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Jul 29 · 81
A Slow Simmer
Tommy Randell Jul 29
We are clever men. We chart the Cosmos out there on fire against the freeze
With Science & Technology. We define its patterns and are as sure
Of Time and Space as we are of the particles that curve and flare,
Ascribing rules and formulating Truths from their colliding deep under ground.
We seek to preserve Mankind, to let it journey out to find a more universal shelter.

For this Earth we live upon is a place of many fragile shelters.
From the temperate forests to the latitudes that freeze
We think we know it, we think to own it, this ground.
So much an act of certainty we believe we can be sure
It is ours for ever, that we control it because we have a certain flare -

And we do, we inherit, we learn, we invent. We have imagination, to be sure,
But all of this, all of this Evolution, this is not sure ground
For thinking any of it or us will last. We trust this shelter
In a hubris of arrogance. Because we have looked back from deep space to see humanity flare
Like  a beacon against the black zero of an infinite deep freeze

We attribute such uniqueness to ourselves. In this we forget the background.
The universe is a furnace of stars. Stars are furnaces where infinities flare,
Where what is made is in time unmade - The Cosmos is one slow simmer. Freeze
That thought there. Are we safe on this Earth shelter?
Think of all we are, all that we conceive. Of what exactly can we be sure?

We can be sure the Sun will just reach out. From its slow simmer. We know the flare
Will take 8 minutes to get here unannounced. We know there will be no where to shelter.
During the resulting catastrophe there wont be anything about which we will not be sure.
The  atmosphere will burn, the oceans will boil, and the lifeless black cinder remaining will freeze.
Nothing will be left that is above ground.  Nothing will be left below ground.

After the flare, the Earth, and the moon it sheltered,
Nothing will be more sure or more frozen, nothing will be left resembling anything like  ground.
A Pentina (5 line verse form with rotating line endings etc etc) I wrote this for a competition to use the five given words...

Freeze. Sure. Flare. Ground. Shelter.

Didn't submit it in the end, not quite happy with it yet. But I do enjoy wrestling with a confining format but having an image to portray ... and, of course, 5 fixed words!
Jul 26 · 109
Midnight Into Morning
Tommy Randell Jul 26
I wandered, lonely as a frown,
At midnight through my empty town.
Unmade by drink and celebration -
A meandering Wordsmith on some random peregrination
Maybe, finally, heading home.

Seagulls by the harbour side
Bickering and squabbling, waiting out the tide.
Water lapping, chuckling with laughter.
A bottle bouncing somewhere, ending with a shatter.
Window boxes overgrown.

Every shadowed alley, every darkened road,
With a writer's measured footfall, following my nose.
A couple kissing, or maybe even more so.
A cat arched & hissing, over a rat's beheaded torso.
A ****** on a traffic cone.

Steps go upward into unlit gloom.
Raucous laughter from a second story room.
The smell of Fish & Chips, vinegary & rank.
***** & Graffiti on the ATM at the Bank.
No bars open & no bars for a taxi on my phone.

Until at last a place to sit and soberize,
Looking down on the rooftops with less bleary eyes,
The yachts at moorings along the harbour side,
The sandy beach a golden margin 2 miles wide,
The moon, a ball of polished chrome.

Midnight into morning is this Poet's time for sure -
The waves of words surfed for pleasure,
Life as metaphor and meaning given breath,
Moments found & fashioned into ideas at their best
Hopefully, and then some...

Home unerringly, the long way round.
Bed inevitably, after I've written the evening down.
It's what poets do. We've got an extra chromosome,
We're driven to it like it's a scribbling syndrome -
Our DNA probably has a Rhyming Genome!

Midnight Into Morning - Tommy Randell
I have walked home many many times through my town in the small hours. I follow different routes depending on my tiredness or my sobriety. I stop and look into its shabby corners or listen to its night times moods. It is a luxury and a gift this small place is safe enough for old daft poets like me.
Jul 15 · 185
Tommy Randell Jul 15
After waiting all my Life
To be your Lover
You came
And it was over

I hate it when Life
Almost rhymes

--'Tis true, said I; and thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union;
But on a sudden all were gone.
Jul 1 · 284
July 1st Woods
I walked with Caldey
Out into the woods today
Recent heat and rain
Has produced a surge of growth.

I photographed it all
In my own naive way
The honeysuckle and ragged robin
The foxgloves and the briar rose.

The paths were made narrow
Grown in with grass and fern
A proper English woodland crush
Walks I have done for over 60 years.

I found what I went to find
That peace behind my eyes
And that perpetual skylark
High above... between my ears.

Thanks to Hello Poetry
I can put such thoughts
Out into a world
Of cultures and countries far and wide.

Thanks to Hello Poetry
Readers can share these moments
And I can honestly say you were here today
In Yorkshire in the woods this 1st July
Caldey is my 11 month Fox Red Labrador.

