Once upon a time there was a special girl called Sonya Randall. She was on the way to see her Dad Tristan Godfrey, when she decided to take a short cut through Hyde Park.

It wasn't long before Sonya got lost. She looked around, but all she could see were trees. Nervously, she felt into her bag for her favourite toy, Laura, but Laura was nowhere to be found! Sonya began to panic. She felt sure she had packed Laura. To make matters worse, she was starting to feel hungry.

Unexpectedly, she saw a naughty Uni-pug dressed in a blue dungarees disappearing into the trees.

"How odd!" thought Sonya.

For the want of anything better to do, she decided to follow the peculiarly dressed Uni-pug. Perhaps it could tell him the way out of the forest.

Eventually, Sonya reached a clearing. In the clearing were two houses, one made from peas and one made from cakes.

Sonya could feel her tummy rumbling. Looking at the houses did nothing to ease her hunger.

"Hello!" she called. "Is anybody there?"

Nobody replied.

Sonya looked at the roof on the closest house and wondered if it would be rude to eat somebody else's chimney. Obviously it would be impolite to eat a whole house, but perhaps it would be considered acceptable to nibble the odd fixture or lick the odd fitting, in a time of need.

A cackle broke through the air, giving Sonya a fright. A witch jumped into the space in front of the houses. She was carrying a cage. In that cage was Laura!

"Laura!" shouted Sonya. She turned to the witch. "That's my toy!"

The witch just shrugged.

"Give Laura back!" cried Sonya.

"Not on your nelly!" said the witch.

"At least let Laura out of that cage!"

Before she could reply, the naughty Uni-pug in the blue dungarees rushed in from a footpath on the other side of the cleaning.

"Hello Big Uni-pug," said the witch.

"Good morning." The Uni-pug noticed Laura. "Who is this?"

"That's Laura," explained the witch.

"Ooh! Laura would look lovely in my house. Give it to me!" demanded the Uni-pug.

The witch shook her head. "Laura is staying with me."

"Um... Excuse me..." Sonya interrupted. "Laura lives with me! And not in a cage!"

Big Uni-pug ignored her. "Is there nothing you'll trade?" he asked the witch.

The witch thought for a moment, then said, "I do like to be entertained. I'll release him to anybody who can eat a whole front door."

Big Uni-pug looked at the house made from cakes and said, "No problem, I could eat an entire house made from cakes if I wanted to."

"There's no need to show off," said the witch. Just eat one front door and I'll let you have Laura."

Sonya watched, feeling very worried. She didn't want the witch to give Laura to Big Uni-pug. She didn't think Laura would like living with a naughty Uni-pug, away from her house and all her other toys.

Big Uni-pug put on his bib and withdraw a knife and fork from his pocket.

"I'll eat this whole house," said Big Uni-pug. "Just you watch!"

Big Uni-pug pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from cakes. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

Eventually, Big Uni-pug started to get bigger - just a little bit bigger at first. But after a few more fork-fulls of cakes, he grew to the size of a large snowball - and he was every bit as round.

"Erm... I don't feel too good," said Big Uni-pug.

Suddenly, he started to roll. He'd grown so round that he could no longer balance!

"Help!" he cried, as he rolled off down a ***** into the forest.

Big Uni-pug never finished eating the front door made from cakes and Laura remained trapped in the witch's cage.

"That's it," said the witch. "I win. I get to keep Laura."

"Not so fast," said Sonya. "There is still one front door to go. The front door of the house made from peas. And I haven't had a turn yet.

"I don't have to give you a turn!" laughed the witch. "My game. My rules."

The woodcutter's voice carried through the forest. "I think you should give her a chance. It's only fair."

"Fine," said the witch. "But you saw what happened to the Uni-pug. She won't last long."

"I'll be right back," said Sonya.

"What?" said the witch. "Where's your sense of impatience? I thought you wanted Laura back."

Sonya ignored the witch and gathered a hefty pile of sticks. She came back to the clearing and started a small camp fire. Carefully, she broke off a piece of the door of the house made from peas and toasted it over the fire. Once it had cooked and cooled just a little, she took a bite. She quickly devoured the whole piece.

Sonya sat down on a nearby log.

"You fail!" cackled the witch. "You were supposed to eat the whole door."

"I haven't finished," explained Sonya. "I am just waiting for my food to go down."

