"ramblers" poems
Ramblers in the wilderness
We cant find what we need
Get a little restless from the searching
Get a little worn down in the swing
Like a bull chasing the matador
is a man left to his own schemes
Everbody needs someone beside 'em
shining like a lighthouse from the sea
- NEEDTOBREATHE
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
**IMMEDIATELY PLEASE REMOVE ALL OF MY INFORMATION FROM YOUR DATA BASE FORTHWITH. ALSO,
ADVISE ANY AND ALL CONTRACTORS, SUB-CONTRACTORS, AGENTS, SUB-AGENTS, AFFILIATES, PARTNERS, COLLEAGUES, ASSOCIATES, CLIENTS, WEBMASTERS, WEB BASED LINKS, WINKS, TWINKS, COLONEL CLINCKS, BOSSES, CO-WORKERS, EMPLOYEES, VENDORS, SUPPLIERS, SALESMEN, ASCCOUNT REPS/EXCS, ACCOUNTANTS, BROKERS, CO-BROKERS, HACKERS, SLACKERS, WHACKERS, JERKS, PIMPS, HOES, HOBOS, BUMS, DERELICTS, DEGENERATES, DOPERS, DEALERS, TWEEKERS, GAMBLERS, RAMBLERS, SOLICITORS, SIDEKICKS, COHORTS, WINGMEN, WHEELMEN, LOOKOUTS, OUTLAWS, IN-LAWS, RELATIVES, FIANCES, GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS, FAMILY, FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EVIL NEMISIS', CANVASSERS, INQUIRERS, QUEERS, QUEENS, COWBOYS, KINGS, **** DRAGS, HAGS, HETEROS, HOMOS, TONY ROMOS, FEMALE IMPERSONATORS, (PRE OR POST) MALE IMPERSONATORS, ***** ***** VAN ***** **** VAN **** LESBIANS, LIARS, BUYERS, CRYERS, CIGAR SMOKERS, CARPET MUNCHERS, RUG RATS, TODDLERS, TEENAGERS, YOUNGSTERS, SENIORS, SUCKERS, TRUCKERS, MOTHER shut yer mouth, LAW MAKERS, LAWYERS, ATTORNEYS, JUDGES, POLITICIANS, PECKERWOODS, LEADERS, FOLLOWERS, DISCIPLES, PROPHETS, EVANGELISTS, SAVIORS, SINNERS, SAINTS, SOOTHSAYERS, MEDICINE MEN, GYPSYS, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES, WITCHES, WARLOCKS, VAMPIRES, LYCANS, ZOMBIES, WAR MONGERS, PROTESTERS, SOLIDERS, GENERALS, GOVERNORS, PRESIDENTS, PATRIOTS, PACKERS, LIONS, BEARS, BROWNS, BLACKHAWKS, REDWINGS, RIGHT WING, LIBERALS, OR LAW BIDING CITIZENS, THEY ARE NOT TO CONTACT ME AND LOOSE MY NUMBER.
BUT IF YOU SEE MY MOM, TELL HER TO CALL ME.
........................................................................BA-ZING....................................................................**
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
steel
oil
engineering
labor
converge
round a
Rocket 88
dead man’s
curve
prescient
precocious
capitalists
concoct
Edsels
Vegas
Chevelles
leaping
Impalas
leak
oil
staining
every
American
driveway
Pintos
chase
Gremlins
across
The Great Plains
gassing up
at
Rt 66
fillin
stations
scramblin
Midnight
Ramblers
detour to
take refuge
with Goats in
Big Sky
Indian
garages
440
Mustangs
nip
327
Stingrays
and
Mach IV
Cobras
get
snake bit
by Dart
wielding
Mopar
muscle
cars
long fins
chrome bumpers
and round fenders
still get bent in
Havana
but
Motor City is broke
nations outta gas
whole **** country
needs an overhaul
Ike Turner/Jackie Brenston: Rocket 88
Nelson Riddle: Route 66
7/19/13
Oakland
jbm
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
The driver
she wears mascara
the
last remnant of her humaness
she's always been a
little blessed
she's met her death
many times.
You can hear
her coming on
the winds
freight train sounds
through the Jeffrey Pines
this train isn't
Bound for Glory
this train's bound
for eternity
a one way
ticket with
no return.
Though I've always
rooted for reincarnation.
