"rambler" poems
I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.
I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.
I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.
I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.
I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.
I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.
I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.
You have my word!
I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.
I will be perky. I will be green.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
When he was seventeen years old,
your protagonist
asked his father
a question about heartbreak, his own perhaps.
The father
answered:
"Why would she love you?
I can see why?
You're acting like a *****
Each line a question,
demanding an answer.
Answers your protagonist
did not have.
So your protagonist
ventured out into the
world,
and became a rambler.
Rambling off nonsense
with the rapidity
of lemming chatter.
He became
the great Rambler,
mumbling about
love,
until even his dreams
became ****** up streams
of language.
He caromed off cliffs of reality
bumping against those barriers
of his fatherland
until he was hurtling
into the rambling ocean
to drown
unconsciously.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
So when I get old and I'm being told
That I can no longer roam
Take pity on me, don't leave me be
To sit here at home all alone
Take me to the top of a mountain
And there let me sit all the day
Leave me on top of the mountain
And there I can fade away
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.
I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat
When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.
Some say each songster, tree and mead—
All eloquent of love divine—
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.
The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!
2.1k
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
The Pill
Called up big Pharma,
Sad and depressed,
I told them straight out:
Dudes, I need a new karma.
*NO problem they cheerfully replied,
(later I wondered, which pill they were on)
We custom make, haute couture, drug-design,
Mood enhancers, in little canisters,
You need only supply the cash and the system vascular!
Your soul's desire?
To be a better wilder, rambler,
Or a life calmer, better anchored?*
I know what I want, exactly,
A pill that removes
Specific words
From the frontal lobe temple
Verbal storage center.
*NO problem! (so cheery it was kinda scary)
Which words would you like to have
Exorcised, annihilated, irradiated, confiscated?*
I list from below, from side to side,
Let not one be denied,
Bury them all in nether-lands,
Swamp them under mountains of
Granite and sand,
Banish them from my lexicon.
How much do you charge?
But one dollar per word.
The list I emailed complete,
Herein I reprint.
Scars Pain Wound Strain Torture Anguish
Disfigure Damage Mar Mutilate Maim Blemish Deface Damage Ruin Distress
Afflict Trouble Wound Torment Agonize Sad Suffer Sting Throb
Torture Torment Despair Suffer Distress Hurt Vex Trouble
Ache Hurt Misery Woe Bitterness Misery Agony Bitter
Heartache Afflict Hurt Cut Loathing Shatter Broken
Alone Bleed Struggle Self-destruct Monster
Nightmare Cornered Darkness Horror
Loner Confused Goodbye Suicide
Slash Cut Desolate Submerge
Dissipate Dead Stinking
Enough.
Awaiting my concoction sweet,
When an answer they begat,
A response forthcoming, indeed was snubbing!
**Dear Sir/Madam,
We regret to inform you that we are unable to manufacture
Said item. Removal of these words would be a violation of
Federal Poetry Laws.
Sadly yours,
Big Pharma
P.S. Are you the author of "Yo! Yo! Warning: the government is reading your poetry! (Metadata Mining This Site) on HP?"**
P.P.S. Please do not contact us anymore.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
these feet, a rambler's. wanderlust
soles tied from genetics of the epi-
kind. his feet did ramble so as these
now do. his difference, he trek'd with
steel shunt in arm. he trek'd slums'
floors. grit-ingrain'd skin, pox'd wh-
olly and now pushing onlys. pushing
ash against the walls of Death's
container. body aged thru time,
more than doubled - more like
end'd - by that refined infusion.
these feet, a rambler's. walking forth
existences' hundred-mile wilderness.
his feet had also, and his feet defer'd
before sixty-six. these continuing
onward searching ancient trails. loo-
king to start another day, looking
for to never quit seeking another
day before the unlit walls of Death.
before the darkness consuming
of depths never known, always near.
these feet, a rambler's. of well-worn
leather. relinquish'd of cares, desire
or ambitions by brambles strangling.
blood running by access of natural
means. slate gash'd soles, crevices
open'd of the crust throwing chal-
lenges toward the sky. heights im-
aginable if only to forsake lazed
calves. heights set for disappearing,
where tracks never lead. no wrong
side in non-existence, no wrong
sight for the rambling feet worn lea-
ther.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
That watershed moment
when the eye goggles comes off,
is akin to winning the Burleigh Horse Trials
with the much coveted Trophy.