When Sonya's food had digested, she broke off another piece of the door made from peas. Once more, she toasted her food over the fire and waited for it to cool just a little. She ate it at a leisurely pace then waited for it to digest.

Eventually, after several sittings, Sonya was down to the final piece of the door made from peas. Carefully, she toasted it and allowed it to cool just a little. She finished her final course. Sonya had eaten the entire front door of the house made from peas.

The witch stamped her foot angrily. "You must have tricked me!" she said. "I don't reward cheating!"

"I don't think so!" said a voice. It was the woodcutter. He walked back into the clearing, carrying his axe. "This little girl won fair and square. Now hand over Laura or I will chop your broomstick in half."

The witch looked horrified. She grabbed her broomstick and placed it behind her. Then, huffing, she opened the door of the cage.

Sonya hurried over and grabbed Laura, checking that her favourite toy was all right. Fortunately, Laura was unharmed.

Sonya thanked the woodcutter, grabbed a quick souvenir, and hurried on to meet Tristan. It was starting to get dark.

When Sonya got to Tristan's house, her Dad threw his arms around her.

"I was so worried!" cried Tristan. "You are very late."

As Sonya described her day, she could tell that Tristan didn't believe her. So she grabbed a napkin from her pocket.

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

Sonya unwrapped a doorknob made from cakes. "Pudding!" she said.

Tristan almost fell off his chair.

The End

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.

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)

--- as a boy, I explored a hermit's lair
--- the hermit was not there, he'd left nothing but a tin box
--- of charcoal pills, a panacea for curiosity, I was told.

This old bearded fellow who lived at the foot o'thumb butte,
by the burro's water hole,
other side o'the hill from Doug McVicar's Jasper find

Tidal shorelines from my child hood
swirling through the softed rocks

Boulders on the bottom, roll on, crustal waves rise and fall

it all goes back to that 13,000 year mark
when Gobekli Tepi,
was in the building,
long long before
the Hopis were on the Pollen Way, leaving land marks on

Rocks risen above the desert floor

Some thing came from space, something very cold,
a snowball so big it tugged the ocean of magma
through the crust of the earth

nuclear glass, same time. nano diamonds

The younger dryas-

melt water pulse, fire from the sky, men could see that, with their own eyes.
and then they saw the clouds of witnesses

Rituals learned, the story heart seeps from mother to child,

at first touch some say.

Specialized touches were included in the 2.0s.
Holistic wuwu Randall Carlson laughs, why lie? Evidence, see.

What did you see when you passed through hell the first time?
Nothing, you kept your eyes shut.

Are you really
Experienced? That was the question. Ask the experts,
but some of them lie.
Never trust their clocks, that's wise. Time is too temporary to make
much difference
in the long run. Time, least of all powers in eternity. Chronos,
Chaos shattered him, and some story teller on a journey
saw the event
while his tongue was being tamed, a task no man can do.

Fire and Ice from heaven to earth,
whole peoples saw it,
with the eyes in their head

Hope is the key to the heart's lock on reality

The younger Dryad's oak burned,
Drought killed all the others, bugs killed the elms.

Ah spirit to spirit, compare. The heart of the world is weeping
for the ignorant eaters of poisoned poems and stagnant stories

speed kills when it comes to cosmic notes on rocks

patience, under stand the canopy of heaven can, filter
poison from those
stagnant stories's idle words, redemption draweth nigh,

count on it. Keep counting, patience finishes what she starts.

Sacred Geometry, scale invariance, I saw the Mississippi
Carve meandering ant canyons in the dirt
while watching the rain
Nothing's secret anymore, that's a reality that may be beyond

your thought. Textbook in stone. I know geometry Mr. P,

can I come in? She who builds, who destroys, who rebuilds, suggested
my bombs have a Nobel role,
in energizing

the ark
the earth is the ark, but you knew that already, right.

Acacia bush visions from a medium
of messaging the master builder,
who, you know, made this
happen, used to heal with ashes.

Healing war, study it no more, it is
possible man, alone, can imagine.

The Godhead? What's the big idea? You a heretic, Mr. P?

Come and see, leave the clock/phone.
---

This is big momma story, little clay doll with pointy feet
sticks in the dirt, stares at the fire,

the story mamma, shhh

Stands, and lifts her hands up high, pointing
all her fingers to the skies where ashes, glowing
rise,
like we can imagine the stars once scattered by God
and his sons's servants prepping

origins of human conflict taught
Tubalcain by fire light, while Jubal
Sang the very umph umph song from
Taj Mahal' 1970 with Jerry, Fillmore West,

A message to Garcia, from on high:
the imbecility of the average man—
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it,
That, resist. It is evil.