Scarlet, I wrote this because of you. Thank You for reading me.
tommy is legally colourful
tommy is wrong and apparently a hopeless case
tommy is right
tommy is funny as hell
tommy is sick
tommy is a deserter
tommy is an 11

tommy is suldos is tommynator
tommy is spot on
tommy is the "wagtail" fan
tommy is "kwispelende"
tommy is legally colourful and no child has more love of life
tommy is wrong why it is that you know many film critics
tommy is right dear editor

tommy is basically about their attempts to cure tommy the boy
tommy is a greatly gifted musician and singer
tommy is making a living hauling small loads for people in the area
tommy is still checking the information in the profile
tommy is kicking ****
tommy is overwhelmed by all this fame and fortune
tommy is perhaps best

tommy is watching this through a reflection in a mirror
tommy is led by his own reflection to a junkyard
                    and there he finds the pinball machine
tommy is an alien from outer space who makes toys
tommy is a true stud
tommy is charged with masterminding the ******
                    of a supreme court judge last july
tommy is accused of ordering the killing while on the run
tommy is trying to bend the car door back
                    you can see a wire holding the door in place so that
                    tommy can hit it as hard as he wants and it won't go back

tommy is sinking into his own world
tommy is no exception
tommy is too perky in the early mornings
tommy is a very technical punter with a lot of knowledge about the position
tommy is moe better blues
tommy is a very active
tommy is somewhat heckled by a drunk at his show

tommy is your man
tommy is putting up a fight
tommy is an average baby
tommy is an expert twister who knows how to entertain and work a crowd
tommy is that it has a george martin sound
tommy is a beautiful black labrador retriever puppy
                    that is being raised as part of the puppy raiser program
tommy is pete's story

tommy is a creation likely to cause a certain perplexity
                in the mind as well as in the middle ear
tommy is a spacious stone lodge situated on a hill close to the ****** way
                with breathtaking views of the ****** mountains and annascaul lake
tommy is legally verisimilitude
tommy is wrong
tommy is a poet
tommy is our terry
Goto Google. Type Googlism. Enter a name or etc. Google will search the www for entries.
Jul 1 · 194
BAD News
Wives  & Husbands who win Lotteries
They get divorced citing new possibilities
Having woken up soon after winning as opposites
Is BAD all we want from The News?

Football stars hanging out for transfers
Sitting there salaried as multi-Millionaires
Paying more for a manicure than most earn in a year
Is BAD all we want from The News?

Pop Stars & Celebrities investing in forests
Hiding their wealth in carbon slippery projects
Dodging their taxes by being financial tourists
Is BAD all we want from The News?

Politicians & Rulers passing gifts under the table
Non-Declared interests to keep the status quo stable
Blaming the Past for a Future they enabled
Is BAD all we want from The News?

Corporate Wars being fought over tariffs
Billionaire Brokers behaving like a sackful of ferrets
The last one standing gets to call out the Sheriffs
Is BAD all we want from The News?

Is it a hierarchical structure of deceit and betrayal
From the promise of free money to the final denial
No matter where you're from in Humanity's pile?
Is BAD all we can talk about that is News?

I would like a poem on the news that lifts the Heart
I would like a story on the news where people take Part
I would like a world where the news shows who we really Are
I would like news on the News about the ending of BAD News!
Jun 29 · 123
The Gull
Tommy Randell Jun 29
There's a Gull on my roof
I live a long way from the sea
So the Gull's probably a metaphor
For something that's wrong with me

It's hard to tell these days
Everybody claims perfect knowledge
The whole world has Google
And can look up the symbolic

My pal wants to shoot him
The errant Gull
But he's just an idiot
And attacks problems with impulse

I want to watch and see what he does
I do that with metaphors
The Gull might have reasons
Maybes and Whyfors

And he's not hurting anyone
Up there on my roof
He might be a theorem
Looking for a proof

I appreciate I am giving this Gull
A whole lot of things to be
And maybe he just wants
To be away from the sea

You know like the Devil
In that Netflix series
He just wants a break
From where his real life is

Perhaps my roof
Is where life is greener
Where he can be free
To be a day dream believer

Nah the Monkee reference
Is just a distraction
He's a Gull looking for another Gull
Metaphors are just poetry in action!

But the Gull is still on my roof
Fast becoming a cliche
I can no longer deny he's there
When I thought my troubles seemed so far away
Jun 26 · 165
A Quiet Life
Tommy Randell Jun 26
I'm an Englishman with sandals
Unfit and chubby
With cobwebs on my love-handles

I'm a Yorkshireman with attitude
A ***** is a *****
I am not fond of platitudes

I'm a Father of Daughters, and one Son
They never keep me waiting
Never at All - sometimes not even that long!