Meeting a Rambler as an equal
on an arduous fog clouded valley
along the Devil's Punchbowl,
or a French Phrase Book
that's almost perusal by nature,
under the Arc de Triomphe
How I long to be accomplished
as one of the few, rather than a
casual follower of Velleity .
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
Pool's Prince Charming
by Michael R. Burch
this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool,
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis,
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler,
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic,
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld. Keywords/Tags: pool, shark, billiards, nine ball, Saint Louie Roberts, gambler, hustler
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 4:48 AM UTC
I am emphatically flawed.
I will make mistakes,
I'll be distant and difficult.
Things will rarely if ever,
be "perfect."
But I will always come back to you,
with a sad smile and soft voice,
and the most heartfelt of apologies.
On occasion I will be incredulous.
I'll question your actions,
and your motive.
I'll **** near border on paranoia.
But I'm easily proven wrong,
it won't take much to re-build my confidence.
I may very likely disappear,
from time to time.
I'm an enigmatic rambler,
and a vagabond.
I won't often buy you roses.
But I will show up after days in the wilderness,
with a heart full of love,
and a whiskey bottle stuffed full of wildflowers...
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
We lived
In our Goodwill bathing suits
During our arduous summer isolation
From school and friends.
They were shiny, silk-like.
The scrotums were always
A size too big,
And so, sagged,
Exposing us like water snakes
Raising heads from darkness.
We sat in the back seat of the Rambler
Like three monkeys,
Towels wrapped sarong-like.
The heated air rose from the hood
As visible reminders.
This was Mammy's idea,
Hoping he would feel obliged
After many hours of hoeing and weeding.
Just an hour at the Beach.
I longed for the sound of slowly crushed stone
Beneath the tires as we backed out.
He emerged from the house,
Walked to the garage,
Never glancing our way,
A half hour later we got out.
But I saw, I heard, and now I speak.
Some fathers are never Dads.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
No, I never told you anything,
I knew you'd never hear.
Blocking it out from the lips of your lover, your trusted, you own voice as it echos in your head.
And I,
I never once said it.
Taking a needle from the haystack on your farm,
I sharpened the point to collect my thoughts at the tip.
And stitching delicately,
I sewed my lips together.
Now they'll never tell.
Never speak unwanted truths.
Yet I don't recall your vote of thanks.
This twisted environment is entirely unintended for life.
You prefer to live elsewhere -
Where you can twist it all to the extremes,
To the point where one more turn shatters all existence;
It's your favourite place to be.
The beauty being that any second,
Any movement,
May well induce that fateful collapse.
Show me the reality in that then,
Chosen Child, Barefooted Reveler, Ancient Rambler.
I cut you down.
I sew your lips.
I hold your hand.
Oh, my little one,
You have done so well.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
NOW that a crimson rambler
begins to crawl over the house
of our two lives-
Now that a red curve
winds across the shingles-
Now that hands
washed in early sunrises
climb and spill scarlet
on a white lattice weave-
Now that a loop of blood
is written on our roof
and reaching around a chimney-
How are the two lives of this house
to keep strong hands and strong hearts?
