"rambling" poems
Hi there.
Sometimes it hurts to think.
I'm driving around in my hometown
I saw this old park that me and my friends would run and laugh and play at all the time.
We played cops and robbers
Lava Monster
Freeze tag
We acted like knights in strong armor and princesses with glittery dresses and we all slayed the dragons
Well now here I am staring at this old swing set that no one swings on anymore.
I used to think that I could touch the clouds with my feet if I swung high enough.
There is something so lively about a group of kids laughing and playing on a playground.
There is something so eerie about an old empty playground where no one goes.
That playground used to be so alive.
Now the swing creaks as it sways in the slight breeze.
You can almost hear faint whispers of the kids laughing from years before.
Now all those kids are adults with lives and responsibilities that are much more important than slaying a dragon.
The wood has splinters that get stuck in your fingers.
It is not shiny and fun anymore.
It used to be new
But I have found that everything changes eventually.
I wish people didn't leave so unexpectedly.
Anyways I am just rambling
but next time you see a playground
just try to look away.
it hurts to think too long
Bye.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 7:10 PM UTC
Rambling with the mind of the madman that I am I just hide it very well amidst the chaos and beauty which existence simultaneously in my life.
Posey 12
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
Sometimes, looking at you in the light of the kitchen I want
to run a finger
Down the length of your nose but
I know you'd wrinkle it, and shake your head citing a tickle, but kiss behind my shoulder as soon
As I turn away
When my feet make ice pools in the bed
Toes accidentally brushing your ankle and you **** abruptly, but upon hearing
My sigh, trap them back with your ankles til, martyr that you are, I'm engulfed in
Warmth at your
Expense.
Sometimes the last trickle of milk is mine, for the coffee,
Silent with your eyes smiling fondly, you look on as I sip, resolutely stirring powdered
Dead baby souls into mug as substitute.
Even damp smelly socks
Greasy hair
Neurotic tears and
Intellectual rambling epiphanies
Even childish blunders, fudging the
Budget or burning the toast
You still call me fond Things.
And love Me.
The most.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
On the molded plastic black keys
Tip- tap tipping away
Smiling wickedly
With self-satisfaction
Words deliberately in a sociopathic array
Crazed Eyes agleam
Thoughts rambling across the planets
In and out of reality
Both far and away
Each letter vibrates with its own life
The deranged wordsmith's release
So the clicking and typing
Systemic vacant sounds
Never seem to cease
To the mad poet
The combinations of descriptive words
Overpowering
Promotes the disease
Hypnotizing
Beguiling
Calling in a sweet voice
To the mad poet
In letters A to Z
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
Skeleton bones in the closet, no, not I, I got live bodies locked in chains. In the spirit of Halloween, I'll wear a hockey mask and be that obsessed killer. Teenage kicks, listen close for the screams. ****** from neglect, ****** because of reject, ****** brought on by me always feeling depressed. You called me names, you tortured my spirit, you ****** me like the idols you worship. I've worsen since i started feeding on your hate. This is my manifesto. Are you scared? You should be. Because I won't take the ranting rambling bigotry you speak. This will be something straight out of a horror scene. The plot thickens, foreshadow what's next. If you think this story is fiction well it's not because we live in a cold world and I'm only giving you a description, a depiction of what words can do, I use mine for assistance, I learned to listen, I hope you do too, because you can create a monster with the powerful words you decide to use.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And round the Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
And down to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s Own County, Yay!
Yull see ‘em rambling at Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.
Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.
Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.
So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes 're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.
Paul Butters
(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
What will become of us, when I have nothing left to say?
When I'm completely burnt out, and have no feelings left to convey?
Drowning in my sorrows, looking for more words to ramble on because rambling seems to be the only way.
The only way to communicate the longing to save someone from my own nightmare.
I talk to talk, hoping that someone will finally understand my jibberish words of thoughts i've compiled together.
My words have lost their meaning, I'm speaking only to myself,
trying to make sense of the words that come out of my mouth.
I've nothing left inside me...Will you take over the talking?
Longing to hear someone else say the things I've thought- quite the impossible thought if you ask me.
How can I expect someone else to read my mind, then communicate it back to me?