I'm a useful Grandad, a few times a week
I've no time for moaners
Or people who shout across streets

I like a Quiet Life so it's best if you don't
Try and get under my radar
To chew on my bone

If you're going to open your mouth
It's best if you listen
Before letting something out

Your Prostate, your Gout, or your knees
There is no part of your body
That is in my reality

I don't talk religion or politics
Even watching cricket
I don't discuss the score or the wickets

If you're going or you've been anywhere
It's not worth telling me
I just don't care

You might want to buy me a cider to sup
I still really don't care
And not even that much

And don't mistake the nod or the silent stare
That's actually just me
Admitting that I'm there.

My quiet life is My Quiet Life
Join the queues waiting patiently
Just behind my current wife.
Jun 26 · 270
Tommy Randell Jun 26
People think poems are confessional
That what they say is the truth
But then they would be one dimensional
And not really of very much use

Poetry is best as a crucible
Where ingredients and fire are at play
Where all the images and verbals
Add up to more than they say

Every poem is an audio visual
With a background, a plot, and story
The Poet is catalyst to what's magical
So the Reader can claim all the glory!
PLOY   ...   a maneuver in a game or conversation
Jun 26 · 81
Tea Time With Sestina
Tommy Randell Jun 26
"You were born with no future,"
Says my Aunt Sestina, who speaks using clouds.
"Your first morning sky was grey without promise
So, your Mother and I read you Poetry -
Dylan Thomas and John Ashbery out loud -
'Til the thunder in your heart began to flow."

As the hot tea starts to flow,
Looking out the window I check my future
Is doing okay and I wonder, aloud,
"Aunty, may one's life be forecast using clouds?
Isn't all Life just a pulse of poetry,
And not only what random clouds can promise?"

"But each cloud is a promise,
More so..." Tea continues, my Aunt in full flow...
"Each cake is a cumulus of poetry,
Each plate is a cirrus crown - Of a future
Imagined and controlled, like Prospero's Clouds..."
And Sestina's entheastic voice, aloud,

Outpouring, louder than loud,
Fills the room, and the house, fills Life with promise -
Until, I too am charmed to speak using clouds,
Presuming to be in that beautiful flow,
Riding the word lines out into my future
Of intuitive but patterned poetry -

Lightning clouds of poetry.
Conjuring meaning by reciting aloud,
Despite being born on a day with no future,  
Despite a beginning that had no promise,
Speaking lines of fire, verbs that crackle and flow,
Inspired by the rich metaphors of clouds -

Sestina's tea time of clouds,
Every cloud a recipe of poetry.
A Tea time, Sestina in billowing flow,
I reciteThomas and Ashbery out loud,
Seeing her smile as i fulfill my promise    
Paying forward what I owe for my future -

"Let what you know flow and colour your future,
Let your poetry be rainbows of promise -
But when life sends clouds, change the rules - you're allowed!"
This Poem should be read aloud!!

This is a SESTINA in many respects - allowing for the many modern variations, charting a middle ground between the old and knew. But as the Poem concludes... that is the point too really.

It's always a challenge to write in such a classic form and attempt to make it something new. Hope I've gone a little way toward that and that the liberties and breaking of form aren't too much for any purists.

For the record: Six verses of six lines with line endings repeated throughout on the strict Classical formula ... ABCDEF >>> FAEBDC and so on, with the Tercet at the end choosing (this time) (F)A .. (D)C .. (B)Emodified. All sextet 1st lines 7 syllables, the other 5 lines 11 syllables ( because I like a challenge ). My playing with Rhyme and free verse is also not standard - but, again, that's the point.
Jun 26 · 236
Tommy Randell Jun 26
long poems bore me
as short poems restore me -
it's in my nature.
Jun 13 · 252
Light Your Beacons
Tommy Randell Jun 13
I write poems as graffiti
Not by way of keeping score
No, my words are given freely
They will cost you nothing more

But now and then a thought will root
To grow there in perfect soil
And blossom as a perfect Truth
To become your inner voice

As one or two so came to me
They'll become yours as you write
From page to page our poetry
Is a gathering of Light
Three verses 8,7,8,7. Half rhymes ABAB CDCD EFEF
Jun 12 · 96
Let Love Rest
Tommy Randell Jun 12
We sleep through time
       as if it means but nothing
We live our dreams
        until waking finds us new
Then in the dawn
        our Love is all forgotten
The pledge we made
        gone like it was never true

Romantic poems
         they push the myth of Story
That Love is prone
          to have a happy outcome
But life's routines
          despite our hopes of glory
Too often come
          to snoozy days of humdrum

For Love to shine
          such rimed lows must be embraced
To slow the heart
          and give stuttered flames a chance
Nothing is wrong
          trust those embers in the grate
A quiet look
           may arouse the wildest dance

As time goes by
          we should reach for every now
Not let them slide
           so illogically away
Sat quietly
           we can still make life this vow
To let Love rest
            it may blaze another day
Writing a 'classically structured Poem' is always a good challenge.
So, here is a strict meter plan and rhyme/half rhyme pattern - 4 beats and 7 beats half lines. Fixing the language 'tone' toward the romantically poetic helps the flow of course with the softer stresses.