This train
stops for gamblers
midnight ramblers
**** addled ******
addicts caught between
nodding out and cleaning
the refrigerator with a tooth brush.
Even saints on board will stay.
The oblivion express
your going to hop
on board when your
ticket is punched,
the ticket taker
laughs and smiles
his last glimpse
of humaness.
She's the driver
he's the turnstile
they were once
an item
before they were delivered
to their
new careers
never to see each
other again
except through the
glass of her engine.
The fire is stoked
the express becomes
a local
stopping for each
and every
daily passenger
you can hear that
whistle blow.
You don't know where you're
headed
you just know
you gotta go.
Her mascara drips down
her face
you and she
the ticket taker
too
there is no escape
the oblivion express
just around the corner
and
on its way.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
’Tween hither and thither we wended our way
skipping, dancing through sand dunes, in seascape croquet.
While woven in waves watching dolphins at play
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.
Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.
Being spectres of splendour in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
the breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embraced in youth’s blooming bouquet.
With the wind as our wings, till the Never we flew,
two gypsies, on junkets through dusk’s residue
gently floating like pollen to everywhere new,
so eluding pearled teardrops that paint the past blue.
Yes, we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire and anchors aweigh –
rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night’n day after day.
Having stars in our eyes and all time as our view,
we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
its a gas station on a long desert road apparitions of wavy heat (steam from boiling water) emanating from the pavement converging with the skyline breaking the horizon – the ramblers in the distance
they lap at the *** of disparity (the savior for now) this road this pump – invisible if not the saving grace of the traveler
clinging to the dethreading strings of hope, unravelling ball of yarn of blind faith and compassion that if the doors closed there would be an awakening within memories dreams visions – but its invisible, an aura a transparent silhouette – no marks no chips in the fabric of this world, no cause, no direction, just there.
lets be direct I’m the gas station – a seed of a dandelion swimming in a sea of concrete waiting for the hardening world to enclose me into a capsule a capsule run by cogs, I’m one of the cogs, but when the sprocket snaps, the machine goes on – an ironic metaphor a poorly written one (waiting for the sprocket to snap) to think I’m the only ironic metaphor is arrogant – lest i find the other- or the other finds me.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
All things – all – must end
Not just good, but bad as well
So here I am swallowing hope
To cure my belly’s new personal hell
For poems have reduced to mere points
And the poets who paint them just pawns
Compelled to take drags of this joint
For a prayer that our work carries on
Neighborhoods turn into ghettos
Victorian houses accosted by ramblers
Starving artists must don their stilettos
And we stay because we’re all gamblers
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
And just what are you expecting to see?
Two eyes just like mine, hands that ache to feel flesh, there is something to fabricating love,
Adequate to say that these threats will go unheard, and through the years I'll get to say I told you so, yet I still feel like a failure,
Cross check the references, comb the referrals, you've got the experience for every job but the one you want,
I find security in preserving the real me,
Over thinking on what should be said next, when just their presence will suffice, trying to explain to yourself how to not sound crazy, all the while talking to yourself.
We all do it,
Some things are better left in that awkward silence, the longer it holds the more said than words could ever entertain, no pure thought is safe,
An invasion that's become obsession,
Even if I tell you all my secrets, there is still apart of me I'm missing, not even I can find it alone
My ego tends to show through,
I get it confused with my personality, which in turn doesn't show much as my skin, cursed to oblivious stares,
Then again I've been talking to myself,
Usually just saying hello, possibly singing some tune, or my favorite describing exactly what I'm doing in confusion,
"What am I writing?"
A taste of reality from the insomniac ramblers program, a show free to watch, and real physical participating with the whole gang,
Hold on tight to this thread,
Your future with me will not be what we expect, I recommend strict regimes for personal viewing times, our minds are hesitant to believing what's in the mirror
I see me, and I see you
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
Hold it in
cut clean the vitals
How I see a simple procedure going wrong is the anxiety of the believer. The Optimist that fears the pessimistic balance. True lovers of the art.
Exhale
sedation equals Meditation
Minds wander when watching the reflection of ever moving sound and light through the world of water.
Sip the air in
Release the third eyes tears
A figure of speech. Or a meaning that only the experienced can speak for? But nothing is trivial in the pursuit and may it suit you so.
