"randall" poems
The gentle drawl of Guy Clark's voice
beckoned me from sleep,
saying that when his father died
he'd found no tear to weep.
It wasn't that his dad was mean,
nor that he didn't try,
Guy couldn't find a worthy tear--
he wasn't yet ready to cry.
The blade was broken off the knife
a half inch from the tip.
He could almost feel its jagged edge,
recalling that camping trip
His dad had let him take the knife
to a Boy Scout Jamboree
it was there he broke the blade tip off
throwing at a tree
That knife had served at daddy's side
when he went off to war,
saving his life in combat.
Of that he'd say no more.
His father never said a word--
put the broken knife away.
It rested in a dresser drawer
until his dying day.
It was only when Guy's hand had found
and closed around the handle
that he knew, amid the sudden tears
Dad had loved him more than Randall.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
When they killed my mother it made me nervous
I thought to myself, it was right:
Of course she was crazy, and how she ate!
And she died, after all, in her way, for the state.
But I minded: how queer it was to stare
At one of them not sitting there.
When they drafted sister I said all night,
"It's healthier there in the fields";
And I would think "now I'm helping to win the war,"
When the neighbors came in, as they did, with my meals.
And I was, I was, but I was scared
With only one of them sitting there
When they took my cat for the Army Crops
Of conservation and supply,
I thought of him there in the cold with the mice
And I cried, and I cried, and I wanted to die.
They were there, and I saw them, and that is my life.
Now there is nothing. I'm dead, and I want to die
Randall Farrell (1914-1965)
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
when fair
swings with
Chevrolets so
children rush
there when
some peanuts
are fired
when nights
begun barbs
that Randall's
humor still
in stride
when a
plause would
take center
stage with
gossip y'all
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 9:06 AM UTC
<quote>
...
This is a waist the spirit breaks its arm on.
The gods themselves, against you, struggle in vain.
This broad low strong-boned brow; these heavy eyes;
These calves, grown muscular with certainties;
This nose, three medium-size pink strawberries
...
</quote>
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
*I trekked across the icy shores of Alaska and survived with Gary Paulsen and his dogs
I went on many cross-country road trips, hitchhiking, train riding, and drinking with Jack Kerouac
I shot up ****** and did some time in Interzone with William S Burroughs
I dropped acid and read poetry with Jim Morrison
I murdered a girl and committed suicide with J.R. Hayes
I insulted everyone I knew with Jay Randall and laughed about it afterwards
I meditated high up in the mountaintops with Gary Snyder
I suffered New Orleans police brutality and withdrawal with Mike Williams
I drank, worked, gambled, ****** myself with Charles Bukowski
I admired the beauty of nature and God as self with Walt Whitman
I admired the beauty and balance of nature and city life with Henry David Thoreau
I wandered the desert landscape and sabotaged those that would harm the Earth with Edward Abbey
I painted a world of pictures out of words with e.e. cummings
I loved like no one has ever been loved in this wretched world with Pablo Neruda
I outlived macabre and twisted tales from the mind of Edgar Allan Poe
I spent a few months in France with the cryptic mind of Charles Baudelaire
I drank and wrote nature literature from animal perspectives with Jack London
I lived the songs that Tom Waits wrote
I went insane with Sparrow in New York
I found myself traveling on a Tour Of Homes, reciting ‘Talk Music’ with Dan Smith
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness” with Allen Ginsberg*
When all was said and done and every word wrote three times or more
I disappeared into the oncoming onslaught of midnight's dreary dreams
Like so many forgotten poets, writers, and orators
Who’s words have faded with the oblivion of time
Only to be remembered by a select few from here and there
That have chosen to remember, to write, to read, to never forget
Which are you and where do you come from?
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 9:26 AM UTC
181 to 200 of 3251 Poets
«891011»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by
Joelle Biele
To Katharine: At Fourteen Months
Veronica Patterson
Marry Me
Rick Campbell
Heart
Mary-Sherman Willis
The Laughter of Women
Sharmila Voorakkara
For the Tattooed Man
Max Mendelsohn
Ode to Marbles
Jonathan Holden
Car Showroom
David Tucker
The Dancer
Today’s News
Marianne Boruch (b. 1950)
It includes the butterfly and the rat, the ****
Some dreamily smoke cigarettes, some track
Trish Dugger
Spare Parts
Carrie Shipers
Medical History
Love Poem for Ted Neeley In Jesus Christ Superstar
Steven Huff
Safe
Lee McCarthy
Santa Paula
William Kloefkorn
"I stand alone at the foot "
Jackson Wheeler
How Good Fortune Surprises Us
Steven Orlen (1942–2010)
Three Teenage Girls: 1956
In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas
Steven Schneider
Chanukah Lights Tonight
Jessy Randall
Superhero Pregnant Woman
Anne Pierson Wiese (b. 1964)
Inscrutable Twist
Columbus Park
Regina DeSalva
Snip Your Hair
«891011»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
For Randall Kruk
Although no stranger to yourself,
you were your own undiscovered country,
always pressing on some border of awareness,
always asking more of who you were.
