"plinko" poems
I watched a miracle appear
Almost
Ten years ago
and Deja Vu
now its all You.
From a friend,
for a Friend,
and Not a foe...
Behold,
a story of victory unfolds!
uncanny though you may think
that the stink of hell and BS
be over powered and now somewhat plastered
on a wall for the evil eye to dance the
opposite YAW
im sorry did i pull a moment of Leaves?
a published nightmare, once re-visited
with re-occurring themes yet all linked
on a funny little string of life.
now onto these unstable legs,
garbled communication,
just learning
to rely on himself,
transportation
wanting out the cage
and asleep without worry for his age.
but hes adorable
and his actions chuck full of thought
but this all has the same meaning
of moving forward
feeling
a breeze of excitement
an air of delight
when suddenly summer
becomes winter
these logs i ... chuck ...
to a fire to warm the inquires with--
**** these splinters.
to look around the circle of those
i now start in thought
to hold in a varied definition of "close"
i'll keep by the shadow and watch
and if its a connect four
bingo, plinko, and even/or tic-tac-toe
its that feeling of victory
we all love to know.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Everything is chance. We name the random to create the idea of order and predictability. It's a stab in the abyss.
What is choice? Plinko. Go, pick the arbitrary with stars in your eyes. What you want is only an arm's-length away. Scratch the ticket. Feel the neon in the night wheel like time is in your corner. Let it hurt you. Learn.
the tree limb
crawls up and out
tangent into
the stuttering cool air
I sleep so. ******* much. It's pathetic, really. I've many theories as to why: I'm lazy; I'm not being challenged enough; society is, well, society; I'm a misanthrope; I'm a dreamer.. But, in the end, these all miss the mark.
The impetus behind my sleepmoresleep is, it seems, a direct result of that sentimental urge to bring order to a cosmic court whose very fabric is made of change and chance.
buds waiting
limbs feeling, again
slumber shook off
but this tilt too will end
and bring the wilt back
Start again. Turn the page. We love our metaphors. Why? Because they remind us of the flux. Things won't stay still. Ever. Dictionaries breathe too you know. New glyphs itch to get in.
Let them.
rosette of jag leaf rawr
bright yellow flower
head of seed and
a mane of downy tuft
reaching through
neglected suburb
concrete sidewalks
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 2:06 AM UTC
The game of plinko is very simple
The player takes one single disk
And makes a choice
They must decide where to play
With the hopes of the grand prize
Once the move is made
It can never be undone
As it makes its journey
It hit some bumps
Slowing it down
Steering away from your mark
Only to drastically change direction
For no apparent reason
When it does finally reach the bottom
It may not land where you had hoped
But just by playing the game
By choosing to make a choice
You can shape the basis for the future
You can choose your path
But it may not always be what it seems
All that matters in the end
Is that you played the game
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
My brother says “we're all just like that Plinko puck”
Just freefalling
Allowing every little bump to reroute us
To let us fall somewhere we wouldn’t expect
How exciting
We really are simple
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 5:05 PM UTC