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A poem is a starting point
But looked at in a certain way
Isn't everything?

Often unblinking in my sleep
Aghast at the place my writing
Has brought me

Through wide-awake eyes
My imagination sees a wasteland
Of word stacks like tower blocks

And storeys in the stacks move
Always shuffling up & down
Rippling with synonyms and rhymes


It is presumed some meaning
Will render itself visible
If I construct enough poems

One by one at impossible angles
So as the weight of each word
Holds the next word in place

When the whole landscape
May make sense finally but
Only as one vertical Cliff-face

A Jenga of Poems, Structures, and Towers
If you build it they WILL come but
Promise them a View from the top!


My life is a persistent climbing
Up pathways & screes of meaning
In a metaphoric assault

One step forward two steps back
It's nobodies fault though
So I don't take it to Heart

Nothing written is a reason for shame
Every chance you take
Every move in the game

Sometimes success becoming known
Only by the poetic tradition that
You climb it first and it's yours to name

Is writing a poem a Climb or a Descent do you Think? I'm never sure. It is often like JENGA blocks where you move things about a lot up and down the Stacks of verses and Stanzas. At the end when the whole thing is standing there, you stand back... and the bottom is the place you wanted to be BUT it still feels like you've climbed UP something. So, you stand back... waiting for it to Topple...
Denver Feb 1
"You're crying again..."
"Am i?? ... sorry..."
"Stop saying sorry..."
"But i am..."
"Well don't be.. you don't need to be..... here, take this.."
"What is it?..."
"Vallium... "
"What? like .. like the Pidgeon film??"
"No you idiot that's Valliant.. this is Vallium... like the drug that stops you from shaking"
"I'm not shakein.. looks at my hands oh look.. i am, look at my hands ... ****"
"i know sighs you're whole body is shaking, i might put you in the bath with the washing, half an hour and you'd have even the whites clean"
"shut up that's not... spills drink while taking a sip true.."
"really?? take your drugs you ******.."
"you're a terrible doctor"
"good thing i'm not a doctor then.."
"Here have a tissue..."
"What for??"
"You're crying again..."
they say it's all in the mind..
well i should ****** well think so...
can you imagine if my belly button was in charge of thinking???
lawks a mercy where would we be...?
Vyas May 2020
Dear Sir,

Would You take care of this pesky plastic,
Like, make it biodegradable or simply
Reduce it to naught
With the ultrasound of Thy thought?

I could, nimbly.
But I would stay as inelastic
As answer "I won't".
And I won't help with whatever unseemly
You've got in your flyblown world.

Re [1]:
Why are you being so utterly nasty?

Re [2]:
'cause I don't want
To perpetuate mediocrity, you silly.

Your poorly reflected Image of Gɒd.
Tommy Randell Jan 2020
There on the fading page, where
Lost meanings & Dead Poets decay there

On the shelves of dusty time, where
Books of words are mildewed and rimed. There

Every sonnet is a love-soiled bed where
Lie in ruins all the Truths ever said, there

Well-penned promises & rotting rhymes, there
The Future of beautiful times where

Passion was recorded and flesh rejoiced, where
The madness of eroticism found a voice. There

It is transparent now, unreadable anyhow, there,
There it is, our Life scream a silent howl, where

What was most human, our very Souls, there
Our crumbling books of Poetry & Prose. There

See our future history.
Tommy Randell Jan 2020
A man writes a poem
With the thoughts at his disposal
But always fearing a proud heart
Can make his words boastful

A man tells his story
From having lived through it
But often without knowing
What possessed him to do it

A man learns of his moods
And is careful where they take him
Being cautious in Life
The more sensible undertaking

A man carries his pain
Diamonds in a velvet cloth
Looking at them in private
At the beauty of their cost

A poet makes doorways
That only a storyteller can open
A shy man has silences
Because vows were once broken

A man writes this poem
Of riddles and answers
A choreography of sorts for
These doubts, my Private Dancers
Tommy Randell Jan 2020
Las night I wrote
A poem no-one will see -
Even for an agnostic writer
That is almost a blasphemy.

