Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Tommy Randell Aug 29
We could have met and gone for walks
Coffee, bed, and aftertalks
We could have shared a silence or two
We could have ... maybe if we'd wanted to

I could have sat and watched you bathe
You might have given me a shave
I might have revealed a secret or two
Been a lot more honest if you'd wanted me to

But doors are locked and curtains are drawn
You have that way of being suddenly gone
And I'm no better at not getting it wrong
It's a bit of puzzle this Loving You

You make Poetry in me like no one else
Some times the thought of you always helps
And each word, line, and rhyme rings true
But of course it's just a fantasy too

It will go on being what it is
Until one of us works out which bit is which
Until one of us admits as all lovers must do
That to stop being One always takes Two

Tommy Randell -- 28th August 2020
Tommy Randell Jul 12
When I wake in the first hours
and hear the rustle of leaves
birdsong and early traffic
my mind turns to my body's
pulling powers
the state of its tides and what
pain really means.

I check for changes.
Flexing a little as if I am
some new creation off the bench
a born thing of bones and skin
discovering for the first time
what awareness is
and what it will do to me.

The other days are there
forward in my mind
memories of other wakings
when hurt wasn't
and despair.
I walk my junctions
testing for creaks and groans

before I even attempt to move.
What it will feel like
must be considered
and adjusted to
for me to continue and
for my force of will to be proved
in the aching.

I am after all an old thing
not a new one
and it is the slippery trick
of time that fooled me otherwise
everyday born anew
but at every dawn
a Frankenstein.
I am 68yrs old. Recently diagnosed with Late Onset Rheumatoid Arthritis - my Auto-immune system possibly triggered by contracting Covid19 - I am moved into a different adventure. There are different tides of thoughts and feelings to explore and issues to perhaps promote and champion. We will see. Time Passes.
Tommy Randell May 23
When I was just a little boy
I asked my mother
Why she was cruel and mean?
Why did she hit me?
Why did she scream?
Here's what she said to me...

You are what you are you are
You are your Father to me
Whatever he was you will be
I hate what you are you are!

At school I learned then to lie
Told my teachers
What they wanted to hear
Ignored all their questions
When home life was mentioned
Did not let anyone near

My life had but one repertoire
To be all they wanted of me
To seem what they wanted to see
To be like they are they are

When I grew up my mother was gone
I asked my Grandmother
Was my Father to blame
Did he make me so bad
That my Mother was sad - She said
No Two People Are Ever The Same

You are what you are you are
Perhaps your birth was too much a dream
But who made you is not all life can mean
What you are is all that you are

Over the years I have grown
I have my own children
Who proudly stand up next to me
They know I will let them
Be all their achievements
What will be doesn't mean it will be

Lo que será no significa que será
The past is just what has gone before
Tomorrow is not written in our lore
Lo que será no significa que será
Simply true.
Tommy Randell Apr 27
Hello me
I was you
Hard to imagine
Impossible to prove

Time and tides
Have passed since now
My here is your then
My herewith without

One truth in hope
I'd wish upon you
Hindsight truly is
Of no relevant use

Hello me
My future echo
When you get there
Tell yourself Hello

I the Younger
Have no need greater
Than to believe
There will be a you later
Eisegesis is the process of interpreting text in such a way as to introduce one's own presuppositions, agendas or biases. It is commonly referred to as reading into the text, drawing out text's meaning in accordance with the author's context and discoverable meaning.
Tommy Randell Apr 22
Even at 68 there are firsts.
A surprise today, for example,
The smallest ritual of frying an egg,
Became a eucharist of laying it up
Onto a white plate, over a slice of sourdough -
When did this old Anarchist
Become so formalized in his worship?
Tommy Randell Apr 11
Of the acres I held & managed
Two I liked to scythe by hand.
Old Tom in his 90s, first
Swung his hips to show me how
And ran the stone across the blade,
In long sure strokes that sang
At the tip with a susurrus Ping.

One of the days in those 70s' Summers
Would choose itself as Haying Day
And I would start,
In the top quarter,
Hips... 'n Shoulders... Arms...
Hips... 'n Shoulders... Arms...
Rocking forward into the swathe.

The sound of skylarks
In the grass meadows
Where the Geese lay in lazy dreaming,
My Bees whizzing by me
Back to the orchard in their buzzing busyness,
And the swish of the scythe,
And the whisper of clean cut hay falling.

Tom watching from the top fence
Egging me on with his toothy grin -
"Go on, Boy. You'm got 'er now.
Her's singing, a'can tell 'ee."
My then wife, rough-sheafing as I went.
An earthenware flagon cool in the trough -
I revelled in it and the labour was a joy.

In his prime, Old Tom could fettle
An acre an hour, he was proud to say -
My couple used to take a long afternoon
For the fun of it... but,
A lifetime of remembering it
Has kept me warm and filled with Devon light.
I had land and I managed it.
Next page