1.5k
As I plunge the blade towards her heart
She wraps her arms around me
I wrestle her off to plunge again
she clings on tight, fights on in vain
We feint and parry though she stands in one spot
For she is a rose rambler and pruning my lot
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
persuasive psychiatric silently suggestible arrest my subconscious with positive words digestible but don't digress at all because I'm highly impressionable and impressible highly strung and suggestible though it is questionable my ability to think with agility which gives my mind mobility although no stability free flow like Jack Kerouac beat beat beating the general jilted generation of my era who can't see the woods so clearer for the amount of trees stood near her rambling rambler rambling on ranting and raving all night long expression is for everyone
fornication sedation adaptation elation
medication probation spiritual raping
beg bleed sorrow slumber
salty seeds mindlessly wonder
sultry mistress in solitary slumber
signs pointing to a magnificent magistracy
push and punish set me free
persuade psychology
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
I am not an outlaw, but I'm a gambler.
Loaded my ole Colt, then closed my Henry's bolt.
I'll rescue Sally and roam as a rambler.
First, I'll shoot the sheriff and rob his bank volt.
Ride into town, guns blazin', deputies die!
Blow the safe, grab the girl, get shot in the thigh.
Sally starts shootin', kills the corrupt sheriff.
Posse's chasin', a cowboy's love life if rough.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
Tumbling lunar inspiration
Early opens the vanilla trap
Of insanity
Barefoot in his maze
Someone before my ocean
We consume the dizzy raindrops
That eagerly loom towards the forest
Catch up with the windows
Roping in lackadaisical strangers
Hopeless and homeless
Grateful for a quick descent
Store away the tiny pieces
As feet walk weak like hopscotch
Gulping down so much water
Like yesterday wont come again
To play
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
When I scribble out a few words
Or choose very many of them
The message should remain simple
Like a beautiful, shining gem
I do not want you to solve grand equations
I do not want you to be scratching your head
I want you to find sheer beauty
In the simplicity of what is said
Sometimes, I am a meandering rambler
Said very little with many words said
I'd rather trim off all the fatty excess
So you will not choke on what was read
We are often undiscovered treasures
We are often diamonds in the rough
We should create while we still have breath
For we will return to the ground, to dust
I hope you can envision lovely jewels
That the world was meant to create
Designed more to display humble beauty
Than it was meant to hate
Nothing special to say, you often think
I thought that myself, since I was a girl
As a pent up clam beneath the murky sea
Lies within myself the precious pearl
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
*Piano music on Friday nights
German Chocolate cake for dessert ,
Candle light
Sugary , Plum wine with Cherry -
tobacco in a favorite pipe
Faraway lightning in Alabama skies
Pecan brittle , Storybooks , Fairytales
Gin Rummy , carrying young'uns to bed
The final smoke from the front porch rail -
in the company of a million stars
Trying to work a bit of magic on a red guitar
Time is a rambler indeed , a loner , impatient -
locking eyes with no one
One last song as the wind precedes the storm -
once more
Settle in for another day
A night then a few more years
So forth and so on* .....
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
So many things happened
So many years ago.
You hitch-hiked to have tea with Mammy;
But not me.
You scaled the Mount to succeed;
Without me.
We slid the Fiat into a Rambler,
Before your big night.
The front got bent out of shape,
But we still went,
Drinking whiskey from the bottle.
Nothing stopped us. We couldn't bother.
We stayed at Sean's,
Or various friends,
At Inns, or canvas tents;
All were means to our ends.
It was fifty years ago...
Half a century of years;
Decades of joyous laughter,
With many unanswered tears.
Oct 1, 2022
Oct 1, 2022 at 8:34 AM UTC
Wander worried rambler roam.
Wander down the path of a riverside wood.
Step by step,
Shuffle to and fro.
A Forgotten industry remains.
Man made mines,
Dug out quarries,
Fencing, barbed wire, power lines, and pressure treated wooden poles.
Littering the landscape.
A blood letting favor, favored low.
A hydroelectric dam.
Murky and historical waters enter its mouth,
and then,
exit from its other side.
Constantly ******* and spitting, and churning turbine whine,
Spinning gear stuck,
clamped to the spine.
Luck may have it that these waters may never go dry.
Luck may have it that these currents stay 'live.
Merrily manic, it flows.
Strong and bold,
sparkle, sprung, sold!
