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Tommy Randell May 13
I'm an anthology of one
I'm a dead mother's son
I'm a poet who has no raison d'être

I can wake up with poems
That've been hatching and growing
Like a hive of rhyming etceteras

Pity me, pity me, I have been cursed
I squirt it all out like a toothpaste of verse
I've smeared it across pages and screens

It's a compulsive disorder
My brain's a pestle and mortar
Grinding out word spice like a machine

It comes out of my brain as pure audio
It's everything that's in me on overflow
Every thought in my head made physical

Words are my carbs and my proteins
I'm an infinite ******* of phonemes
Every moment of Life is a syllable

I'm an unbroken chain of events
About trying to make it make sense
About trying to ride out the wave

Opening my arms when the wind blows
Attempting  to peer into the shadows
It's me striving to walk out of the cave

No its not whether you're listening
You think it's a good vibe or just piffling
Its not what it is but what it wants to be

It's a tickertape of meaning
Pouring anagrams of streaming
It's an anthology of one and that's me.
Forget about the face,
My ears are question marks
And oddly placed.
Everything that can be said, they say -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The eyebrows too I think,
One of them's a caterpillar
And clearly out of sync.
Some say asymmetry is beautiful in its way -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

At 66 my lips are thinning,
Squinting sideways when I smile
In effect more akin to grinning,
My English teeth a little grey -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The right positioning and number of limbs
Does little to improve
The overall slackness of bones & skin.
Indeed, I don't walk so much as sway -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

So there it is, my mirrored Self,
Companion in my ageing days,
Heir to generations of rich genetic wealth.
Self Portrait, posed to flatter, as displayed -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.
Tommy Randell Jan 12
In the drawing of a self portrait
There are choices to be made,
Surprises that lie in wait -
Which Me will show his face today?

The Cynic, the Lover, the Clown,
The textures of Shadow and Pain,
The Father, the Loser, the Frown,
The calligraphy of Peace regained?

Should i try and aim for a likeness,
Improvise something dramatic,
Make a statement, Bold and Revealing,
Or go all out for the Laconic?

But who is the Writer and what is Written?
Who is the Painter and what is his mission?
On the canvas or on the page
Do I want a mirror and not a portrait?

Who knows? In poetry or in a sketch
The aim must be for something essential -
But never The Truth, no no no, for that
We'd all need a much sharper pencil !
LadyM Nov 2018
This is me,
But the truth is-  
There's much more beneath the surface

I'm not talking 'bout the bones
Or the flesh beneath my skin,

If you look into my mind,
You'll see a portrait from within.

My eyes are two glass windows
Smeared with colour stains,

There's an endless rush of brightness
Always pulsing through my veins

I feel hope among the stars-
Cosmic blossoms of the dark,

I don't always find my way
On the journeys I embark

I am at a crossroads
Now knowing where to go,

But I've ways stood up straight,
Despite carrying cargo.

My face is not my only worth,
See the truth:
This is me.
This poem also exists in visual form, as it is one of my college art sketchbook projects :) Each verse is a different picture, a part of me. Try to imagine it in your mind how that would look like.
PrttyBrd Sep 2018
i.

melted ice cream afternoons
bogged down

rising from asphalt
in magical mist
that transforms
the day into
a test of endurance

even dusk offers
no solace
in frozen watermelon bliss


ii.

smoke permeates fabric
hair and every surface
with peace and grit
wafting over
the crispy
edges of predawn

begging sleep
to the most stubborn
insomniac

rotisserie style dreams
till morning


iii.

there's less death today
waiting in line
in candy store nightmares
begging silence
from the jubilant

but the sky turned up
a dream state

in that beguiling beauty
is brilliance


iv.

in shadows
the earth falls silent

rustling through
tall tales
the moon births

images in hidden corners

evening strolls
turn adventures

and every day
burns quick
to be reborn slowly


v.

the weight of hell
in short tempered bites
**** will with a proficiency
unseen outside
a viper's silent hunt

ready for war
with fists losing
responsibility

breaking triple digit
pressure


vi.

Incessant banging through walls built faster than I am strong enough to demolish, cradling lace so it won't rip on my forked tongue. There is only so much care left to handle perception just trying to breathe through a smile.
91218
190w
AditiBoo Sep 2018
I look in the mirror

And stare at the stranger

I don't even dare question

This isolated reflection

For the fear of asking 'who are you?'

Will bring forth the answer 'I am you'

A solemn vision of the naked truth

An adamant statement within the proof

The fragile balance was shuffled and rearranged

Leaving more than one disturbed and deranged

Trapped under familiar skin

Unrecognisable amidst our own kin

Such is fate...

Such is destiny for the not so great
Tommy Randell Mar 2018
Then it was a time
Of moving on
As fast as Now
Seems to be
When Lives are filled
With what we all want
From a world littered
With things to Have

I'd hoped for tacit
Reassurance
Not to be found out
Lacking the necessary
Context of words
Considering the more
I borrow from myself
An Emperor with no clothes

I fear it won't be Now
This time around
Yet another self portrait
With no raison d'être
Yet another diatribe
Penned with thin ink
Bleeding into the screen
Nothing but pixels

We write don't we
To move the Future on
Doubt though now
As the battery fades
Frustration
With the lack of flow
With such meagre
Vowel movements
I would have to say if asked this poem owes so much to my loyalty to the Poems & Ideas of the American poet, John Ashbery. His Art and use of words has beguiled me for many years - and though I aspire, I continue to fail.
Tommy Randell Dec 2017
I'm a burnt-out wrote-out Lover
I'm a used-up messed-up wooer
Any hopes of again being a Suitor
Equate to me as a long time loser

I'm as past it as a lapsed out Catholic
I'm as lapsed as a drunk alcoholic
No mystery now to what then was magic
My glory days are a zero mathematic

I'm a light year older than the Manopause
A nano second out of the basket clause
No longer useful unless holding the doors
I am the example of what was possible once

I'm the old fashioned impassioned Poet
Who knew an iambic when he wrote it
Yet is prone to drone on into prolix
To end poems with rhymes like sclerotic ...

Any self portrait is a medium
For the poet the tragedian or the comedian
To pass through a time filled with tedium
And maybe make one's own epicedium
To save you having to look it up : An epicedium is/was a funeral ode.
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