Angels, imaginable, you know, mere messages, nothin more,

so great a cloud of witnesses
there was a times when  all
imaginations men were imagining heartily
were evil, altogether.

Enki left and went to the moon, or that's the story grandma's
sisters told me
when I was a little boy lost and found from time to time

The serpent on the staff, where's that story from?
Who says their mammy saw that happen.

Time, Hosts of Heaven, time is one of those.

Fan tasty taste, see, the truth is good.

Freedom, responsible freedom, take as granted,
intend good and go.
Seed of the Dream,
I planted that. It contained this fact,

we reap what we sow.

Ambi-Dios, ambit-ion with no hope for something just beyond
the best that I have ever done,
that'll make a child mean as hell, on the average,
according to the data Google smuggled into China
through those super phones,
unavailable in the USA, protected by the wielders
of destruction who eat the world up,
and drink its very blood.

the bread of shame, is fed to slaves to keep them in the queue,

BTW que-eee was the word I used for ****, when I was a child.
I took that word to school.
Nobody knew what it meant. I considered that cool
and kept my secret until just now.

I feel so free.

A builder sees a building and the builder in a single glance.
None may enter here lacking geometry, that's no secret now.
The cultivated Pythagorean mind, simple as pi.

'Cain't get to Romans eight, which is here, now, I think,
with out going beyond Hebrew six.

The measure of a man that is the angel. No comma,
just a jot, then this means that,
to the mind
listening for mystery in beauty found lying around.,
glistening in the sun.

Washingtonians, this Wednesday afternoon, come to the Starbucks on 1600 K Street to become acquainted with some young, interesting, average income level Asian American guys and gals. Instead of meeting Asian American doctors, lawyers, and consultants, you’ll meet Dr. Dre copycats, alcoholic paralegals, and T-Mobile wireless salespeople.

These guys and gals are looking to meet new friends that include: white, black, Hispanic, or any other race of people, just as long as you aren’t a F.O.B. Because after all, they don’t want to perpetuate the stereotype that Asians only hang out with other Asians. Just kidding, we love our F.O.B brothers and sisters! But **** stereotypes.

If you are a Washingtonian who likes drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana, stop by and make a new Asian American friend who will provide mixers and match you on a blunt. Please, do not ask these guys and gals for college study notes for Math or Bio, because all of them have dropped out of college to pursue their artistic passions, like: writing a novel about having a white group of friends and being the token who reads Tolkien and likes Toking; playing electric guitar in a grunge, punk, post-emo garage band with your black buddies who like Fugazi and bad brains but ******* hate Green day for selling out; and drawing sketches and painting portraits of the half-Asian girl you’re dating on a wide canvass, but really you’re secretly into selfies and taking photos of breakfast on Instagram.

We don’t discriminate against the kind of alcohol you drink, whether it be wine, beer, or liquor—within reason please don’t bring Franzia or Rolling rock, this isn’t college anymore. Yes, we get it, you’re highly considering attending this group because you’re a huge Haruki Murakami fan and you’re wondering two questions: are our Japanese American patrons also huge fans of the author, and do our patrons behave in a similar fashion to Murakami’s characters like Toru Watanabe and Toru Okada?

First, our Japanese American patrons are huge fans of Murakami and they own books like Sputnik Sweetheart and The Windup Bird Chronicle, but they also think the author often is obsessed with Western culture, in a way that possibly, and seriously possibly transforms him into a Brett Easton Ellis derivative based on Ellis’s American ****** and Glamorama.

Second, no these particular patrons do not behave like Murakami’s characters, because they’re real, living, breathing human beings, and not some fantasy figure or made-up person! But enough of the rant, please come though and let’s have conversations about jazz and talking cats.

While we respect Asian American actors like Ken Jeong and Randall Park, we really aren’t interested in having a lengthy dialogue about The Hangover’s Asian **** scene, or how Park was kinda offensively funny in The Interview. Although Park is awesome in Fresh Off The boat! All we really want is to just drink jack and cokes and smoke Marlboro lights and have conversations about the latest trends in indie rock and Hip Hop culture, and whether Citizen Kane was better than Casablanca, or vice versa.

