.
Poems
Literary Works by Nancy Reil Riojas  ~ U.S. Copyright Office, Washington, D.C.

POEMS ©


Lost Without Her






My Cousin Paul brought me a rose today.

It truly was not for me

But for his silent wife.

I loved her.

He loved her more, much more.

May God guide him now,

This broken heart,

Lost, so lost without her.


Running With the Wind





Invisible fingers whisk hair,
gently caressing her neck.
Wind puffs kisses at her face,
wrapping his arms around her, 
seeming to devour.

As sweet nothings
slither up her spine,
she turns to that weathervane,
always fine,
suddenly
spinning, spinning the rooster ‘till blind. 

Leaves dance
to clear a path which she runs
to a favorite spot ―the cliff.
She stops
to catch a breath.

“Oh, what a beautiful sight, that sea 
if not for those dark clouds I see.”

Precious time she squanders.
Bright light stretches no farther.
Dark nips heels,
 sprinting in pain
through stinging rain.

Near falling at her haven,
 hands grip wood with might,
But Herculean gusts
slam the front door
open tight!

Drapes blast apart,
 gyrate to depart
out the back door,
 flinging open, flinging open.

Violent rain propels, oscillates,
shoving, shoving 
all his weight.

Paintings
cling on
by wires strong.

Drawers pluck out,
suffer no route,
helplessly
cast about.

After harrowing cries,
she swallows dry.

Small shoulders press
against a dreaded thrill:
hinged door cowers
when the cyclone shrills―
to devour!

Hugging allies jerk loose
to convolute
so destitute 
above the condo.

All books, clothes, furniture follow,
jerk and blast in commotion
past, past, past,
―past the sea
into the ocean.

. . . . . . . .The condo now peaceful and hollow,
this gorged tornado
gentles toward no tomorrow. 





Pied Piper of Black Oak











It starts with his imaginary magic flute playing.
In slow motion he gently b-l-o-w-s with passionate breath.
Out comes a mysterious, foggy spell,
Promising grandeur
Right into nostrils of your little doggie!

By the second or third encounter
Just don’t bother.
You must shop for another.
Leave the pooch behind with the Pied Piper who captured his love,
So slick, so suave, so debonair.

It matters not age, nor size, nor group.
Mongrel, thoroughbred, mutt or pup,
He loves them all.
You had better pay attention!
When he’s around, your dog’s psyche is overtaken.

Once under his power, they faithfully follow his every whim.
A marching convoy of doggies line up one by one,
Soon to live out a glorious life.

“Where are we going?” they ask one another.
“To the ends of the earth for all we care!”
“Wherever he’s going, we must be there!”

💖 Dedicated to Johnny S. Riojas, Pied Piper of Black Oak 

Simply Cards





Saved mountains of Secret cards preserved for decades.
Secure and permanent original lines, 
lost art, a
Spark of the person not captured any other way.
Signed treasures
Standout and remind me of those who
have Shared  
Social and Sentimental times . . . .
Sympathies, Christmases, Thanksgivings, Easters, Birthdays,
Mother’s Days, Father’s Days, Anniversaries, Weddings,
Graduations, and Thank Yous.

Some Send Special handwritten loving expressions,
Several kind thoughts feed my grateful part.
Sincerely, though . . . only time tells who we truly are,
Since Sparse few
Shift far from the heart.

Stacked so thickly cabinet drawers
Show Scarce room to breathe, yet
Still today . . . all . . . worthy of keep. Like my late father’s,
Slowly, at times I re-read . . . then after me,
Speached by heirs, Stimulating heirlooms of
Secret cards  
Should Serve to Seed.

Shut Down
~ A True Story ~









In the summer’s sweltering heat,
Mother drives him forty miles each way
To an airfield where he’ll learn to fly
All paid for ― all free.

He’s a young student selected by a group retired
Who once did ride the winds so high.
Only four cadets chosen in Texas schools,
Totaling two million in size.

While in the smallest flying machine,
No heavy one can sit.
Allowed room in this cockpit,
Not quite large enough for two
So slim . . . so fit.

After several weeks
Keen notes the instructor keeps
lessons one by one.

Looking up, shading her eyes from sun,
Mother hears but cannot see
Faint put-putting of an engine.
Little strength in this machine.

Yellow dress and high heels
Cheer, jump, and wave with glee.
While a mile long lonesome runway
Keeps her company.

Lower for the landing, the instructor blurts,
“Who’s that woman?!”
“That’s my Mom. She’s excited about all this.”

Until
One day they perform a “stall.”
While in midair engine stops.
In free fall 
is restarted and pulled out of its rapid drop.
“A shut down in a Cessna?! My God!,” Mother exclaims.

Soon he flies the plane and lands like a sweet dream,
Smooth―kind―gentle―able to stop on a shim.
Not driving a car yet, only seventeen,
Choosing a future in flying?  ― entirely up to him.


Envy a Bee
~ A True Story ~

In the garden
My little dog jerks,
To and fro, to and fro.
What is she up to?
What does she see?