DOnot BlinK
Digging holes to sleep in
There is a goal of destruction. Caused either by thy self or the weight out on thy self by others. However this weight becomes lighter as I become stronger in bearing it. Should it ever be cast off I fear I would not exist.
Let the music in
Silhouettes are my truth
But now the doubt has been raised... The Cave men will now question their Gods. The banished becomes a Martyr of everyones self doubt.
Meet the eyes of your maker
Blind, Deft, Paralyzed
You can find them. I have them. Everyone and almost everything does. look deep, drink the knowledge and use it to cure. Become the knife to the weave of time and free our paths.
Become a monster
when getting hijacked in your car, drive into a large object fast, all the while stare at aggressor silently
A Monster is a matter of opinion. But I digress that it should be questioned whether or not humans can be monsters and no longer humans. To add someone who becomes a monster may never have the chance to become human. The odds are stacked against humans.
laugh in our beds for our sins
Hard Rock Balled
I don't mind good and evil. I don't much care for what they are. Experiencing them I care about.
Time fractals across the Insomniac Ramblers body
Criticize, Critique, Commit
Dream for others. Imagine the unknown. Believe in oneself.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
Feel the push and pull of my voice as it enters a dance of love,
Affirmation follows with a glance caught wandering,
Linger just long enough for reality to catch up,
Sift through the maps of our brains plotting each next step,
Expanding horizons form through a windshield as the sun sets,
Hear the tapping of hearts trying to synchronize,
Open to the restrictions unfurling before our eyes,
Place the next arrow to be released at the heart an inch higher,
Exhausted by each false hope formulated among our thoughts.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
the road gathers itself like a drained old woman,
hunched over rags, beneath the gloomy crag,
sintering as it nears the beach,
worn out through time, impoverished
it has become reflective in the chittering half-light.
Eviscerated by the pawing waves,
contradictory cracks like entrails, hanging out
crushed into solitude , it redefines its continuous retreat.
In the reductive shade
it circumvents the cove, its tarmac withered,
a battered host to foreign weeds.
Sunrise chides the posturing sky, the sulking universal remnants
vanishing in the fenestrated glare. In the near distance, air unravels,
the moving storm exhaling slips of cloud
rapidly swarming like furious flecks of phlegm-sneezed out in perpetuity
between heat and cold.
The road lies entombed beneath a scree, tumbledown stones and dust.
Ramblers and cars have sought and found
an alternative route. The moistened rubble creaks
as liquid gathers in its shifting heart, crawling out in rivulets-the rain
descending like spit,
emolliating the countryside, shifting dollops of fetid mud,
enveloping like a furious aneurysm.
Sea and land entrenched in conflict,
a war of attrition always won by seas, unleashing energy
of mindful apocalypse in the manner of a gentle sigh.
The gaping abscess of scarred promontories tottering
like feverish drunks. The mouthed obscenities of carnivorous
birds radiates throughout the cove pinpointing local
drownings encrusted with salt. Sea upon sea impose themselves
enviously on rampant shorelines feasting on sand and rock. Never ending!
Plunging ever forward like a barren plough, receding, only to
re-site its casual fury-implosion upon explosion.
The road in its sullen retreat
stumbles through narrow valleys speckled
with gloom; trees with yellow flowers
blooming in crinkled shadows,
deer leaping through high-standing grass, mincing
between tall thin trees. Loping down
into the cities, it becomes a tousled high street full
of immigrants, all yearning for the sea.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
ramblers often traipse through depleted and damaged soils, to discover new realms, new places of beauty.
I am a rambler of language.
I often find myself traipsing through discarded and disconsolate thoughts, to discover new expressions, new articulations.
New ways of telling you
Just how I feel.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
Everything on this gelid morning speaks only dead languages.
Change your mind. Consider it a beguilingly blank canvas.
Slather it with the random pigments of your imagination.
Go for a stroll and practice random acts of sadistic charity.
Inhale the exquisite frondescence of naked branches.
Focus your neurons on everything you have forgotten.
********** incessantly to Mozart's Requiem. Honor his memory.
Unleash your nukes. Annihilate Canada. Destroy winter for good.
Make your lover a garland of cassowary feathers. Impress her.
Concentrate on growing horrifically profuse ***** hair.
Study the nonexistent texts of forgotten Uzbecki ascetics.
Raise fearsome armies of rabid Chinese lawn gnomes. Attack.