At the meeting, we will have our guest speaker Jeremy Lin’s college roommate George Park answer questions about Lin, as well as a special appearance by Steve Yuen’s ex-girlfriend Marcy Abernathy who will give us an inside scoop to Yuen’s fetishes as well as his quirky habits. We will also be providing free snacks like LSD Pho noodle soup and Marijuana Mochi ice-cream. On a serious note, we’ll be giving out guilt-free Twinkies.

Before you arrive at the Starbucks, you’ll be getting a name tag and a free A.A.A T-shirt that wasn’t made by little children from China; instead, the shirts are made by Ronald Mai, our aspiring fashion designer whose twitter handle is @thatsmyshirtwhiteman! If you’re interested in coming out to the group our first meeting is this Wednesday at 6 p.m.

Leave your apprehension at the door and walk in with a warm smile, as you’re greeted by an expressionless face. And phoreal if your car is messed up and you require a ride, please call A.A.A’s number at (202) 576-2AAA (we know we’re phunny). Hope to see you there, and if you don’t come, you’re a ******* racist! But seriously come out and meet some cool *** people.

<quote>
...
This is a waist the spirit breaks its arm on.
The gods themselves, against you, struggle in vain.
This broad low strong-***** brow; these heavy eyes;
These calves, grown muscular with certainties;
This nose, three medium-size pink strawberries
...
</quote>

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.

When you live in the suburbs like I do and like I always have,
the same house even, there is an intimacy that develops- real or imagined -with your neighbors. It's like those dreams we sometimes have about people and places that really do exist, but it just ain't quite what it's supposed to be , but we accept it anyway, because it's a dream and in that ethereal realm of dreams -that's what you do ...you accept the normally unacceptable.
       For instance, who could ever have imagined that the Rosses ,who live at 1423 ,would turn out to be secret swingers ? Mr. Ross is 62 years old, probably five foot nine with a horseshoe ring of white on white  cotton- fluff hair,  perched on his round pink scalp,  over his round pink face , accentuated by round -wire rim- glasses perched on his nose and a  little white mustache that hangs under his nose - like an afterthought.
    Mrs Ross is a  slightly rounded little woman that  always wears  flowery dresses, and  those god awful  tortoiseshell glasses secured to a  string around the neck  like secretaries and librarians often wear.   Her hair would also be white , if not for her habit of having it dyed blue , as is a habit of many suburban housewives of her age .
     So it would be impossible to ever imagine this pair of- short , jolly - suburbanites as secret swingers , but it's true. . I know!  Because I've seen them at it .  About 2 years ago- while Billy Joe Randall , Macy and me were( oh yeah my name is Rance Reed short for Clarence -but don't call me that ) anyway; where was I -oh yeah -we were down at the little pocket park on Grove Street- sitting behind a hydrangea bush-smoking a fatty- and telling each other lies that no one believes anyway, when we saw the Rosses walking toward the park, holding hands as they were often doing.
     Mr Ross looked into the park- suspiciously - as if he were afraid a  hit- man were  hiding somewhere .  There  for a moment I thought he could possibly smell our smoke.,but seemingly satisfied with his inspection, the two of them strolled -hand in hand - across the grass to the playground area where the spring horses , the merry-go-round and swings were.  Mrs Ross perched herself on the rubber - sling like - seat of a swing as Mr Ross pushed to get her started and then he climbed aboard the one to her left .  Using  that see-saw motion one uses to get himself going and then the two of them sat there -swinging and laughing together -for almost an hour.   Sometimes we could hear Mr. Ross go varoooom varoooom and Mrs. Ross would go wheeeeee. It  was the funniest thing that I've ever seen and the three of us sat there making jokes and laughing at them.   Three 23 year old wasted wastrels thinking that laughing at this spectacle was the right thing to do . Then a little while later , as a melancholy wave washed over us like a sea tide , we all stopped laughing.  All three of us -I believe - realized that jealousy is a hard pill to swallow while you're laughing . Looking back at that now I'm a  little  ashamed of myself.  So yeah, the Rosses were secret swingers , but you would never know it by looking at them--- (Oh!  You thought I meant the other kind of swingers. didn't you ? )   -anyway ; where was I ?- Oh  yeah .-     I believe they were sort of embarrassed about the whole thing so I've never said a word  to anyone  about what I saw -until now.  
     Then there is old man George (call me GL ) Angleton and his wife Sarah.   Theirs was the big grey, split -level rock and cedar  house that  dominates the very end of the cul-de-sac we live on called Grayson circle . An enormous porch dominates the front and that is the first thing anyone  - turning onto Grayson Circle- sees after making the turn.   The Angeltons house was always the most decorated house on the block , no matter the holiday,  especially at Christmas- when a raucous mix a snowmen, reindeer and especially Santa's, gathered under the thousands of twinkling lights each year.    There were so many Santas on the lawn, on the roof ,along the porch , one climbing the chimney   that- I always thought - it  looked  like the gathering together of Santa's for a Santa gang fight.
   Halloween was another special time with the Angeltons when they gave out more -kinds and just plain more -candy to all the kids than anyone else for blocks  around or even miles around. One year Mr. Angleton gave a comic books along with the candy to every kid  that  came to the door.
    So who could have ever imagined that just 6 months ago ,  2 days before Christmas , Mr Angleton , who was always of sweet disposition  and always quick to give you a warm smile or a compassionate pat on the shoulder would shoot and **** his wife Sarah and then turn the gun on himself ?  NOBODY!!!
   Certainly not me.
   No, you cannot just see the outside of a house, with the flocks of flowers , the nice neat lawn  and charming old rocking chairs on the porch and really know anything about the heights of happiness or  the depths of despair that live or die behind the front doors .
    When I was growing up , you sure couldn't have done any of that at my house. Looking back now I realize that G.L .didn't put out any decorations last Christmas .
        I should have noticed that.     Yeah , I really should have noticed that!