Ahhh, a bumble bee
―That darts freely.

Why be jealous of something so small?
I’ve got a hold on life.
I’ve got it all.
Yet, I wish I could still fly
Like I did in my dreams,
Watching others 
The size of a flea.

Busy, busy I was,
They did not see me
Sailing high,
Swooping down
Energetic and sly,
. . . Until business quit.
I crashed quick.
Excitement is over.
Rooted in retirement
To envy a bee
That reminds me
Of me.


Confidential Information








In this famous gossiping clique
Of jovial connection,
Only those earning rights become players, 
All the same.
With undertones of judgment,
Players twist victims’ confidential matters
Into shame,
Snaking them as lies
And malicious rumors.

The main objective of their game?―
―To break friendships, businesses, and family units.
Players conjure up disrespect!
“Channel 2 News” gossiping players
Become goliath inciters in their clique.

Merely for entertainment,
They think
 No apologies due.
Insulting gossip cannot be bought back
With gifts
As they often try to do.

Though these players worship
Under steeples each seven days,
Decades pass
And have not yet learned how to change their ways.
The Book of Leviticus says, “Thou shalt not be a tale-bearer.”
Yet the players’ games are never through.
Even the secular world disapproves too.

Arrogant players’ slight sense of right
Hides yet whispers to their victims,
“Do not expect me to say I’m sorry
For what else am I to do?
You see, I’m guided by my parents
And my clique too.
As a well-learned, wicked feasting,
There are so many for me I’ve been told.
You know this gossip monster
Has grown roots to my very soul!
I can even trick my own children.
Yes, those too I pick.
By stomping on all who have faith in me
I remain a hypocrite.
Ahhhh . . . . yes, and the best incentive:
Gain respect
Within my gossiping clique.”


~~Dedicated to gossipers, public or private~~ 
U.S. Copyright Office ~ Washington, D.C.
Literary Works By Nancy Reil Riojas

Little Rose












Little hands sweet and small,

Little palms finely lined

With my heartstrings

―Rose holds them all.

Although my sleep ends with her cries,

My tomorrows abide in her eyes.

Helpless as she lies,

What of her dreams? What of her sighs?

New from God, Angelic still

Rose constantly bends me to her will.

 Mini hands reach out, insecure.

Who can resist? Not I  ―I am sure.

Here, take my finger

Andrea Rose

  And never, ever let go.  

​Not Their Father








Not their father
Yet had them.
A revelation
That begat aggravation.
Two school-aged brothers
To raise.
Not Their Father fed, clothed, washed,
And shook them against the wind.
Hung them out to dry.

They swung free
Reached for love
But settled for anyone’s sympathy.

Still irate
Not Their Father pulled farther away.
Smallest conversation
All they conveyed,
Year after year.

Until . . . they were fathers
With little to say to theirs and nil to
Not Their Father,
till death.





  • BEST FRIENDS
  • ~ A True Story ~




  • When alone
  • I cry for you, my Rose.
  • Wishing I had delved
  • Deeper in your mind
  • To soften clinging grief,
  • Entwined.
  •  Your broken heart ―your murdered son!
  • Having saved a life yet lost his own.
  • An undying, wretched memory
  • No mother has ever undone.

  • You lugged anguish thirteen years,
  • Until the mind tore and took command
  • ―More sufferance, more tears!
  • Powerless against despair,
  • Aware you were
  • Antidepressants slayed agony
  • For sweet, everlasting peace,
  • That which Christians do not seize.
  • “Still a deserving spirit,”
  • Jesus forgives you evermore,
  • “Come walk the streets of gold with Brian.”
  • Alas! Torment no more!

Lost Son

















Values not learned stem nightmares in turn,
Forming circles eerily irreversible.

Ignoring the boy brings him
Unbelievable conflict.

As seasons pass, embittered and hurt,
Nothing quenches the teen’s thirst
But needed direction from father.

Haunting rage, unable to release, calls its way to
One fully responsible.

Ten years later Father faces a man
Dressed as a complete stranger.

Now, values not learned by the young father
Nor grandson equals a vicious cycle.

Devote time to nurturing the child
For in the future, not possible.


My Hand In Yours












I love the feeling of my hand in yours,
The one that brings me peace,
The one that carries my troubles away,
The one that does not cease.

In yours is where my hand wants to live,
Until I pass into the new life.
​Quite a wondrous place,
Offering the most divine.

Then later . . . do not be afraid,
For your hand will rest in mine.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Happy Anniversary
Lee & Frances

No Childhood Memories


Where were you, sister?

I was so alone.

During my child life, I knew you existed.

I imagined your childish song, I imagined your childish laugh.

When I heard you were coming, no way I resisted.

We finally met in our thirties because you persisted.

Did you hear my heart explode with excitement?

We warmed each other for sixteen years, happy and delighted.

Then your life ended.

You left me here alone again.

To dream your adult song, to dream your adult laugh.

With loving memories, my dear Wanda,

I so cherish our past.


~ Dedicated to Wanda Reil Perry ~