Try to knit String Theory while contemplating theoretical macramé.
Drink cider vinegar to defuse the carcinogenic dangers of politics.
Attempt to complete a peace treaty with gravity. Concede nothing.
Build a launch pad. Hurl rusting Ramblers into low earth orbit.
Collect ingredients. Home brew ****** absinthe and aphrodisiacs.
Test drive a luxury submarine in your neighbor's swimming pool.
Smash the endless contemporary Conga Line of Dumb. Think about it.
Surrender to uncommon sense for a change. Avoid the ordinary.
Give peace a chance. Endless war has left it lonely and depressed.
Admit that everyone is well and truly ****** Relax. Breathe.
Proclaim the advent of the poetry of the apocalypse,
but take care not to write any of it down yet. Go slowly.
Tomorrow is another day to be filled. Keep some options open.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
Count the pauses… count the ums.
Bankrupt sit county sums.
Budget, a fixture, no more than a talking point
Biased ramblers to appoint
Unintelligible doctrine to spout
Fear mongering to tout
Advertisements pair worth to a nine-year absence
And speak of self-mirroring balance
Public workers left without voice
And an inability to promote their choice
A fountainhead meaning proved invalid
Still chattered on about for the sake of the ballot
A demonic man with cat on lap
Spewing forth a **** load of crap
Chosen stance, in promotion of defense
Bankrupting the nation in a swindlers fence
Bound in decision to a blurred spectrum
Loyally stuck brown-nosing a corrupted ******
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
On Cabbage Mound the birds tweet gold,
So says the porridge eating man,
The spontaneous trek up that grassy reserve
(To see the flocks and frolics of finches conversing)
It’s a matter of season he said,
In joyous spring they produce song of glitter, but
Catch them under the wave of a solemn winter
And you shall only hear a dull twitter.
Often he leaves bowls of porridge upon that place,
Abandoned to absorb the view,
Wilting amoungst the bush and flora,
Like a planted trap for the lurking fauna,
Their ceramic bodies sit unnoticed and unaware,
Soaking in the sunrises and
Mourning the day’s ending
When the sun crawls under the horizon.
Early dawn conversations leak
From the finches’ rookeries,
Where they dwell cooped up
Amoungst feather and trinket,
Their endless nattering awakens the sun,
Coercing it to rise, and
Bleaching the ground in tints of orange.
A breakfast awaits them
Outside their homes
Of woven branches and loose fur;
Berries and scattered delicacies
(From the Sunday morning ramblers),
And perhaps a touch of porridge too.
They bury their beaks into the thick pools
Of weathered oatmeal,
And perpetually pick at plastic wrappings
Until their brandished beaks begin to go blunt and sore,
A monotonous task even for an eager flock,
But they never end their labour without reward.
After breakfast,
The porridge eating man
(With porridge in hand) arrives,
He approaches with a staggered limp,
Perhaps a scar from some late night disagreement,
He approaches holding his lower left limb,
The finches have come to learn his routine.
First he stops (whether to take in the view
Or to rest from the trudge up Cabbage Mound,
The birds have not yet asked),
Second he takes out a package
From his right pocket,
He undresses the wrapping
And produces a small pad of paper,
A pen follows, signifying
The start of settled concentration:
Strings of ink,
Intertwining lines and shapes,
Letters touching letters,
Forming meaning and breeding words,
A sharp coo startles the man,
Breaking his focus, and anchoring
Him back to sobriety,
Finally he disembarks from Cabbage Mound,
Turning his back to feathered insight
And slowly sinking behind the hill,
A bowl of porridge takes his place,
And so, it shall stay
Until the finches start to natter
And their hunger begins to ache.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 7:00 AM UTC
A dream is coherent and predictable.
In that nothing is what it seems...
There random but not pointless.
Everything is simply but a means.
To a purpose, not one or two,
But a string of consciousness
So without further ado.
I dream of rain that I love so much.
That can move your soul and remove all anguish with its touch.
So easy to be taken for granted and unappreciated yet.
I was once taught to feel the rain, not just get wet.
I dream of something just as good as rain,
a crudely drawn globe that means the world to me all the same.
I dream of a mirror intolerable of lies.
That can gaze into your heart past any disguise.
So as the demons come out of the wood work and make you
Doubt what is true.