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Her eyes radiant and sensous,
she proudly wore them.
Her eyes allured praises,
and conquered the art of flirting.
She looked at him to flaunt her eyes.
Which, she knew will tantalize him.
She wanted to arouse his highs,
and have him fantasize about her.
She looked at his eyes,
assuming it's just another fling.
Powerful and authentic were his eyes,
but also strangely familiar and gently captivating.
Her eyes met his eyes.
For the first time,
her impish and sparky spirit
felt something alien.
His eyes were all that were focussed
for, the rest of the surrounding faded.
She didn't feel the air.
She didn't feel the ground.
She only felt the gaze.
Her always rambling mind
went thoughtless now.
Her burning desire to keep doing more
was suddenly extinguished.
She went quiet.
Neither into an uncomfortable silence,
nor a painful silence.
But a peaceful silence.
A satiated silence.
The haunting memories from the past,
the gripping fear of the future,
all dissolved and energised the ecstatic present.
She no longer wanted this to be a fling
for, she knew she was captivated.
This was the first her flirting failed.
And she knew she couldn't be bailed out
from what's to come.
May 15, 2021
May 15, 2021 at 1:18 AM UTC
She is a solemn wanderer,
A daughter of the road
The crunch of moving gravel
Is like balm upon her soul.
Each rambling, easy footstep,
Within each languid stride,
Keeps the poison thoughts
From taking root inside her mind.
Each footstep is a triumph
That pushes her along
Each gasping breath that fuels her
Is a lyric to her song.
At times she is a vagrant
When there is no place to go
When nothing feels familiar but
The stone that coats the road.
At times she is a traveler
That thirsts for foreign lands
Her mind drifts off to mountain sides,
Or golden sprawling sands.
And most times she’s a dreamer
Thinking of the day
She’ll let her restless, resolute legs
Take her far away.
In all, she is a wanderer,
A daughter of the road
Putting space between her thoughts
Upon the open road.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
#
***My mind to frolic, with words of Frost
Slides between and then is lost
Drifting ‘round to fellows long
My thirst is deep; desires strong
Filled with all that Maya says
Flits in and out my meddling head
And ah, when Pablo speaks of love
My heart's aflutter with pure white doves
Around the beat, who else but Poe
A deep dark place I've come to know
I stop to ponder the words worth
As if I've nursed them from their birth
I settle to hear the rambling brook
Where Gwendolyn baits my eager hook
Then ‘long comes Oscar, running wild
I listen like an eager child
When Langston paints his colored hues
His canvas fills my point of view
Not just the finest spinning me
To this state of flux and reverie
For verses drift from near and far
Forever reaching for the stars
Feeding on the gentle night
I languish in the word's delight
Finding rhyme from ‘neath the skin
The place where passion's settled in
To fill my cup, appease my soul
Till hunger's sated, fat and whole
The empty space behind my eyes
Is filled with life's sweet lullabies
And when at last, I lay to rest
I'm filled with cadence of the best***
#
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:24 AM UTC
Rambling running were does it ever end my mind is racing. Then the wondering starts again. Hard to think or even concentrate even harder still to even speak. Why the hell did god curse me with this disease this curse of the mind. Making it hard for me to learn, to grow, old habits hard to break. What the hell I’m I to do but only to learn forms ones mistakes. Were does it end only in death will I learn that mistake.
Posey 00
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 6:25 PM UTC
And the day sends bursts of gold and brilliance to the coming night.
Beautifully engraving divine colors through the horizon.
The rambling of magics, mysteries, and charm has commenced.
The whispering of the leaves,
the spirit of spring.
The lighting beacon of my love
and resilience.
Nurturing my dreams,
unfurling my new-found wings.
An amorous night to soar,
an idyllic moment to fly,
While I await for the moon
to join the sun
in the same pastel sky.
May 19, 2022
May 19, 2022 at 7:34 AM UTC
My eyes bleed with exhaustion.
My thoughts are fuzzy like my brain is stuffed with styrofoam.
My body sinks into the ugly carpet floor of my basement.
My mouth tastes sour with the flavor of an unslept soul.
I lie here writing instead of sleeping because it feels like the only thing I can do well, consciously.
