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The Randomness of things
is inexcusable

How randomly we meet
and part our ways

We fall apart
estranged from what we loved

For no reason at all
and no governing rules

Fresh meat becomes
Leftovers of tomorrow

Fresh love is turned
into a surge of pain

The randomness of days
is inexcusable

How randomly the night
steals us away

And never to return
from its mysterious depth

our eyes
get adjusted to the dark
Natasha Trullia Nov 2014
You are reading these words,
these words that I wrote,
this creation of mine.
And yet I do not own it,
the words that you read
are a choice of chance.
My self is amazed by this,
and I wonder if I created it,
and how it was ordered
from the chaos in my head.
Maybe my self is a reflection
of this randomness,
and the self an identity,
Of chance.
And so is yours,
I envy the randomness,
the randomness of chance,
and the life that is not mine.
abecedarian Jan 2015
Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend

tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...

I can do better.


not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors kindness,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize

"there for the grace of God
go you and I"

have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me
Philip Smith Nov 2014
When I see the word random
I always think of a potato.
But how random is it really if that's always the case?

Starting today when I see the word random
I will think of a potato
Clearly I am sleep deprived. I like this place though ;)
BML May 2014
The probability of me being improbable is highly definite.
The statistical occurrence of randomness
Is proportional to the flow of consciousness.
Bad Jokes Inc Jun 2014
This is a poem about love
and sticking your ***** in a dove.
Getting married in a church
of Satan.

I went to dunkin donuts
to get some ******* donuts.
A black man yelled at me
so loud that it made me ***.

So I unzipped my pants
and put my ding-**** on a table
then said "beat that ******!"
and he started beating himself while smoking a black and mild with a KFC bucket in his arms full of cow turds.
(I HATE ******* POETRY)

Poetry is the language of love.
No wonder it's full of *******.
Lust is where it's at
when I finger bang your uncle's grandpa's cat.

Randomness is fun
especially when you do crack.
I still ******* hate poetry.
You can **** my 20 foot purple headed yogurt slinger full of tar.

I am Bill Clinton and I approve this message.
I hate humans.
Tommy Randell Feb 2017
I have a Raven in my life,
It follows me just out of sight.
I catch its presence now and then,
I glimpse its flight, its hovering.

I am aware the Raven's meaning,
Its raison d'etre in life's scheming,
But what of its intelligence?
The Raven is a puzzlement.

The Celtic bird of mystery,
The Nordic seer of prophecy,
The guardian of Royalty,
A culprit of great trickery,

In all of this behaviour
As Joker, Thief and Saviour
Who put him there inside our minds?
Why let him follow close behind?

The Raven is ourselves of course
Our lighter mood, our darker force.
To understand we must give in
And sometimes let the Raven win.

His randomness can make us fools
His certainty can help us lose
But in all these times he is Us
And we should let him ***** it up.

The Raven is our twin in life
To make us wrong or make us right.
The thing we should remember is
Raven takes just as Raven gives.
I love the Raven archetypes in human history and our stories. It has a richness and prevalence hard to account for across so many cultures. I see him as more personal than mere archetype however.
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
The Sun shines on my computer
Creating a protective glare
But night comes like an intruder
At pictures I begin to stare

After I view their portrait online
I want to see their body on mine
We talk all night
Until I see the light
That they're not that bright
Or that they like to fight

Desperation swirls
I enter a world
Where the randomness of human interaction
Meets the randomness of my attraction
And the low visibility
Endears no civility
Will I spend infinity
In this digital city?

The creatures try to hide
They scatter in the distance
They're not hard to find
When their profiles leave imprints
But the parasites are quick
And the scavengers stick
Vultures fly from iPad to iPhone
Leeches try to make my pad their home
Devouring me until I'm bad to the bone
Like the solicitous predators
Who act like creditors
And the sly foxes
Who claim they're locksmiths
They all have claws and fangs
They're all just jaws with brains
I play possum
Until I've lost them

When monsters are made from loneliness
They try to trick me with phoniness
They feel I wouldn't want us to be together
And they're probably right
Because all I want is to spend forever
In love's divine light
Nocturnal animals just want the meal
Of my motion
They don't want to honestly feel
My devotion