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 gentlemanly.

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.

181 to 200 of 3251 Poets
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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»

Articulate Throwback (Amazing Rap that Doesn't Get Enough Respect)
Fielding an eclipsed Jack the Ripper Sun
Yielding dismissal garish, begotten The Matrix smokin’ gun
Wielding a firebrand skittish
Skills levied an intolerable tax by quisling quoted British
Stunting on heyday levity marksman of primes
Flogged for flagrant dragons sinking nickels and dimes aimed beatific sublime
Flowing like centripetal orbit  galvanized by riddled spirits dashed in secondary impetus of reason over rhyme
Littoral swank partial to Taylor Series of dedications Speak Now peaks livid with fumiducts of crippled sheep blandished for reach
Apologies invited always welcome for a kitsch debased by universal theaters yet united for Payable on Death singing the deceit of receipts impeached
Islanders flooding suicides punning that a sunken treasure is barbs smuggling
Otiose on ribald corsairs blinkered by the rhombos of speculation thunder itself about lightning starts wondering
Where a City by the Bay shining on a Hill of travesties of decay tanks for domesticated Negros that flashbangs got to slay
To the wistful shaken house music garnishing the prey of prayer on heavy pulls of quotable 415 hay-day
The wrinkled stray dog never  far from *****
Slapsticks against the tribunes awaiting for meteoric functions of a recessive allele of a dominant comet
Ludacris flickers dancing in dormant revelry because On Top, Just Let Go..I am honest and On It
To the milk of harvested stars glaring at tankers and garish broken FaceMash scars teetotalers scatter with Thursday crashing into glass shards
Black fame is a white epiphany of infamy designated by name
Of the craven coltish spinsters who market the crackling whiplash of sanity apportioned to the regaled insufflation of blame
Streaky on a jejune Diggity hapless hop of Kumbayas etched by Trailer Park’s scalding flop
Glorifying a Gangester heir to titanic humbled beginnings chockablock divested to Kennedy’s dead Candy Shop
Impressive rags of riches of counterfeit tags blundering with lazy LASER Tag of sharks too bellicose to earn a pitfall pittance of swag
Trippin’ by tripwires too flippant to be flippin’ on known graves sidesplitters of treecheese yaggots grimaced on madcaps of bottlecaps swimming in ether of money too happy for House of Pain rags of gag orders intrepid because some blood is Bad
****** drapes of tapestries too woven on Ducking Badger duck tape
Pretending not even a slightest twinge of celebrity faked is a tantamount affliction to Kobe’s escape
Time to rig the 7/11 notoriety of a caper drawl in Cape Town Blue Sky Action can barely offer scrape
Let them eat cake and heads roll like Nicholas Cage clairvoyant in mystique quaking like a Quaker parody rank-and-file rancid graveyard creep
Cuz the best in the Business evokes singes of Dre grazed persistence a Space Rover rather than a broken-down drive-by Vegas Cheap Holyfield Jeep
Forgeries in trigonometric time gone haywire because ******* of fools is delicious neutered ballistic wrong with elemental statistic
Armed to the Teeth because twinges of righteousness is strongly established because it elevates truces well-predicted
Reckon the self-aware hive jetsetting with Jive warbles of departure yet to arrive
“Talk” of those fewer in knowledge yet living an invented diatribe
Lil Dicky mumbling his churlish codling vendetta
