame God for kids. That one's totally on us....

True poetry is rarely purposely done, It's really more like a fundamental part of who the poet is. It's like sleeping or eating. When your passion erupts it just is, and you write it down just as when you sit at the table to eat when you feel hungry.

Great heroes have always surrounded us. It seems that only death sheds light on them though, because history is replete with them. Yet when we turn our senses toward our own generation - they seem to blend in with the rest of we tremendous impostors and mostly go unseen. That's one small part of what makes them so great.

The passion for poetry is innate - but good poetry only comes from the honest, critical eyes of others.

The very reason our lives exist - the purpose for our very being - is to learn how to love. (Because we fail miserably at it.) Love is not a feeling, but something that causes you to stop whatever you are doing and immediately help to resolve an issue with someone you have found to be in need. Love is something projected - not something expected. Expecting love is called selfishness. And you will never find it outside of your own heart.

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