In the wild
I am a child
The creatures cut deep
They make me weep
Until I choose to sleep
But when I avoid their glance
I avoid love's chance
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
Infamous one Apr 2013
I once got lectured by a personal with an std I think that's the last person who should be giving *** advice.
This couple asked me for relationship advice and I'm single what would I know.
The last time I went on a date this girl made me take her out I thought you asked the girl out.
My last girlfriend didn't understand its over maybe she thought I mean I was over being alone
I told my friend I don't drink he offered me a beer.
This girl told me she liked me and got a boyfriend a week later.
Called a girl the wrong name and she never called me again
Kara Jean Jan 2017
Strength is interpreted wrong in the thought procces of the ones who feel weak
In actuality we should be embracing the unique
Thank god for what we see
Forgive ourselves for the guilt stuck inside our bodies
We have a  fire built deep for a reason
A purpose alluring
Everyone is looking for that belief
I just follow the energy
It seems to always be calling
Spoken word never seemed so bleak
vircapio gale Sep 2012
wakefulness demands a certain clearness when asleep . . .
it doesn't come as planned
"tat tvam asi"
LaBerge says to me in dream of me
"this world you are, withstanding even torments thou art never seen."
and that's enough to suffer aching, opaque psyche summit, forward
heart to rise an interspecies knell when danceless fades the bee in droves...
aimless whales who singing deep in love are cut from evolution's murky chain...
fungal blight of hibernaculum, in deafened sonar sending sudden drop of death;
to horror fragment melt, the ocean swill from ancient caps to sunken polar paw
diverse in massacre of tropic forest fertile mists, lives dispersed
and balance tipped from blindness not unlike the sterile statue's, there
                                                          i­n dusty courthouse corner, shadow-lined with infamy...
what imagined cartoon causal Captain Planet              
                            villainy to blare across oneiromantic globe? and (dreaming?) civil strife,                  
       eradication's alter triumph pose to measure blame in inner life?
of empiric meditation's top, in *******
churning out abuse in deeper,
                                                         ­   younger hidden traffics yet to terrorize the net...                                  
                                             the scraping of the sky had punctured through                                
                         ­                                      from metaphor to fact
                                       the sooty barbs
                            in radiance rebound    
and irony affected 'green'
                  folds crisis and solution into one                            we hope
                like what we say we are, becoming change                      in wartime summer fling    
say we can in world of 'me'                                      
in guilt-assuaging verve
                                  the heifer-gift to village fief
    but then to rest against organic pillow-conscience gray                                                             ­       
                                                               soundly snoring smokestacks fill from ground to sky
still for sly investment windfall   fog  billow, shake...                             
transcontinental scape of dream imbued anew:
i am the genie of my ownmost inner lamp
in dreamtime-being spacious constellational of reach distilled
in contemplation's tratak zoom mInute
   with jet black finger trace
    i net                                                              ­                                        from out the inter-earthen air                
                                             ­                                              the lump on lump of coal
                massaging from                                                             ­      as if an ivory atmospheric                  
lift                   of      weight  
                           the sculpture of our past condensed in elephantine ******
                                                 miasmic fossil shower-haze of sporogenic fear,
mneumonic nail-tusk night of carbon-spirit back into its hold -- originary dark,
Dark light from burning black                                                 once again contained                                                      in elemental subterrain                                                       ­                                                       
         ­                                        --now it underlies the ground inside for triple shielding outshine
--outer-- light to cool us breathing once again . , ,    
false convenience in abeyance in a human time!                                
i am right now of inward self my soul supernal carbon imprint copy                             
for accounting every speciesistic mind to open wide enough and quell the "all-too human plagues--                                                                           ­       cheering all penultimates, in beams reflecting ante-truth          
                                                 down halls of mirror-minds that lightly discourse
on the ingress of a centaur saving power
channeling the leylines of inception,
ecstatic dreamworld of apotheosic glee:
parting the eidetic clouds,
commune an avatar intentionality . . .
ensorcelling the foodstuffs of the world to feed a dozen million refugees,
insectile diet pride attends in homes of affluence,
the abstract mass of media, become eupeptic cud of understanding bats and even bees--
for biospheres a Goodall stewardship arrives
(her perfect chimp call too resounds across the earth!)
and dwindled frogs their former ponds (unknown, destroyed without a sound)
return to chirping vibrant green symphonic swooning life
the glacial march of tears to halt . . .
all ecosystems rife withall
the panegyric of marshlands globally reborn  
along with shining waters, algaeic sun alive at play
in double-helix breath of dolphin families' bubble art
a sudden resurrect from ****** harvest cove arise cascading joyous leap
on final absence of the metal herding knock of trapping pods
no longer hacked in waves of pink, mere preparations for a restaurant sink--
they are free to swim the depth of worldheart dreaming unknown dream entire real again
marine apsaras dip in spectra (flicker eyelid) rays, reintroduce the dawn
her fine apparel calling forth transhuman destinies
unsplicing brilliant minds from ****** task of splicing GMOs
recycled randomness accepting death before we die
mycelium in runs of spilling-- all undone --
migrational attuned our resource use
and CSAs to thrive in eco-city scapes
no solopsistic somniac pretends
--the dream imbued in final hue
a momentary lapse, creationary flux--
the bombs defused in flick of wrist
indentured and enslaved, imprisoned innocents, oppressed and even self-deprived released
through selfhood's metaviral claim
ground of each dependent intertwining
whatness will to be
a place in which to hum in tune or out of tune
to heal and in a another dream aside from this perhaps with me partake
in true oneiric panoply of conflict held
--with permeating rigpa geogaze--
colliding ideologies transmuted into trust
in panharmonium of varied vision
and what the ever present boons of real, imagined symbol-real
create awake