Too petty on the game like a turgid Mariah Carey Christmas Sweater evaporating on benzo bleats because exaggeration is a measuring stick more prone to delusion than the vapid version of Eddie  Vedder
Ripping through seamstresses of time a delope from impoverished cesspool grime
Certainly not swinging with sockdolagers like Musk as UPS owns insider angles about BitCoin riches scoffing at #11 Sublime
I owe respect to an upstart prescience scowling hatched never against fragile egg-shell minds
He’s the predecessor to the Walter White of cesspool inveterate rivets in hulking pretense of a measured stick lying like Tony  Hawk on the grind drawling on videogame addicts lost to numbers like Wall Street bet on fractions divisible like Scarface on cardinal crime
Blip on the WHIP cackles of clever pasquinade owned by sizzurp of Red Wings demolished like Draper balking at the West Coast ****** of East Coast royalty etiolating on Life After Death because of a teased script of March 26th shining bright like nine-inch nails longer than an exaggerated Dicky loving pollution more than Sina Loa loves bricks
Mad respect to juggernaut Michigan flow, but when you henpeck a rooster fewer regaled Ravens start to sing like Tomorrow’s sung by Sheryl Crow
So attack the kenspeckel hiding like sobriety itching to revel
Even the greats are grating despite prestige owned like Steppenwolf inventing Heavy Metal
Yet the raspy dengonin certainly a curtain call for the moribund smooth competition genius but not square to my elevated level
Time to brush aside, politics is a Velvet Morning rather than an Everest scaffold of glaciers divide
Flourishing Eden of a Seattle worthy of treason on rollercoasters yet to ride
The contumely of charlatans berating brassage is a Lie Boring in Federal Way united against prejudices scowling because Qwersy Mencia is too fraught to enjoy the jeers of a tattered Pride
Past-Tense Quinn in his Chauvin Blue Suit is Queer on The Bends
For a better radio the shatter of the quaff is Damon on the mendlatch for the rights of heroism among men
Applesauce is scary when the cooks are too chary for emoluments of cherry-picked vanity inoculated because hackneyed hacksaws aren’t that scary
To a Rush Hour acclaim that owes a Martian a fair-share of the inviolable degrees above freezing that guarantees the Hang Seng
The cretaceous dinosaur livid in the Fields of Dreams lives to the honor of the author rather a subsidiary prosperity rooting for the same exact team
Credit belongs not to slot-machine jibes of Navy throngs because the sealed pedigree of a Potemkin stonewall ravaged an Atlanta March that Richard Sherman found himself wrong
Ripostes of wavered glory serenade Field’s Medal accolades jaunty with brimstone repartee for persecution of Sing-Sang jailed avuncular Dana Carvey
Crumpled in missives etched decisively by Popcorn paparazzi Lee Harvey Oswald Part Three dinging Reagan’s Drugs because belittled Batman and Robin Harvey Dent is on a defalcation spree
Limited by the gambit of orbit I flex space measured only by perception hourglasses mistake for Dewey Decimal ministry
Because mountebanks of the tramontane canard unscrewed by Donkey’s without the triumph of vindicated colts spew the unwarranted without the warrant of upright parlance
Deflecting the useless caricature of Jezebels they barely even know dancing with fisticuffs choleric with jaundiced illuminati chants of an age bracing for the venom of viper’s of gratuitous pretense in violence because the whittled conscience scourges footloose profligacy in dementia that owns probability rather than certainty but doesn’t stand a chance
A billowing toxic fume of a Trojan Horse of galloped complicity of headless horsemen too scared to even pinprick the average Brett Hume huffs like mad wolverines dancing with Buccaneers for the fidelity of bridled brides with a tailored or sloppy groom