You were the one who asked of life,
who spoke for spirits and for memory,
who wished us at that last meeting over coffee
to have the time of our lives in Madison.
You demonstrated time and time again
the plain necessity of kindness, of honesty.
That would be your legacy, my friend, your gift -
and in the giving, you became that gift.
After all the words spoken in memoriam,
the Guinness and the soul-soothing jazz,
there came a shifting bow of color in the sky -
rain pouring from a blue cloud at evening.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
The manly cowboy
continued his travels
across the land,
of merry ole England,
drinking a little mead,
riding his steed.
Walking along one day
beside his horse,
says to his horse,
a question this way,
says he.
"What's your name?"
"Randall." she replied.
for his steed was a she.
"WHAT did you say?
What the hell kinda name is that?"
"And please pardon me for my language,
your answer took me by surprise."
"For your information kind sir,
i am highly educated
and well brought up.
what did you expect?
some silly name
like Bay
or Susie?
or ,
if i hailed from
your part of the world,
Cochise
or Blaze
or Cimmaron?
Oh no, i know,
you might
have very well
named me
General
Blueberry."
Scratching his head,
the manly cowboy
just looked askew,
completely anew,
at this fine steed.
Randall!
Off they trode,
adventures to be made,
fast becoming fine friends,
as they were
running the roads to the ends.
Many a new sight did they see,
then one day they happened upon
Queen E.
"That's one fine looking six shooter
you have there."
said the great ruler with
the neatly coiffed gray hair.
"May I?" asked she,
her royal hand outstretched.
Happy to oblige,
this woman who
has ruled so long,
seen so much.
Handing her his gun,
so carefully,
he inquired,
"Do you know how one of these things works Ma'm?"
asked he
"Don't be so silly
you manly cowboy.
Of course! "
said she,
With that,
she turned
and shot
every chamber bare,
six apples from
the tops of six heads
of her many heirs.
"Here, come join us."
said she,
"We're out for a ride
to look at the tide."
So the manly cowboy
threw in with the royal
mob for the day.
Riding far and wide
treated to vast
expanses and views,
and the eternal tide.
Having so much fun
shooting and riding,
out in the fresh air,
out in the sun.
At last evening approached
too fast and suddenly.
"What a day i have had,
one to always remember,
to recount over fires
many a coming night."
With that,
he took his leave,
tipped his hat,
and bowed to Queen E
so very gentlemanly.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
They walk—no, more likely, they saunter,
Embassy functionaries, associate profs at G-Dub,
A smorgasbord of polka dots and vitae,
Leopard-print and Linkedin pages,
Sufficent and necessary in their presents and futures.
I occupy a bench in my own shambling manner,
Denim-clad most days,
Perhaps affecting a less humble khaki
If I am feeling particularly grandiloquent,
Redeployed here from more rough-and-tumble of more avenues,
Among the bar-and-concrete hosteled llamas and coyotes
(Probably closer kin, if one is being honest)
Simply an ornamental thing, overgrown garden gnome
Or bowdlerized lawn jockey, unobtrusive and unnoticed
By those who would coo at the macaos and mandarin ducks
Or shudder at the offal left uneaten by black bears and maned wolves.
And so such days proceed, from my convenience-store coffee arrival
To such time that something approximating dinner
Must be conjured or cadged from somewhere,
My thoughts tend to stray not to the lionesses
Nor sleek Catwoman-esque jaguars,
But to the unpretentious turkey vultures of the fields of my youth,
Circling warily, inexorably in threes and fours above
And I know there is neither ennobling nor annihilation to find here,
No outcome but to simply await.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
"Rain is the *********** of the Clouds.
Thunder its moans,
And Lightning its ****** from the Heavans.
Hence, when it comes down it gives life to plants, earth, men and Women, so exquisitely!"