Hope you like it - on any level.
Jun 8 · 122
Fake Buddha Poet
He starts by switching his laptop on
He starts by printing sheets of word rhymes
He starts by rewriting somebody's best lines
He starts disguising it in his own neat style

He starts by avoiding all pretence and cliche
He starts implying his struggle with his passions
He starts by claiming they are original ideas
He asks the questions he'll get kudos for asking

He attributes quotes to 'source unknown'
He employs all the tricks of classic meter & rhyme
He exposes his pain to claim authenticity
He is modest and minimalist with a poetic half smile

On the page he is tranquil and induces respect
Designer style with an eye on what's trending
Fake Buddha Poet follows through with the plan
Cards & posters are printed and the book is pending
The internet is filled with truisms and aphorisms and all kinds of pseudo metaphysical quotes and poems - don't give them head room!
I'm mooching about in my own private dawn
Up and about just after 4am
Getting ready for work, getting ready to walk
Down to the place where we serve chips & ham

I wear those pants with small black checks
Unlike the Honcho who calls himself Chef
I listen to radio tunes, I eat a tin of tuna
Then set off into town like I'm off on a quest

I get the potatoes ready to rumble
My Job's to prep for walk-ins and tables
Sometimes it's humdrum, sometimes its hundreds
I'm a cog on the wheel and no kind of rebel

When it all goes well I'm away by 12
I get the afternoon to my own sweet self
But I'm back for dinner and the evening diners
And the hustle & bustle as the orders are yelled

I'm on salad & sauces so no great shakes
Just get with the flow, push it on the plates
Wipe down my station, keeping an eye on food separation
Then setting of home before it gets too late

I put my shirt & checks into a wash\dry sequence
I'm hygiene **** generally speaking
I don't like changes no matter what the case is
Getting to work on time is the first order of business
An exercise in writing of course, playing with rhymes and word patterns. Also autobiographical to a certain degree from my Kitchen Porter days.
Jun 4 · 397
The Ghosts Of Tomorrow
Hear the Ghosts of tomorrow's children
begging we tell them
why their world is broken.

Listen to their stories of climate chaos,
the seas of pollution
and the fields of dust.

Hear them in your daydreams and nightmares,
look at your reflection,
don't avoid their stares,

Their last ghostly breaths harnessed to blame us,
we who failed to protect them
in our burden of trust.

Such is the guilt of what we have done to them,
these Ghosts of Tomorrow,
our precious children.

See their fingers pointing, the betrayal.
Washing your face in the mirror
in complete denial.
Jun 4 · 409
Mother Tongues
My Mother's tongue was gin
She used it best for cursing in

My absentee Father was an Irish rogue
His drunken Dublin drawl a joke

Uncle Jim lisped through his cheek
A stroke survivor with a bad mouth leak

Billy, my cousin, rattled on repeat
Stuttered like a Gattling Gun on heat

Old Nanny Mabel whistled like a flute
****** and tutted on her one black tooth

Our Mam's deaf younger sister, never Auntie
Spoke with her hands cos of Meningitis

All the Teachers talked with slippers and canes
All the Police just clipped us behind the ears

All the Posh Nobs said nowt, but looked
Down their noses with pity at us

Everyone, and i mean everybody
Smelled of drink, smoke, and unwashed bodies

Everybody, and i mean every mouth
Ate while they spoke, and spat stuff out

I haven't escaped the old Mother Tongues
I revert to the speech I knew when young

Yes, I still speak the Gallus when I'm up there, Whitby bred -
Strong in the arm, thick in the head
You can take the Poet out of the town, but... Etc Etc

Gallus is the old dialect name for that rough part of Whitby where I grew up. Most of the town couldn't understand us when we spoke and we were thought of as a rough lot.
Jun 2 · 104
Poem Of Hope
Every poem is Poem Of Hope -
From before it sits there to the final finesse,
From the slow motion stumbling and lope,
All clumsy arms and gangled legs,
To the heads-up "I Am Here" of its very first breath.

Every birth is a Birth of Hope -
Pushing upwards into the light however dark,
Crying out in joy and anguish both,
Life is poetry in a blazing arc,
From the first "What Am I?" to its fading spark.

We are Children doing childish things -
Daubing the pages of our lives with words,
Living our days in moments filled with meanings,
Every second, every hope, denying the absurd
As the last "Who Was I?" goes unread and unheard.
Jun 2 · 136
Le Bon Mot #19
When your head's in a vice
And you're screaming at the world
Don't think because you're loud
You are actually being heard!

If life is on your case
What is the point of decibels?
Just be glad it's your head
And not, of course, your *******.