Cowering behind plashy starlets dashed for authenticity too soon
The Red Robin Hood ****** of silhouettes of Caste system indecency is reduced to reductivism in peddled paranoia of Randall Graves confronting his deepest specious tomb
To rogue slipshod miracles of denuded ice for Christopher Reeves Wally World White in Simple Jack owleries of confiscated light they caper encaged Caspergers ergotamine flavored favor uptight
Glaring prince dashing Rusty with ***** for Hummers glazed with donut torus hummus swift with reverend repartee
Sunken sleepless abyss ghosts haunt for quaffs evanescent in backbone bliss incurring parted sight for nebbich sprees
Calculated by persnickety prattle brazen with bravado promontory sparked on the flames of an overhyped hysteria ablaze
Raisins aren’t the determinant of a blinkered starstruck page gilded to amaze
Formidable reform conserved against blasphemies of ****
Withstands the immutable geotaxis of inevitable backfires in limited scourges of scorn
Time to sacrifice the badge earn the primacy of trimleggers making a dash rushing for hourglass sand prominent in fiat flash
In a second a trampoline against a specious marvel is a sour remorse of a crusade turning into protection not found in autumn ash
With autarky righteous rain boogies against bogeys of golfers livid with sensational inane
Lunacy predicated on sensational maudlin labors of Genesis 3:16 birth pain
Incurred upon the toil of the lugubrious heights of teachers that defy tribes and stripes
Soldiering for God without even the slightest nefarious mercenary spite
Because Ledgers cannot be mistaken for legends because petty battles Abandoned Pools named were avoided for Nobel Prizes of moonshot fame never King Kong because 24k magic called the Hang Seng  game enter stage right
The thematic liberation of the freewheeler isn’t a combustion of truckers Ruckers allergic to chattered shame
But the time honored Sevendust defies blisters because a brave heroism leaps into legacy vaunted by cheery repute in winning hegemony against rigged fraud in frigid feral tames
I march to an inaugural chance without a chance of quick inauguration because Junetao is a duck-duck-go childish flicker against Amsterdam Vallon besides the church with a touching spectacle of solidarity beyond temporal Anacondas of deserved blame
An ally to the kitsch the prosperity of Nas is afforded to optimism never so fulgurant because of a bewitched Tik Tok twitch
As the true flock regards the true shepherd the guardian of wonder and the captain avoiding Yellow Submarines because Stayin’ Alive is a prophecy not a febrile contagion of germs pitching tents for flukes insistent on incident rather than honorable to Canada Dry on Strike for better than a bubble gum mumble rap of Lil Pump’s pruned humps for a ******* ghost rider rather than a profaned itch
But the camel survives because the needle doesn’t thrive in a world where God is always Stayin’ Alive to strike a pose for the voguest Jive
“The Seduction” lives and the corruption limps with glib bribery fibs because 2 Timothy 1:7 in autarky is a generous rhyme that  gives and gives
In endless crusade to beat like David the ***** of a poker miracle that stars in a showcase of a life of splendor eternal rather than a cursory kamikaze reckless fib
Its time for  abundance of life to be lived fully to truly find riches in the best possible life winsome in discretion to quake and yet remain immune to a Walgreens of Stonewall myth
Cast not the first stone against the immaculate Giant because everybody is shaking to Bond and Saint Joseph’s guarded wordsmith