Jason Leimer Sep 2010
You just exprienced Randomness.
A C Feb 2013
When people say your very random all you can say is oh well I'm always random
When people say your weird all you can say is I know I'm weird
When people say your dorky what you say in return is it is just who I am
When people say your ******* and you just say in return is "***** you I'm not ******* I'm just very Special so shut the hell up" XD
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
The patterns of randomness is indecipherable
Designed beyond imagination
Griffin Schapp Aug 2014
being gay isn't a choice
it's a gift
being gay isn't good
it's ******* fabulous!!!!
Amitav Radiance Feb 2015
Some madness
Helps alleviate
Mind’s burden
From everyday
Of the harsh
Illusions of happiness
Emboldens the heart
With alacrity
And therein lies
The truth
In the core
Of chaos
Misjudged as
Lou Costello’s
bronze semblance
dipped and danced atop
his granite pedestal
spinning miasmatic tales
of enigmatic hope and
resplendent labor

“the sweet
expectation of
hope once
surged down
this city’s streets”
... said Lou

"I was a self made man
until someone thought up
the idea to cast a bronze
caricature of me and
bolt it to this grand rock”

is the boldest form
of fiction
culling from the past
the things hoped for
in the now

“growing up
I clipped school,
played ball,
rolled drunks
and fought
nickel ante
prize fights
to get my
daily bread,
I literally
punched my
way out
of this town”

a smith smelts a
batch of liquid bronze
pouring molds full of
a fervent wish
a madman's delusion
a priestly promise
a Pollyannaish illusion?

baskets overflowed
gushing hope, offered
at the holy altars by
honorable workers

it was said that
a morsel of labor
could feed 5000
starved families
breeding hopes as large
as a half cup of water

the size of a
mustard seed sparked
recovery of 1000 sick children
dying from the Asian Flu
at St. Joe's

willed an end to war’s slaughter
which ironically was bad for
Paterson's war profiteers
forcing layoffs
sparking labor actions

ignited conflagrations firing
the resurrection of dead industries
lately there is a lot of hope
circling this one

miracles spring
from the pronounced
lips of trembling hearts

the hopeful amassed
slogging forth on bloodied toes
along razor thin slices
of expectation
hoping to begin again
eager to build anew

new starts sometimes
grow old fast soon
hope expires
winging back home
on broken wings of
misspent labor

hoping for the snow to stop
a lump of coal to last
the labor of a budding crocus
rewarded, breaking through
the hard crust of winters end
blooms for a day then expires

hope is a beggars wish
gods give yearnings heft
prayers earnestly chanted
willing paradigm shifts

prayers of absolution
play the angles
calculating odds
of probabilistic mathematics
a sure thing long shot
the prayers of the
righteous availeth much

we hoped for jobs
we hoped for leisure
we hoped for love
we hoped for labor
we hoped for rest
we hoped for luck
we hoped for a life
wealth health blest

laughing at our follies
crying over defeats
our city a tragic star
a comedy of schemes

hope and labor
is the keystone of
our self construction
cornerstone of
a grand city’s edifice
its negation our

tragedy and comedy
invested and spent
falling and laughing
foibles and faith

belief trumps evidence
happenstance slays surety
horror and beauty
compose a life's mural
nothing happens
by mistake

learning and ignorance
fate and chance
the risk of randomness
expiration dates arrive fast

predetermination a bold
conviction, suspicion,
intention a splendid  

banality becomes
laughter is ******

...the mystery is in
the loam... says WCW
...the finished product
is what I’m after...