May 31 · 127
It Matters.
Tommy Randell May 31
So, I said -
No matter how much it matters
I love you all the same.

So, she said -
Is that me you're talking to,
Are you accepting blame?

So, I said -
No, sorry...
I love you All, the same!
May 27 · 130
echo :: once
Tommy Randell May 27
one thought doesnt make a prayer
one impulse doesnt make a promise
one leaf doesnt make a layer
one smile doesnt make me honest

one thought doesnt make a memory
one cup doesnt make a drinker
one blow doesnt make an enemy
one echo doesnt make a whisper

asleep in the mirror my reflection
awake in the world my intent
a poem of dubious connections
a series of regrettable events
May 26 · 118
Nobody's Son
Tommy Randell May 26
I am no father's son
Though not to say
I never craved
To be one

I am no mother's boy
That game played out
When gin became
Her choice

I am defined
By an army
That marches in lines
By a Poetry that fights
By a light that shines
In this darkest life!
May 26 · 228
Declaration, here.
Tommy Randell May 26
I want to Love you and Need you
To be the suitor that suits you
I want to believe your fate is my fate
I want us bruised at the lip, fused at the hip
I want to be the drum roll in your rock n roll heart rate

Sweeter than the wine in your summer of '69
Steeper than the high from the Park in '95
I want to place my vote in your smile of hope
I want to be the firewall written into your code

I want to savour the flavour of your laughter & tears
I want to wear you, ensnare you, be beside you down the years
I want to serve and deserve you
Be diverted and immersed in you
To be your future with no frontiers

Forget being a tick box in your list of likes
I want be the contraband in your daily life
The thing you crave when you don't know what's next
The chocolate and the caffeine, the marshmallows and the ***

Every place I've been, every perfect summer's eve
You define what my longing means
Your eyes have become the perfect tease
No day will be complete I don't try to walk a mile in your feet
Or look before you leap, or try to meet your needs

This Declaration, Here, is how I've felt all down the years
Saying it now may be unnecessary but I want it to be clear
You are to me more than a philosophy, more than a constancy
In my life you ARE - An inevitable certainty
For my Wife's Birthday
May 20 · 248
Tommy Randell May 20
I have always wondered what next,
What happens if I now do this?
Or is life a series of random effects?

Are we part of some divine pretext,
Or a gaffe of misses and hits?
I have always pondered, What Next?

There is no way of course to check
As we follow Fate, twist upon twist,
Whether life a series of random effects -

Though I would indeed be vexed
If life itself was just a pattern of blips
And it was already decided what next.

So, work in progress being progressed
Or a continuing miracle of quantum shifts?
Life as a series of thoughts that connect

Or a notorious continuance of little steps -
Which reality comes from all those Ifs?
Is it our nature to conjecture What Next,
Or is life really a series of random effects?
A Villanelle in progress, or a mutation of form...?
May 19 · 162
Tommy Randell May 19
I found the rainbow
That of all my souvenirs of you was the best
But I never found the gold

You found the shy man in me
Did you wonder when I left
Why you never woke the bold?

Next time don't wait for sunshine
Passion and fun is not a test
Love is not on a thermostat to be controlled
May 18 · 84
Tommy Randell May 18
The night had begun in earnest
The promise of victory remote
Any hope like flesh in a furnace
Any outcome way out of control

Hell bent on a win we were gamblers
Forgetting the risks in denial
No chains of fate could handle us
Only we were built for survival

The Rules of the game unwritten
Set out in graffiti and neon
Our strategy a bad work of fiction
No one would choose to rely on

But the game must go on regardless
No matter how hopeless the end
We Gamers we know what the score is
And upon what reputations depend

This morning it all seems a farrago
We were beaten by gin before we began
That we took part at all was bravado
Without a gallon of coffee as a back-up plan

You non-gamers won't have a clue
What on earth all the fuss is about
But I promise for us it was true
It was ****** there in the slaughterhouse

It was War & Peace, it was hell
A bloodbath of politeness and manners
It was farting as loud as a bombshell
It was Valhalla with mirrors and hammers

It was Fire and Ice, it was legendary
It was The Ride of the Valkyrie on soundtrack
It was **** on the iPad, incendiary
We are regrouping for another attack

The first casualty of war is truth
Marriage is a fog of confusion
That the enemy is weak I have no proof
But I will honour the call to arms and duty
SITREP /ˈsɪtrɛp/  noun INFORMAL
"... a report on the current military situation in a particular area."
May 18 · 374
When the Wind Blows
Tommy Randell May 18
Do you remember them
The people who taught you nothing?
This may seem a little stark
Perhaps even somewhat shocking,

But have you, have you really tried
Keeping their image alive
Those people who made no impact
Neither made you laugh or cry?

So, are they even shadows,
Or semblances of moments -
Can you conjure them intact
Or even partial fragments?