My back aches with an elders pain at late seventeen.
I crave the warm embrace of my bed but am too stuck like sap to move.
I'm rambling here in my brain instead of resting my frigid existence.
My thoughts are slow and choppy now with the hesitation of drifty words.
My rusted, chipping ears hear nothing but silence and a distant coo-coo clock.
The chirps of a bird only found in my dark, dusty insanity.
The world weighs upon children such as these in a universe such as this.
I'm just, tired. Tired...
~S.C. Kelley
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
When men were men, Mountain men, they would shout out a small greeting to those approaching, some were very discriptive...here is mine:
Born in a blizzard, back in a grizzly's cave,
drank wolf milk, use a knife to shave.
Can out spit, out run, out shoot any known
man alive.
Can fight two or more men just to keep it fair,
now get down from your horse and tell me
what the hell your doing here!
Man I tell you I was born in the wrong century.
Open land, cooking outside, trade my furs for a good woman.
Shoot guns, drink whiskey...hell it don't get any better then that.
Course I would change a few things, like..I would need my toilet paper,
that corn husk thing , well I'm not for all that.
I'd have to figure out how to put a heater and windshield on that horse of mine too.
I'd **** sure would get me a better rifle then that Hawkins( mind you it was the rifle of its time) just to even up the score when them city slickers start trying to sneak away my whiskey.
Ah, yes just rambling. Anyways back to the real world.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 8:37 AM UTC
We are born unto a crown of thorns.
Our tender skin rendered vulnerable
to self-made deities, rambling idols.
Our minds are roped and tied, binding
our thoughts with punishments.
Punishments disguised as pathways of love.
What love is brought into this world, when love is
taught by the bloodshed of others. What people
are created with love made from threats
of searing flesh? When did love become less
about acceptance and more about separating
those deemed worth and unworthy?
Gods of fear curse our world with tainted
versions of love. We are forced to our knees
before the power of an almighty being unknown
to mankind. In searching for purpose, we have forsaken
our freedom. We fall victim to the fears that numb our
brains liked "Grade A" pharmaceuticals.
If your god is almighty, all loving, and all seeing,
why does he rule without mercy? Why does he
require full and complete submission as the only
pathway to him?
We go to war under the guise of bringing freedom.
Our politicians preach out from mountains our right
to freedom and free will. But when the votes are cast,
and the campaigns are run, we scuttle home to spread the
single most imprisoning ideological mindset to others.
Why fight for freedom,
when we give it away so willing
to a man behind smoke and mirrors?
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 2:51 AM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I've got my head in the clouds
How is that a bad thing?
My thoughts are so far from the ground
And maybe they'll touch my dreams
I could stare at the sky
Put neon graffiti on the lazy moon
I could put a symphony with a sunrise
And I still don't think that'd be as beautiful as waaah I'm rambling over a truth
Maybe my hair could be nested in by eagles
Or my tears could fill up clouds for rain
Or all of this could come crashing down because I'm over eager
And I'll end up tasting the sandpapery wine of pain
So maybe having my head in the clouds,
Isn't exactly a prefect thing
But if it's where I belong
Then I'll next a new set of wings
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
Confliction,
Deception,
Introspection,
Retrospection,
Contraception,
Reflection,
Who art thou?
Who am I?
Who are you?
Bicurious,
Heterosexual,
Bisexual,
***********
Demisexual,
Asexual,
Homosexual,
Alone,
Joined,
Separated,
Unison,
Loneliness,
Together,
Rambling,
Scrambling,
Galloping,
Struggling,
Basking,
Scattered,
Are My Thoughts.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
sometimes
there are rocks in my hands
and only tight clenched fists
can keep them from smashing
the mirror world below
into delicate shards of broken promises.
i long to float among the clouds -
one with the stratosphere -
but the rocks weigh me down
so that i cannot touch them.
reaching
but never reached.
people in glass houses
aren't supposed to throw stones.
so i am sure to keep locked
my loaded palms
hiding in plain sight.
only your lips
with homemade ice-cream touches
can coerce my stagnant fingers
to melt back into warm flesh.
skin bones knuckles joints.
i release the stones over a waterfall cliff -
rushing rolling rambling -
and they ripple in the water
and sink to the soil of the riverbed
making a home for fragile fish
in search of shelter.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
When I look into the moon I see the only dependent part of me that still exists. Its as if the silence in her vocal cords spoke words of solitude. I gave her the only bio mechanical part of me that mattered.