Pushes and rolls,
gives and goes.
Cold.
Electric mother glow.
Neon, argon, blazing blast,
to give city speckled lights a mast.
A grip to grasp, to squeeze, to cast,
shadows in the night.
Yellow, orange, red, and blue,
the shades of dreamers,
with their sorrows leaded, heavy,
holy truths.
Unspoken tomorrows, last goodbyes,
mouthed silently at last
in their heads a film score out of time.
The air is baked, the land is spry.
The sun is shattered through prism pines.
I carry myself upon the leaves, of dead footsteps, make believe.
Native footpaths of long ago
and red sandstone trail of men to behold.
Come to this place and let sights be known,
Come to this place and let sights be known,
histories of ours, histories bygone.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
To say I feel different,
May be a coy understatement
To say I've fit in
Is to be blind to my shape shifting
I wander this earth
Like a rambler of songs long ago sang
In dusty bars under the stars and behind closed doors
Better at breaking hearts and destroying the love created
Than lifting from the ashes
Save myself.
A goal long ago abandoned
I embrace my mind and my conscience
Though pure neither are
Still I wait to be saved by love
I wait
I wait
I wait
No anger to beheld
No reason to get even
No reason to leave
Every reason to live
Every reason to trust
Every reason to love
I miss you. Yet know not your name.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
two Buddies reunite
1. Diamond Rambler-so hard you'll never stop her from rambling
2. Ardent Materialist-so skeptical, he'll argue against himself being "real"
Soon after arrival,
The ritual of showing the other their favorite belonging,
But there was literally nothing.
Both of their favorite thing was "nothing"
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
I'm a rambler.
When I talk about what's on my mind, it's like I can't stop sometimes.
And even when my mouth stops, my mind doesn't.
I'm always thinking about something, and there are very few rare moments when I'm not.
My mind also likes to jump from one thing to the next, so sometimes what I think and say are completely out of order.
This makes retelling of stories difficult at times, and it also makes writing down thoughts very difficult as well.
I have been trying to be better about sticking to things, such as writing poems and writing down things that have happened to me as recollections of a time I may forget one day.
I think I worry too much though.
I worry too much about if I will be relaying my message the way that I want it to be perceived.
I want to make sure that I make sense to others and not just myself, and that I am perceived that way.
There is that **** anxiety again.
One of my therapists once old me that it would be good for me to stick to a routine and have a foundation to stand on in my life.
The funny thing was that I always feel like It's impossible for me to have that foundation, and I also don't necessarily make it easy for myself either.
It's very rare that I finish something completely that I started solely for myself.
It's also very rare that I feel whole heartedly confident in something I'm doing, even if I appear to have the confidence thing down on the outside.
And I guess that's what life is really.
It's just twists and turns that you do or don't see coming, and you have to figure out how to handle them for yourself.
So I'm trying to be better.
I'm going to keep going with this.
I may not be consistent now, but in the long hall, I believe I can do it.
I can finally have a concrete foundation that will stay firm for me.
I will stick to it.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 6:15 AM UTC
We married in the back of that old Rambler in that syrupy summer. Kitkitdizze mortared under pestal of our tires and its grind made an aroma of peculiar pungency. The moon was plump as an unshelled fava and I was about to peal her. This was all the commitment ceremony we needed. Stars be our witness. Outsiders we were, and the cliffs of the Malakoff Diggins where we did our rambling. I initially met her at her wedding to him, whence she gave her away, though rumor had it she and she were once an item prior to he and she ever meeting. Still, more ****** talk spoke of them being a three. This was all good with me, being that I had had that other he who was still bound to that she who had two hims herself. Lucky gal. Notice, I'm not naming names here.
It was our life and we lived it in polyamorous faultlessness. Gurus, rock stars, poets and other worldly scholars were all in the club. As gluey as all that free love was, most became unstuck in their ways. Hot, hot, hot sticky June crooners. Man I can't wait for summer to come again. Who's getting married in the morning?
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC