Poetic Philosophy Poetry Ryder

Supine Wit

Supine wit

curdled dust

backen sit

cradled rust


floor’s face

ceiling’s foe

dirt’s grace

buried toe


Human mulch

Tender rot

Bridged gulch

To the silent lot

Poetic Philosophy Ryder

A Place Loved

My home is a candle, an ocean,
A lapping, a purr,
A flicker and a church.
I live the space,
Beyond geometry,
Pure phenomenology,
A crescent, a sun,
An essence, a skin.
I behold and am beheld,
My shelves of my shell,
My stress, my virtue.
My house is a daydream,
A poet’s plaything,
A place of sweet pain,
My comfort, my fury,
Winter ache so blurry.
Do you feel my home,
My memories tied down,
My loud, my soft.
A place loved
Contradicts in the seams,
Addicts all dreams.

Poetic Philosophy Ryder

Image of an Echo

An echo is a ripple heard
A ripple is an echo seen
The breath is an echo felt
Love is the breath smelled
Sex is love’s taste
And Love’s taste is an echoed soul

Poetic Philosophy Ryder

Cold Hot Hollow

The ice melts in my hand

and my work is numb.

I err on the side of heat

sparks licking my tongue.

Her gaze is effervescent

but round and hollow.


A trick poisons me,

a delicious poison that

addicts me. I dream of it

melting in my hands

licking my tongue

carving me round

and hollow.

Poetic Philosophy Ryder

Tired Words.

Words get



Tired of being

tried. Tired.

Meaning fades

like a summer siesta

or winter chill.

Words get


of similes,

of ‘is’es and

of islands.

Poetic Philosophy Ryder

So Much Sitting

Late hours with chamomile,

and art a fascination,

lamp a subtle flutter

you float

Outdented and homestruck,

mind in forest, weeds

Slipping away

into muck.


Cold Xhosa splash

jazz in eyes, black flash

we’re gone


Academic fate

bloodpooled legs

rhyme esca-



Poetic Philosophy Ryder

The Sliding

Sliding sidelong fantasy, the

train ride’s coggy thrust.

Strange eyes watch the flight.

Fields and clouds shout about

flood of earth and mist,

modern fist, punching hard

leaving bruisy scars.

Tattoo sighs humble, mumbles,

near the jiggle of connection,

the grinding.


Executive faith wanders cars,

ticket Tyrant on her path.

Red light way fades as rhymes and stories

thunder on, red shacks with mold untold

gather myths,

like strange lives on gurny’d journies.

Tattoo yawns a longing, as do

phone balks and crescent dreams.

Anger tightens me, and a laugh splays.

In turn pen drawls scrawls without pause,

as it steals my thoughts and distracts claws.

It’s a rumble rant that they don’t understand, but it

is a pressing message in and out and suffering some doubt but so eyes

are busy.


Stories suffocate, are too much to drink in this short ride,

like my teacher of another place, another space,

he is subject of my wonder as he

made me wonder.


My strings slide as mountains

fields and wires fly,

birdlike flutter and occasional stutter.

But my plan is boiled and it took a coil

to run this engine and a coil

to run me ouroboric

on this hemp with pen.

I listen to both and they shed

stories, maybe glory,

surely struggle,

a folly shrug of no faith but like

the Tyrant

after meeting nobodies and everybody

all day. Rambled truth

shields glass eyes from stealing sliding

from me and sides,

from my gaze of sliding minutes

sadly storied, maybe glory

surely struggle.


Herb smell places itself in my nose

after stranger’s assless pass. A

story leaves and a pink story comes

commands and demands in winter-spring sliding.


Brief rests set me straight during this tense wait,

nothing like grating glances settling prances and chances

undermined, like quick sips and passers by;

different gaits slide through the gate,

by swamps and bumpy water,

pink child roaming with mild grasping

of a task in palms (maybe psalms),

to ringing alms before the grinding.


A curve suggests my destiny, approaching

through the walls, and over a bridge over water.

Now blackness slides and only lights remind

me of time.

The guts are gutteral, ferocious,

precious and precocious,

with herb and stumble again,

dazed and hooded. Burnt rubbers

brunt a rub into noses who

hesitate before sliding,

the slayer.

Sliding slows and we no longer go,

I step off and enter my next public


my story.

Poetic Philosophy Ryder

Sounds of Babel


In the storm

In the atom

For the story,

For the song–

In sparrow’s quiver,

In endless rabble:

For the story,

The sounds of Babel.

Laugh and frown

Dirt and crown,

Seas and tears

Are all the same

In your ears.

Poetic Philosophy Ryder

The Tightening

Skylicks from rainrunning, like doglicks

on backknees. A splay of gloryglee.

Artdrawlings fumble coolmeaning,

a forest’s soarthrust of dawn underfeet,

underplea for peacefree rhythm whispers.

Dissenters descend like Alette meeting knowbodies,

and no bodies but twirling voices thrust,

where poison black diamonds sip aether

and ether and slythrill ecstatea.

Mellowcello vibe writhes in the moor,

churchruins dooming Onegod, a style

of broomtrials unswept with the dusthate.

Foolhardy and hearty the bardy lord

roamed for lovelore but found guidinggore.

but the mission unspoiled by the crosswise lawsuit,

shirtandtie swoop for the unscience defiance

of the reprisand demand of the sea plea,

threw the mildtruth like jaggedtooth carved

your tightened torso.

Poetic Philosophy Ryder

1/12 Love

The smell of lentils and cumin and winter

drown the house. The faith for heat will be



I dream of dusty deserts and hot desserts.

I am smug. Like my tea mug with a piping bag

swirling in the cold ignorance.


June is prayed for and against. She is dominating,

sits in your lap with strong legs, asks you to massage

her fiery hair.


She comes and goes, wakes in the morning before you.

The heat of her presence stains the bed, betrays

your loving rage.


Poetic Philosophy Ryder

Bitter Chance

The request comes packaged in formalities,

but it discusses meager trivialities.

The bitter chance plunges into my heart

and I ponder the meanings that taste me tart.


I venture out endurance of proclivity,

the choices sear a true longevity.

And borderlines bask in the background,

while remnants scream their black sound.

Poetic Philosophy Ryder


The quill drips

black ink onto the letter

addressed to my friend–

she is gone to Vienna.


Reddened leaves crackle


whose veins are varicose

as hers were

in winter and


in summer–



combustion is loud

above the trees, burning

louder than the wind’s

bluegrey frolic.