Okay, they weren't cast as heroes,
They had no lines to speak -
In your life they were Walk Ons,
Dramatis Personae sans mystique!

But, perhaps in some future self
A curtain will pull back
And in your mind you will be shocked
To remember them intact -

Those parents, lovers, or friends
Who reached out but could not grasp
As you strode into your Future
And never once looked back!

You who make no promises
May still cause pain and hurt -
When all is dust and the wind blows
All rocks become sand in the desert.
May 18 · 60
Tommy Randell May 18
Don't waste your life barking at the moon
You're better off home in bed
with someone real who loves your body and
who shines with a light of their own

Don't spend your time writing poems
About getting home before dawn
****** and torn from some false encounter
Some lost cause you set your heart upon

Value your freedom above all else but
Just take it as read there is no cure
For what ails you in your ageing
Caged and chained for your own safety

And don't pretend you enjoy these nightly rituals
Writing bad poetry onto a silver screen
In the hope some distant call will calm at last
The red fire of need flowing through your veins
reality, hunger, delusion, selfimage, livenow, getreal, foolishinlove
May 13 · 3.2k
Tommy Randell May 13
When we first got together and
You taught me how to kiss
It was a shock to come to know
That pleasure has a fist.

We are not taught as children
Playful Tigers come with risks -
The tongue can be a dagger
As it pierces with a twist.

Did you know before we met
Or was I the catalyst?
Did I wake those demons in you
Like the monologue insists?

You rained on me like fire
So hot it made me hiss,
Then like a glacier in my arms
You pierced me with a twist.

All your stories made me trust you.
Your lust made me enlist
In your army of surrender
The perfect activist.

See me kneeling down before you
The execution fast and slick -
I want now nothing less from you
Than you pierce me with a twist.

Torturer and Victim
How has it come to this,
On a sunny day in heaven
The war of shame persists?

Your compliments are scissors,
Your caress is salt and grit -
Right there from my mirror
You stare, piercing with a twist.
May 13 · 286
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.
May 11 · 76
Tommy Randell May 11
Fire is thing of flame
And so we play the burning game
Though Love of course is most to blame

We dream that passion can be tamed
But such hunger has another aim
To be our ruin and our shame

Each kiss a link that makes a chain
To bind the body & the brain
Spill the blood to make a stain

The risk is we are entertained
By what brings Joy and what brings Pain
And selfies captured frame by frame

Writ large our future inhumane
Our bones entwined, our flesh disdained
The fate of Man, by any other name
May 11 · 70
Tommy Randell May 11
He woke up this morning
His world in anarchy :

The TV remote
Was empty of batteries.

His wife had made breakfast
Halving his calories.

The kids' bedrooms
Stank of underwear and cannabis.

His sinus was screaming
From pollen and allergies.

The cat had had kittens
Increasing the menagerie.

The dog under the table
Was making noises like raspberries.

The whole world in fact
Was disgustingly olfactory.

His arteries were squeezing him
Downhill to mortality.

And he was staring down
At porridge and a cranberry

Holding a plastic spork
Since there was no clean cutlery,

Silently screaming Saturday Saturday
It is always a Saturday,

And he can't go to work
To his desk and his salary,

Until quietly his wife kisses his cheek
And says dreamily that maybe

Life had gotten more perfect 'cause
They are having a Baby ....
May 9 · 83
I walk the dog before I'm awake almost,
when the streets are empty as I prefer.

I've found if you talk to anyone new, the next time your paths cross
before you disappear, they change direction uninvited,
even cross the road just to talk to you.

That's a Code Blue right there. Code. Blue

I'm into work and my monitor is down
And the guy cant fix it 'cause there's a flu bug going round.

Listen I've got deadlines, I've got problems to solve,
and the woman at the photocopier is just chewing and chewing
like she's still eating her breakfast and has all day to do it.

Blue flashes behind eyes, real Indigo needles. Code. Blue.

I'm sat at the Bar minding my own business.
I'm still checking my emails and Instagram.

Some people just wanna poke their eyes over your shoulder
to check out the screen view, being ****** nosey
by habitually climbing into other people's personal space.

That's a a big No-no! for sure. Code. Blue.

On the subway or the bus with all the other empty seats
They sit down next to you and they let out a sigh.

I don't want to listen, I don't want to share, I really don't care,
And there goes my stillness, and there goes my peace,
And one of these days there will go my temper and I will blow that fuse.

Then there'll be a Code Blue... MIGHTY! Code. Blue.
May 6 · 362
There is a question often asked
What is my writing for, what is its task?
I have said as a throwaway tease
It does what it does, then takes its ease.

At other times I must admit
I ponder too, on what is the point of it.
But then, is it possible for a cloud to know
What lightning is, or where rain goes?
May 6 · 86
Year of '69 - Reunion
When time was all we had back then
In our innocence and naivety
When we went home to our separate beds
Was it for the want of creativity?