Look into the mirror and see the real you.
They are nothing but shadow puppets, toys in your path.
I dream that you disregard them with nothing but a akward laugh!
Lastly I selfishly dream that I’m remembered not with flare or style.
But by a strong courageous beauty with a killer smile,
so I can keep holding up the mirror intolerant of lies.
and you can finally see yourself through my eyes.
I dream of all these ideas and memories too.
But only when I dream of one person
, And that person is you.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
Here he comes, Red the ***
Asking directions to where the ramblers are from.
He's not worried who hears when he laughs loud and cries.
Nobody frowns if he fails when he flies.
Wandering he provides us while he's manic and magic.
Experiences recorded in the Encyclopedia Akashic.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Even on this soap box do I feel small
What follows truly means nothing at all
Political forces standing arm in arm
Together they chant "vote for me, I won't cause any harm."
Don't peek behind their wall
You won't sleep as well, maybe not even at all
The same named corporate boogeymen rigging the game
What a deal, they get cash and the fame
How about other spots on this rock we share in space
Children working to craft the shoes you lace
The crowned family of the sand gripping the bear by the coin purse
But at least it is cheaper to fill up your hearse
Wait, don't look outward, hold onto your bliss
Things aren't perfect, but they could be worse
Go get burned by the sun or moon light
Grow something from this rock, it is an utter delight
Don't sleep, experience the entirety of night
Leave your mind, temporarily give up your sight
The ground below will dutifully take all your fright
Empty your heart, dump all of the world out from inside
Find an animal in which you can confide
Live as you please, and don't listen to ramblers like me
I'm just talking from the bottom of a cup of coffee or tea
And I leave this purely as proof of the continuation of my life
Now if you will excuse me, I must hide from the sunlight
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
What am I to do with this idea in my head,
That causes me to search far and wide,
Where I'm willing to give all my worldly possessions,
How do I explain the actions it make,
This idea will drive me into oblivion,
That's my goal,
Floating in limbo with the same problem I have now,
Stroking the blissful ignorance to be reborn,
Life is black and white as long as you live in the grey,
By the same time we arrive at a party,
Drinking the souls of our smiles,
Mixing words in taboo subjects,
This is the education fought so hard to protect,
Tears are waterfalls the nose a stream,
Biting chocolate for the sake of joy,
A convincing lie can do the same,
For all the wrong reasons it will be done right,
Or trying has become the norm,
Because failure is so freaking awesome,
Cringing on a cold heart for warmth,
No response from the trapped cat
Napping with dreams of freedom,
Reachable only once it follows the bird,
How flawed are apples eaten by worms,
Burrowed deep within an eye,
That has such an idea that it may die.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
Here he comes, Red the ***
Asking the cosmos directions to where the ramblers are from.
His bright pink nose is smart and weird.
Intoxicant residue in his wiggly orange beard.
He's not saddled with a fiefdom,
Or boredom or wifedom.
He's not embarrassed when he's alone so he laughs loud and cries.
Nobody frowns if he fails when he flies.
Wandering he provides us while he's manic and magic.
He records the experiences in the Encyclopedia Akashic.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
They crash, they splash, the waves they roar,
The oceans surge, majestic, raw,
Continuing on hour after hour,
The seas, a source of relentless power.
Across the waves I sit and stare,
In awe of Neptune’s aquatic lair,
The Cormorants fish, sly seagulls pounce,
As on the waves, the pleasure boats bounce.
The tide ebbs back, exposing sand,
Where soon walk lovers, hand in hand,
The smell of sea, the scent of salt,
As seabirds sing their wild exalt.
So murky brown, no clear blue sea,
A ***** river, mesmerising me,
Cathedrals, towers, the odd church spire,
The scrap yard dunes grow ever higher.
The city skyline, like concrete flowers,
The wonders of nature, sadly sours,
To escape their confine, the river flows,
When flooding banks, her power shows.
Along the shore, the waves still roll,
As along the prom, the ramblers stroll,
The sun beats down, the breeze blows slight,
Not a single cloud appears in sight.
The seas they hide their life below,
As mortals fear what monsters grow,
So few have seen what lies down there,
As we rely on breathing air.
She keeps so much unseen by all,
Her area vast, her creatures’ small,
The dangerous, yet mystical, magical sea,
Fearsome to many, but enchanting to me.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2013
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC