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Feb. 21st, 2013

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Mar. 25th, 2008

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I must tell you all that something terrible has happened to my family, and to me.  My nephew, Chase Tatum, was found dead in his house this past weekend in Atlanta.  He was a new actor/leading man in the film industry.  If you want to know more about him, just do a search on the internet or watch Fox News, as they are reporting his death.
Chase was a beautiful human being who was vilified by my family as he struggled with steroid addictions earlier in his life, as well as his current alchohol addiction.  He had just come from having back surgery which he sustained while in his short professional wrestling career.  He had developed his acting skills from there and was making headway in getting a new beginning.  He co-starred in a movie this past summer/fall called Who's Your Caddy?.  
There are two things I want to learn to accept from this, my experience.  Anyone, and I mean anyone, deserves a chance to begin again.  Family, friends, siblings, and society must always constitute the faith it takes to help human beings do what they do best, change, though it is a painful hard process.  The other thing is that we must never stop learning and changing.  Never.  When we do,  we open yourself up to vilification from false friends, unworthy family and siblings, and most assuredly an uncaring society, all of whom can place impossible demands on us as individuals.  We cannot please everyone about who we have been and who we are becoming. We must learn to please ourselves about who we have been and who we are becoming.

I love you, Chase, and I'm sorry I let you down in my blindess and fear.  I will try to do better.  I promise.
CC Ryder

Mar. 14th, 2008

Olivia's Postmodern Sixteenth Birthday Celebration

Of all the years, not giving a fiddle, the sixteenth groans
At least just a little, moans, peering over its pithy old shoulder
Down the valley of memories that threads for its child 
So many red 'hoods' in "I told her!"
It's a magical, flirtatious, delicious domain with tinkers and bells,
Surprises and spells, with squeezes and pinches
And sugar sweet shells.

Of all the years, the sixteenth whispers and shushes
A moment, at least, awash, farfetched into a future
Full of kaleidoscope prisms, perspectives,
Opinions, but sad, no dragons, no wishes.
No more spells and elves, nor even some witches.

Of all the years, the sixteenth ahumphs
Away nightmare fears and babyified tears,
And welcomes the brand newest of questions
The best of all answers that bring, ah, what, but
More of the same old brand newest of selections of questions.

So, be awake in your stride in the halls of the latest of niches,
When the cook throws all of the finest of all of the dishes,
while those, and the maddest of mad Hatters madly comes calling,
Calling for toasting a month of March Hare with not a sign of mad malice,
At the party in the future for my fine and sweet Alice.

These are my hopes for all the new floats
In the parade of new senses
With life changing tenses, dreams we have traded
After all, from what was, to what will, 
Before none,in the mirror, all now and upgraded
Sweet Alice all aglow and unbridled in Wonder.
Henceforth and just so, my good and kind daughter,
As this was just so and so forth, for even with me, ever so, such a bother.
Then life, for you, so old as it was, and young as it is, so both shall it seem.
With love from your ancient, outdated and silly old father. 

Mar. 6th, 2008

Speaking of Optimus Prime & the poetry of Dance

Tags: ,

The City of Bulbil

Burgeoning tropical ivy, miniature thicket of lush,

A plantation of several past-seasons,
Serving its day for cardinal and jay,
A spa for the ermine as well as the thief.
A Bazaar, festooning with vermin cocooning,
Masses of masques in the piling, laughing, leafing askew.
On the land’s cape, alcoves in watermelon shades of ivory,
Meander, hidden in, up to the hub of the city
While verdant virgins, At the ends of their lifts,
Lime-minarets meandering, aspiring to account for unraveling,
And leaves in fear of the fall, in hope of support from below,
Climb down the sphere on spiral agendas, and seek roots away from the ramparts,
Only to find the Scythian blade of the hoe.  Far above, at the top of the ball,
In the eye of the orb, an elephantine floral caliph
Who wears caladium-leaf for a crown.  His heart is the holy city of Bulbil,
The sacred shape of his plan, with a temple behind it, the glory,
A spinneret-bud spins a high-flung story. a living spinet of loose strung ivy
Each string in its very own current, finger-leaves plucking the wind for its tale.
Bulbil’s idols, on the roof of the temple, stand guard over man,
What colour we cannot know,  For in the belly of Buddha,
Is the seed hid from the sun for the glow?