We'd sat on benches and talked of dreams
Who on earth were we trying to fool?
We teased each other with ******* memes
So how come we never really broke the rules?

How come we were virgins still
As Life took us our separate ways?
And why now is it such a thrill
We stand here gaze to gaze?

That like T S Eliot we've explored
To arrive for the very first time
Fifty years older and somewhat bored
Nervous as poets on the starting line

Look, we're not brand new anymore
I'd say more than a little threadbare -
But maybe that's what Reunions are for
That some beginnings can finally get there!
Watch out for those Reunion ***** guys! As they say, about the staircase of life... That last step is doozie !
May 4 · 119
(A Senryu/Haiku)

When a haiku comes
To its Best Read Before date
Does it still count, or?
May 4 · 205
(A Senryu/Haiku)

Travelling with hope
I look out of the window
Poetry takes time
Apr 22 · 93
Tommy Randell Apr 22
When I can't put my finger on it
but there was something I do remember remembering

When the memory is just a bit fractured
but it needs some clever assembling

When the brain-cave I use as a bolt hole
is a tad neglected and dark

When I look closely into my eyes as I'm shaving
but can't see much of a spark

When the tsunami of ignorance adds
up to an explanation of certainty

When Heaven is perceived as a metaphor
of a sand-grain's inner obscurity

When as a man never being any the wiser
I make a gift of my poetic imagination

When a Poem is a poem IS a poem
because of its pagination

When all I need is to be your Poet and Victim
but it's my day down for Daycare

When I accept the journey to wisdom
will cost slightly more the bus fare

When the mystery of words
is totally their negative space

When the finished lines just hang there
as if something unique has taken place

When my chain of Xcuses just ends
and I wait
Can't put my finger on the reasons for writing this...
But it kind of 'hangs' there quite well :-)
Apr 17 · 81
Time Directives
Tommy Randell Apr 17
Time is a staircase of endless Nows
Every moment a step up
Every tread a firm place to stand

Don't put off yesterday
What you should have done by last Friday
Time doesn't work in arrears

One day of doubt
Is a lifetime of indecision.
What is that about anything?

Time is dry sand soft enough
To lie upon like a mattress
Sharper than a laser when you stand naked in a wind

Knowing there will always be
Another day to make memories
Is a false positive based upon the good times

Don't think you have any influence
Over Time at all
Where would be the fun in that?

Above all be a fan of Time
Listen to its tick tock
Running through your veins

The last thing you will hear
Will be Time's fading laughter
As you fall from the treadmill into the void

Don't wait for it
Don't dilute it
Don't ever ever ever refute it
Apr 16 · 469
Tommy Alert
Tommy Randell Apr 16
A bowl of Skittles and I have to take one
A tray of Peppermints my hand reaches out
That painted bench is begging to be sat on
Being told to be silent I urge to shout

Wet cement and i need to write in it
A baby's cheek and my lips are pursed
A puddle of rain and I make a line for it
A bad boys' party and I'm the worst

Door handles come off in my hand
Zips fail just when I'm rushing
And even this poem isn't going to plan
Thinking too fast my brain is gushing

I can't hold back, I have to be Doing
I won't be patient, can't bear being last
I'm the one who wants to get in there
Stand back, stand back - I'm an Enthusiast!
Enthusiasm & Depression are Light & Shade, I know. I do see my enthusiasm as a force in itself now and not just a result of energy. It creates my energy, it is the beginning of my curiosity and my urgency in Life. It is a flame that has to be nurtured consciously daily.
Apr 15 · 86
That Kind Of Day
Tommy Randell Apr 15
I have an alter ego
Who's kind of a mirror twin
He gets me out of
The trouble I get us in

For example I wrote an anonymous poem
Lusting my best friend's girl
Then pushed the wrong, the up-load button
Without a care in the world

He saw the poem on a website
And believed she was cheating
He called to tell me
Ranting & Screaming

And my alter-E says, all cool,
Hey man it was me didn't ya know
It's www(dot)screwwithyermateday

And we have a laugh
And we have a beer
And Alter-E he's round her's that night
Whispering the poem in her ear

She's cheating on her BF
My Mirror he's like Quicksilver
I can't do right for doing wrong
I admit I'm a bit bewildered
Apr 15 · 224
POEM 404
Tommy Randell Apr 15
not found
... hehe, cheeky! I would guess this has almost certainly been done before and in many disguises will have been all over the internet... but, I haven't seen it so I'll just go with the moment huh?
Apr 14 · 101
poeTed ( 1min 15secs )
Tommy Randell Apr 14
It's what you find that when you find it rings a bell
It's what you say that when you say it silences as well
It is everything a metaphor should be though unexplained
The words we share about ourselves are more than just our names

It is a window between the two rooms of our locked-in private space
It is not fire waiting to be lit but a fire that has learned to wait
It is a small flame of ourselves in a universe ablaze with light
That one face in a crowded room makes everything seem right

Its purpose has a meaning like a woman carries a child
It's not a painting to be un-painted or a knot to be untied
It is a living breathing shape designed to have life of being read
What Poetry is is what a Poem can do when it has been PoeTed.
What it is
Apr 8 · 110
Opera Cornique
I met a girl in Winter
She said her name was Spring,
Eyes as green as meadows,
As sleek as any sapling.
She danced beneath the snowy trees,
She sang of warmth to come,
She wrapped me in her soft embrace
And played me like a drum.