Idea-Alaine Randall
Composed: Ceida Uilyc
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
cool rain falls,
Randall and the
manly cowboy
talk
drink
coffee
frolick about
in the rain
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
**A good poet is someone who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightening five or six times; a dozen or two dozen times and he is great.'
Randall Jarrell**
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 5:42 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
“Anglo-Saxon Students Would Not Like to Be Taught by a Jew”
cited in
-Stanley Kunitz Lyrics, Songs, and Albums | Genius
To the Privileged Youth of Columbia University:
As a child of situational poverty
I am so grateful for all my Jewish teachers
Including
Moses
Joshua
Jeremiah
Samuel
David
Solomon
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
Saint Peter and the others in The Twelve
Saint Paul
Elie Weisel
Chaim Potok
Herman Wouk
Leon Uris
Franz Kafka
Leonard Cohen
Anne Frank
Bernard Malamud
Isaac Bashevis Singer
Philip Roth
Osip Mandelstam
Saul Bellow
Isaac Asimov
Woody Allen
Mel Brooks
Edna Ferber
Yip Harburg
George Cukor
Mel Brooks
Oscar Hammerstein
Alan Lerner
Carl Reiner
Rod Serling
Franz Werfel
Alan Arkin
Claire Bloom
Leonard Nimoy
Chaim Topol
Ed Asner
Mel Brooks
Peter Falk
Werner Klemperer
Jack Klugman
Walter Matthau
Tony Randall
Mel Torme
John Banner
Kirk Douglas
Lorne Greene
Eli Wallach
Sam Wanamaker
Morey Amsterdam
Leo Genn
Otto Preminger
Jack Benny
Leslie Howard
Ernst Lubitsch
Cecil B. DeMille
Mortimer Adler
Allen Bloom
Harold Bloom
Irving Berlin
Boris Pasternak
Emil Ludwig
Eric Wolfgang Korngold
Elmer Bernstein
Max Steiner
George Gershwin
Dimitri Tiomkin
Samuel Fuller
Alexander Korda
Zoltan Korda
Emeric Pressburger
Erich von Stroheim
Billy Wilder
William Wyler
Fred Zinnemann
J. J. Abrams
Peter Bogdanovich
Michael Curtiz
Stanley Donen
Stanley Kramer
Howard Caine
Leon Askin
Robert Clary
Dinah Shore
Stephen Sondheim
Volodymyr Zelinsky
Simon Schama
Louise Gluck
Siegfried Sassoon
Isaac Rosenberg
Joseph Brodsky
Rob Morrow
Vasily Grossman
Stanley Kubrick
Viktor Frankl
And more, so many more, a cloud of witnesses
Whose names are written in gold on a scroll in Heaven
But somehow, in this world of beauty and truth
And humanity’s aspirations to the good
All you have found are bullhorns, trash fires, chants
Clinched fists, obscenities, lies, and shrieking hate
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 12:12 PM UTC
An old diner to sit down,
Chuck's bodies are digging out the grave now
Who's got time to try to lie
When the boss had a niece
Until you blew her brains out from behind.
Quiet.
They don't know that, slow the roll back.
Take a breath and compose that,
"You don't know anything" face, show that.
Shake your head no, Sam.
Randall tells a lie to buy some time
But why?
Does it matter when evidence is climbing up
Like ladder to expose the truth.
If the bell tolls, Chuck, it's rung for you.
Keep that calm face for now,
Knowing you tied your own noose.
It's too late to turn back on anything,
It's too late to turn back on everything.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC
Maturity is knowing when to be immature.
-Randall Hall
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
Goodbye my uncle Dennis Randall
It is sad to see you go
But you died in January
So you return in November
To your new family
I knew you invented oil
Burning tyres and ****
But what’s up woods will
Welcome you to their family
A month before Christmas
You see you will have a lively
Family, just like you would like
You see I don’t care, Dennis
How many people liked or hated you
But this family will love you
You will be a little girl
A bundle of joy for your mum
And your dad loves you
Just like we did
Ommmmmmm goodbye Dennis
Ommmmmmm have a good next life
Ommmmmmm what’s up woods is for you
Ommmmmmm every year you will celebrate in November
Ommmmmmm near thanksgiving
Ommmmmmm you will celebrate that to
Ommmmmmm I can’t wait to hear your new name
Dennis Randall
Goodbye from the Allan’s and gimberts
And others
Enjoy what’s up woods
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 8:15 AM UTC