For what is writing
It has no chance
To become an Idea
At a single glance ?

What good is a poem
It finds no Home?
And why are we writing when
We've got mobile phones?

But it's a quality thing
I have to admit -
I thought las night's poem
Wasn't very well writ!

Tommy Randell - 6th Jan 2020
btw... it began life as...


Last neet I wrat
A pom nayyan'll ivva see -
Een forra gnostic wreeta
Dats allmoss a blasfirmy.

For wat is writtin
Itassnt nay chance
Ti becom an Ideer
Atta yanoff glance?

Wat gud issa pom
It fynds nay Hom?
An wyyar we wrytin weh
Weev getten mobile fons?

Bur itssa quality thin
Iyaff tadmitt -
I thor las neets pom
Wernt verriwell writ!

Tomi Rannell - 6fh Yan 2020
Keiri Nov 2019
Hold me,
The cold me,
Tell me what you told me.

See me,
Free me,
But please never flee me

Charm me,
Warm me,
Oh but please, do harm me.

Because you feel me,
The real me,
Your property to peel me.

Hate me,
Wait for me,
It's not just my fate for me.

Drown me,
Don't you frown at me,
At my open gown and me.

**** me, please **** me
Have that rill on me,
If you will please,
Have blood spill me,
Your ***** fill me,
Have my spine chill me,
But please, after this, **** me!
No comment
Tommy Randell Aug 2019
every bit of Love is accompanied by various overlapping voices. every single voice teases life into a bravado of positives. what can be done about unmusical endings though when you are just left hanging, given that from so far away, with hindsight, the silence before any applause is the loudest negative?

walk - don't walk. crossing points are chosen for us. love - don't love. none of us are going the same way up-life or down. variations creep into our choices until of a sudden, looking around, we recognise no-one and nowhere and our feet aren't even touching the ground. to find we're not in kansas anymore.

do things become fact by being actually true? is it possible there are other ways our being together is not such a miracle after all? you have a permanent partner now who complements you. isn't it possible the music we made together from carefully laid bricks was the very opposite of a wall too?

i led myself here by holding hands with strangers. it's easily done if you want to please people all the time. and sharing with strangers such casual arrangements i thought we were making music as overlapping voices passed by. now and then in the continuing babble i think I still hear you, busking with others,  while i wait for a bus back to kansas, standing in line.
a drama of sorts about coming to the end of a journey and turning back.
Arke Jun 2019
In the thick of sticky summer heat
A voice that still makes my heart skip a beat
Run my tongue over the sound of your name
Knowing nothing could ever be the same

Your love was motion sickness on a highway
Your love was a red card for foul play
The double yellow lines we once sped by
Made a hole in my heart for you to occupy

Now that hole has become a shallow grave
Everyday, a vast emptiness I stave
More than anything, I miss your eyes
Or how for once, I needed no disguise

In my mind we get to roleplay
You say through the night you'll stay
We both wake with sun on our skin
My fingers trace the outline of your grin

But I wake with no sunshine near
The dark emptiness only brings fear
Every day is a cycle I can't break
My life is shallow and fake

Though you've left, I'm glad you came
Every cherry tree still speaks your name
Part of me wishes you'd hold me once more
Whisper that I'm who you adore

This summer I hope you find someone new
I hold no misconceptions - we're through
I'll always keep you near my heart
Now and forever, together or apart
Tommy Randell Apr 2019
mightn't love be said to be
where two people's time together
becomes poetry?

shouldn't poetry be where words
can be everything language is
happening all at once?

the best joke of all about love
is what it takes for love to be funny
isn't that what kills it in the end?

my best joke about poetry was
if you're gonna **** in church
read it like it rhymes!
no explanations
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