Round his belly and up to the altar from an outside stair, we can view them,
The idols, that is: and their priests all bowing low to their pontiff
A yellowish snakeskin battle feeding the winds with mystique,
And suckling life from the heat.  The pontiff, king of the bishop
With the hood of a cobra, his cap, he threatens blue blackbird-thieves,
And tolls the worship of leaves. In a view from my space,
At the window,  It’s all so non-pareil, for the distance.
Simply some leaves and some ivy at the feet.
Rather sane, except for their cranberry showers
To skyward, flowing back on themselves and their stems,
Having watered tourmaline regions and on to their stingray edges
With bends and pink splashes, warm on the peach-skin fuzz of the face.
The whole thing looks rather moot, as the shoots of the banyan
Take root, to support the rite of the vine to hold, up a gargantuan offal of ivy,
With, its center, hidden, divine

My Untimely Demise

Well, I've not posted in so long I forgot my password.  Does that about cover it?  I won't go into the nature of the voluminous funk I've been in for this period of time, but I feel somewhat elated today, as if i'm coming out of Plato's cave seeing the sun for the first time.  I'm blinded by the light, and I'm a little afraid, perhaps even more than a little.  The reason is a natural one in that when one has been facing one failure after another so that it becomes a pattern, one is afraid that the truth one sees may be merely another illusion.  Of course, it's all illusions anyway, but we like the feel of control and order over the illusions we create for ourselves and our wellbeing.  

If all goes well, I'm back, and even if it doesn't perhaps I'm back anyway.  This is such a good place to come back to, really it is.  Even when it is only me talking to me. 

Dec. 24th, 2007

Christmas, this year

A man is blessed to call someone his friend,
For those are such rare finds in life,
A man is graced to call someone his daughter,
For she is, in truth, one of a kind.

You, daughter, who are truly one of a kind,
I like to call my friend, too.
In the still moment of a glance, I see God's grace
alight there, showering me, celebrating love.
No father could ask for more.

Like a river you may never see,
So may my love run in your light.
Yet it remains true for all
I am worth
In my small life, for all
To see.

About this same time In your life, 
in my life, I discovered 
The lesson of Christ's birthday.
The gifts we give one another 
On this day,
Is the gift of the grace
He gives us,
By His presence in one another, 
As we see in others,

And, when i catch sight of me
In the space of a blink 
Of an eye, as you watch
The world I know,
You make me more than I am.

For this, I will be eternally grateful 
To His Majesty, the Lord of Love.
So, Happy Birthday, Jesus, 
My friend, what a gift you give.

Nov. 24th, 2007

Atlanta Class of '66

 Bent fenders, outspoken by the gas to get there,
‘Never-minded’ by rear-rending hams-in-the-moon,
Were zippered by bondo and struck by a spare,
Re-made by ‘Mericans,’ not done-up in Kowloon.
We hit the Hursht shift, hunting rabbits in headlights.
The five-speeds in GTO sang out the blues
In the ball bugging bellbottoms of hip-hugging midnight,
And took the rock outa roll, the bugs in the Beatles
and the blue suede shoes.
Atlanta was a hotbed for catchers-in-the-rye.
Lance played with Arthur in the gym, on stage,
And the spring spewed blond from a bottle-a-dye.
Michael, our pimp and a cheat, played the paige.
So, a toast to the pure, to the greedy score-counting whore,
To Maybelline and Michael, who rowed his boat ashore.
C.C. Ryder
July 26, © 1990

Oct. 31st, 2007

Love of Metaphor, Metaphor of Love

The elegance of words
Weaves and whispers your name
On the wind. In a smoky ghost
Of Difference and “différance,”
One of its currents curls
Over the allusion
Of an ‘other’ to another.
Like an egret
Atop a cypress stump,
The Symbol of flight awaits
The swamp of its touch.
No dumb waiter, the breadth of silence,
The current . . .
. . . A touch.
Your alpha and your omega,
It makes you the nothing ‘something’ you are.
And, it makes me love you.
Ccryder 1994

Can Ya See Me Now?

Can ya see me now?
Can ya see me now?
How ‘bout now?
God knows ‘bout ya,
An’ so do I.
How ‘bout now?
Saw a kid th’other day
Crossin’ n’ street,
And god knows ‘bout him too.’
He straddled that hood so nice,
Blood and guts, what a treat.
How it musta hurt
Hittin’ that concrete.
Ya ever scrape your knee or
Your cheek in a fall?
Ain’t pleasant. Just a scald.
God, how it burns.
The soul knows ‘bout it.
The whole soul knows,
Yur whole ole soul.
How the hatred burns ya guts.
That stringy crap-laden soul
So darkened by my knowin’ ya,
The way I do.
CC Ryder

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