In later months I lived a dream
My poems of Summer skies,
Sowing seeds and visions
Through pastures warm and fertile
To the song of Nature's blessing,
Hand in hand with Spring,
I quickened to the Jig of Life
In tune with every living thing.

Autumn brought me Riches & Death,
A virtual harvest for the Soul,
A duet of sky and forest soaring
To a breathless tremolo.
The Chorus, then, of the Year of Life
but doomed to die in cold and stone -
A ballet of the Heart on ice,
A Commedia dell'arte, a Mundane of Thrones ...
Inspired initially by a Poem of Don Bouchard 'I Met A Girl', a poet I admire very much. This poem however has other intentions ...

Opera Cornique - Is a type of French opera wherein instead of singing, the lines are spoken. In its early form, it was satirical but would, later on, have serious storylines such as Carmen by Georges Bizet.
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
Apr 6 · 112
We need a new word for Dystopian
These days it's got kind of Utopian
When did death and destruction become a fashion?
And is THAT really the worst we can imagine?
Well, it all looks a little Cyclopean

For example, I'm fed up with intergalactic Global War tactics
Let's have The Earth almost destroyed
By a kilometre wide swarm of Alien hemorrhoids
Let's give our future a final **** spin on its axis
Lets have some proper post-apocalyptic dystopian praxis!
Sorry about this... But sometimes my love of language gets the better of me.
Apr 5 · 97
Forty years ago I parked my car
At the bottom of my 2nd wife's drive.
She watched me, as I walked away,
As I turned and waved goodbye.

She hadn't guessed that I would leave
With nothing but my pride
And the look of confusion on her face
Made it all worth while

I didn't and don't hold it against her
I still look back and smile
She gambled and won all she asked for
But nothing I gave her was mine
All true.
Apr 5 · 75
Poetry and Wood
Not all poems are equal
Not all poems are good - But
When you chop down a tree and burn it
The heat you catch is from wood

A collection of poems is a forest
It has saplings nurtured from new
It has old and gnarly survivors
Standing where others once grew

Like the wood from trees
Poems have purpose
And like every poem you read
There is more to a tree than the surface

So, the poetry in poems
Is what they are made of
How we live with poems or trees
That shapes us
Everything is not what it says it is but what it is made of - obviously trees but especially poetry.
Purpose may be crafted out of nothing
Tools & Skills put to other uses

A Poet can write of Life
While searching for whatever amuses

Comfort in ageing is quietness
Inside where the doubts are clamouring

Peace is a mind filled with ripples
After a lifetime's endless hammering

Yes, the vistas of retirement are daunting
Left behind by a purposeful world

The book of one's life still open
But stuck on a page unturned

Sit back though and watch all the faces
Give labels and names to their expressions

See yourself walking beside them
Was that you? Were those your intentions?

It's the Noise I think is the problem
The white hiss that Time is leaking

But that noise is your system balancing
It is fresh air coming in and spring cleaning

Don't be staring ahead, just find a blank sheet
Put your name at the Bottom...
And fill it

This is not your Winter Of Discontent
But the Glorious Harvest of Autumn...
If you will it!
Thank you Lori Jones McCaffery for setting the seeds for this poem.
Apr 4 · 139
I, Poet,
I'm a man that crochets words
A man that conjures dreams
The colours I use have flavours
The deserts I walk have streams

My oceans are filled with mirrors
The mirrors are crammed with stars
Light travels by using the darkness
As an energy fueled reservoir

I tie knots in the ends of stories
I paint pictures with pauses and stops
Grow trees from relative clauses
I verbalize things quite a lot

I dress emperors who have no clothes
Riddles are my stock-in-trade
In the peaceful silence behind my eyes
Wars are raging every day

I, Poet, am hopeful of beauty
Ugliness having loveliness to rhyme for it
I like my cliches covered in bruises
When language gets broken poetry restores it

I'm one of those surgeons of memory
I paint sounds that ripple and weave
Deep down in your deepest forgetting
I shine a light so truth can be seen

My macrame are stories and knittings
Sculptures and landscapes of rope
Twisted since ancient beginnings
Giving mankind a way to share hope

All this but simpler and more basic
Though it is clumsy and awkward in parts
See beyond these words and their meaning
I, Poet, am opening my heart.
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