The gears in my chest keep turning like clock work.
I count seconds into minutes and minutes into hours and hours into days. I keep thinking time is standing still while im still standing still.
I'm waiting, waiting on patience and as unjustified as it sounds I'm impatient. Dreams are just your natural thoughts heavily sedated, a sub-conscious reality based off the feelings we cant display them.
I don't consider myself a writer, I see the constant flow of words and as a kid it left me inspired. I'm more of the sub concious reality type. I drink coffee and outside of that I really don't have a life.
For me writing is self exspression without being judged by others.
I opinionate my feelings and organize them in ink. The papper is my empty canvas, my thoughts are my judgment, and the pen is the deliverer.
Sometimes writing is the only thing that can stitch my wounds, like the words curved inside my brain penetrating like the needlesof a tattoo. I wonder what will become me, in what paradox will I redeem the sum of me?
I just hope this bio mechanical heart ticks away. I hope people continue to be people with different mindsets and open steeples. I want love to be found and dreams to be created.
Kalvin Moon
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 2:20 AM UTC
In haste,
I took the first woman like a whiskey shot--
every ounce of her scarred my throat
kept me silent, kept me staggering under the weight.
When the bottom shelf love went beyond full bloom,
I vomited her up, leaving me with a headache.
In good conscious,
I took the second woman like an aspirin pill--
every milligram of her alleviated the pain
kept me similar to content, kept me tame.
When the effects wore off and I pined for another drink,
I put her in the cabinet, leaving me rambling nomadic.
In guilt,
I turned myself into the third woman like a penitent criminal--
every liter of her blood solidified
kept me wrapped behind her bars, kept me seeking her good graces.
When the prison sentence drew to a close,
I left her behind, walking with an unwashable history.
The fourth found me frightening,
the fifth just ignored,
the sixth designated me the "other man",
and the elusive seventh only said, "You could do better."
In my mind,
the pills, prisons, and liquor melded --
the days cut short,
the nights grew long,
but I could do better
I could do better
I could do better.
I sold the pills, I poured the whiskey down the sink,
I left prison to the prisoners,
and in the mirror I became a religious practitioner.
To the Church of Better I subscribed.
Sober, lone, and free my cry.
To the darkness I whispered:
I am the resurrection,
I cannot be killed,
I am the resurrection,
the Buddha,
the Jesus,
the Krishna,
the Allah.
I am the resurrection,
born again and again and again.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
When the last memory says
I have to remember
all the layers that whisper in these rooms.
My fingers become blind
to the passing warmth of years
my lips have forgotten
way too soon.
I always knew
the rambling name
of the nights when I smiled
at the voices of the stars.
This is when I felt the air lingering
inside of a time
when I knew I could stand
where you are.
Faded hours fall
from my childhood scars
like solemn words set fire in streams
to all I speak.
Still, I accept your arms
and give you all my love,
knowing.......
no breath of mine will sleep.
A knowing is left
like a sound subdued in my ear,
and I savor the notion
that your words lie underneath.
I read each line
one more time....until,
the end of us
is a tear
I'll never weep.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
I hate using words
because no matter what they can never justify the beauty I see
no amount of adjectives, nouns, or verbs
they hardly come close but if I try harder then maybe
they maybe enough to capture you
capture enough to make you turn around
these words I speak are raw and true
now listen to my alluring sound
because rhyme schemes are just a fancy trick we use
like the fox and the hound
I just try to amuse
but only you
would I make a fool, with a smile on my face
"who are you?"
that simple question that started this beautiful chase
we all try to find who we are
but I'm much more interested in the creature before me
where you are still seems too far
I ask "am i worthy? Pshh hardly."
but enough with these metaphors
It's time to take action
I think i found the key to open this door
because we all know you are the main attraction.
I am rambling I will stop using words
because no matter what no adjectives, no nouns, and no verbs.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC