From The Wanderer by Ron Riddell

From Santa Elena


Waiting for the bus to come
     in the midday heat, for the time to come
for feet to make their way

aboard and find a seat
     for the coach to run and totter
down to the teeming town.

It was there, a woman beside me
     helped me gather my papers up
saying why not stay, we could live as one?

I thanked her, saying I would stay in touch
     we smiled, held hands
that promised much.

Waiting for the rain to come
     to thunder down
from a darkened sun

waiting for cascades
     of song; for them to tell me
where I am and where I’m bound.

From Rio Cedro


The journey resumes
     we hold our breath
as if the journey will falter
     and not continue

as if the journey
     will halt, crack
and spill into the street
     releasing us with it

the long haul, the short haul
     ending the same way:
someone calls “cut”
     and the scene is done ...

Yet the dead still whisper.
     How can we ignore them?
How can we deprive them of
     the love they desire?

Please don’t leave us here
alone in the dark.

Beyond the veil they go
     they smile, they glow
and fill the clouds
     to overflowing.

The dead wait for us
with gifts in kind
in their cold white hands
clear light of rain.

© Poems Ron Riddell, 2020