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.

By Ryder

I am a writer, furniture designer and a musician. I enjoy synthesizing information because it helps me (and hopefully others) understand subjects in a systematic way.

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