"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

cool rain falls,
Randall and the
manly cowboy
talk
drink
coffee

frolick about
in the rain

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

today I exist as a vapor then I am no more
some may equate logic for fear that brings nothing near
my chest is heavy and my pulse is setting in
yesterday was such an easy game we used to play
awe but then let's face it it's quite easier today
for I am not myself these day for all i know I might by two
there's room enough in store to view yet I'm in a bind
I'm likewise in a haze for who I am from scene to scene
yet luck's provision is preverse it seems to work more in reverse
if things are better they'll be worse in quite a while
hey penny, one penny, tri penny, three
nature seldom ever fails to most surprisingly provide an undisclosing posing side
at one's dismay one needs to pray

Shelter me in a newer way to begin
won't you help me my friend
through mountains of madness amidst all its sadness
we can dig deeper then ever before
lest I implore another opened door
getting caught up in the middle playing a game of second fiddle
most of life seems to be a riddle
Shelter me in through the storms of life
amidst each added spice as if were on a roller coaster
don't stop me now but I may need a lawyer
as we get a little older we can grow to succumb to the world's cloister
like a hen with a rooster gets your pets spayed and nuetered.
we are only here for a short time so sound the alarm

inside we hide behind four walls that seal
caught up in a fix in every hope as you hold your crucifix
there's danger up ahead yet we lie in bed in the walking dead
a face full of lead falling apart at the seams in the evil schemes
shelter me in so I can breath always got something up my sleeve
shadows block the vortex of the sun lit resolution
we are out searching for the latest solution
in barbed wire fences always second glances
we often will scamble as Felix was played by Tony Randall
its hard to handle living in a society that's blind you see
but as a poet friend I'm making sweet lasting memories
languished over the onslaught of feelings inside
your the tool of the government and industry to
its all a will for power nothing more lest I simply implore
the fate for so much more yet for what?

shelter me in out in the playing field of delegation as polticians embrace a resonable solution
in the newspaper as shelter lies dormant in its beckoning call
to the know it all out in his ivory tower its in the hour of power
bask in the vast expanse between space and time
John Lennon said it best, "Happiness is a lone gun momma bang bang shoot shoot".
we got thick headed polticians that can't even reason
suicide is on the rise people are running away to hide
abortion on demand when will we ever live to understand
no one has a voice anymore no one understands
until today we got every good reason to bow our heads to pray
a mass hysteria in our land as we text our way through the day
no one breaks bread anymore no one bothers to pray
yet it ought not be this way on some sorted time delay
you still make fun of the gay instead of embracing them as they are our family
lines being drawn in the sand when will we ever live to understand

Shelter me in my friend with whom I can depend people are making choices
there maybe something blowing in the wind for Dylan was right on that one
building bridges that go across party lines in their most unique affliation
philosophically filled up with sullen brevity and everything that does the heavy deed
we often will hide behind the false hidden garb of compromise taking heed to twisted lies
Shelter me in so that I may live it all over once again my dearly beloved friend may you understand.

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

Whilst patrolling my fortified, Nazified, sub-tropical Florida region
I see that **** George Zimmerman's whiter than a blond Norwegian
in his self-appointed role as a *****-shooting Europoidal European
who pimps ***** to roll dipsomaniacs at Sanford's American Legion "Only **** babies in self-defense" is the unaborted rule that I live by
& "don't never impregnate no black gal who was born a black guy"
It's a-o.k. to give Sanford pigs some name that's but a phony handle
ike Kent C. Well, **** Too Tight, Robin Banks &/or Tony Candle,
Gaye Barr, Anita Bath, Harry Azcrac, Dixie Normus, Stony Mantle,
Nida ***, Lou Stools, Buster Cherry, Dixon Butts or Bony Randall,
plus Argentina's well-rotted, crapped-out actress hag Olga Zubarry,
who lived to bury ****-*****: Pork Chop Annie & Polka Jew Perry Mongols grow Occidentalized by Walmart's imported Chinese trick
& even ******-rich richer than a Bakersfield-deported Chicano hick Litters of swimmin' kittens are escaping Oscar like did Felix Unger
from the Apocalypse of Fukushima's China syndromic helix hunger Polite folk accommodate futt-bucking ******* by calling them gays
just as Wendy's accommodates idiotic patrons by giving them trays
For U.S. marines *** rights are earned during their boot-camp days
like when David Hasselhoff spent his T.V. time bay-watching bays,
in the era Reagan occupied his senile mind hoarding guns with rays while selling Latin American Marxists missiles to prove crime pays during our presidential-election cycle in its suspended-reality phase when Hawaiian babes charge nothing for their flowery, virginal leis
to celebrate the Hawaiian Babes' Free Flowery, Virginal Leis craze featuring tropical ******* & purpley nips guaranteed to amaze
in the orchid-rained-in-depths of our historically blue-blooded haze upon the moon's far side where-from souls are dispatched by Grays
there are no Jimmy Swaggart-$10-Johns anointing ***** with praise
while damning hell-fire Christians to the horror of a martyred blaze

Maturity is knowing when to be immature.
-Randall Hall

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.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

      “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

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                             The Age of the Clear Plastic Backpack

My school bag was an old Boy Scout knapsack
And in Indo-China I carried my kit
In canvas made in 1944
And on canvas we carried away the dead

As a civilian I carried a briefcase for a time
But a briefcase is like a narrow tie
They both show up on old-movie night
Just right for Tony Randall in the 1950s

I’m back to canvas, but now they make the kids
Carry clear plastic in our war against ourselves