“what the
**** are you
doing here?"
the bronzed Louis

"Hey Abbott
look at these clowns
in the yellow plastic
garbage bags!

bobbing in a sea of
midnight mist

a posse of
neon clowns
donning glad bags
on the most dismal
night of the year

twinkling under the
gloom of my playgrounds
faltering streetlamps

“twinkling targets
easily tracked,
a trained eye,
a steady hand
could pick you off
at a thousand paces
what gives?

“what the **** are
you doing here?

“what the **** am I doin
here for that matter?”

“the second question
is easy to answer,

“I’m Paterson’s
finest son....

...“Wherever he is tonight, I want him to hear me," and went on with the show. No one in the audience knew of the death until after the show when Bud Abbott explained the events of the day, and how the phrase "The show must go on" had been epitomized by Lou that night....

"Mr. Bacciagalupe
he use to live on
Cianci Street

“who’s on first?
what’s on second?
I don’t know is on third?
was a riddle one recited
to get into his speak

“his Ginnie Red was legendary
and no one was ever known to
die from drinking his bathtub gin”

the old world ways
are made new
by the arrival of
new old worlds
supplanting old Italiano

“where is all the goodwill capital
we invested in this place?”

successive generations
thought it best to export
the capital of the
expired generations

it was ferried
across the river,
crossed the
city boundaries,
leaving for Wayne
and the fairer lawns
of Wyckoff and the
greener grasses of
Franklin Lakes

all the old wise guys
died off or were sentenced
to life by their children,
some still doin time in
old age homes in

all the sport clubs
boarded up but their spirit
lingers like an espresso
ring on a post slurp
demitasse cup

“hell my body is buried
in Hollywood but here
I am, holding court in
Costello Park
talking with you
a baseball bat
my royal scepter
a brown derby
my crown, truly a
King of Nothing,
Lord of All

“the soul of my city is
eternal,  like the comedy
of tragedy or is it
tragic comic?

“here I remain
spinning about
frozen forever
in a magnificent
bronze age,
erected to my likeness
beholding me
to stand witness
to this litter strewn park
decorated with corrugated
Big Mac boxes, plastic
Big Gulp tops and discarded
rubbers bagging the ****
of this cities arrested

never actualized
never naturalized
citizenship denied
at the commencement
of ejaculatory flows
of joy

unfulfilled spirit
of citizenship
never to experience
the splendor
of yesterday’s
metropolis and
Lou’s stand up

“look at that John
over there, that guy
wheezing like a
ruptured blacksmith’s
billow, pounding away
laboring to get off

“the poor little
******* just hopes it
will end soon

it does
**** he’s done

I” knew that guys
getting off
runs in the family
and remains one
of the few things
that draws the progeny back
to the old neighborhood

“you can still glimpse
snippets of the old ways
rising in new ways

“an Armenian
sports club
around the corner
is a new
incarnation of
the old Neapolitan
social clubs that
once demarcated the

“these days
great grandsons
of once proud
Sons of Italy
come back to the
old neighborhoods
begging for hand-jobs
from crack ******

“welcome to my
burlesque world

“since the Gumbas
moved to Franklin Lakes
the wannabe wise guys
became ***** whipped
dumb *****
making ***** of
themselves with
their painted ****-job
Jersey Housewives

“they ***** their families
out for a bit parts on
MTV and a free lunch
at the Brownstone

“their grandfathers
labored long hours
to assure the well being
of their families in the expectant
hope of a better shot at life
but the children squandered
the hard earned bequest lovingly
bequeathed by reverent forebears

“in the wee hours
one can sometimes hear
a weeping chorus
of concrete Madonnas
musing melodious lullabies
to the sleeping
Lombard's lying
in uneasy repose at
Holy Sepulchre Cemetery

“they twist in their graves
dreaming of a last dance with the
Lady of Unending Sorrows
at weddings for unrepentant
wayward daughters and prodigal sons

“its small
recompense for a
lifetime of an
honest day’s work”

the dashed hope
of squandered labor
begets a city of ruin”

at the
parks northern corner
the Salvation Army’s
rumbling bivouac rests
in a dreamless sleep
its residents
patiently waiting to
inherit this city
abandoned by
nuevo wise guys

this tragedy
is all comedy
the comedic hope
of tragic labor
buried snoring
the millenniums away
awaiting resurrection

Lou was getting ******...
“get outta my park

“the artists
in the rehabbed
factories across
the street
are resting

“nothing much
going on there

“if you're hoping
to find some
homeless slogs
head over to the river
you should find some there”....

Music Selection:
Frank Sinatra, High Hopes

Part 5 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.
Amitav Radiance May 2014
Chaos has a method of random
And the mind is a whirlpool
Thoughts gyrating to cacophony
The mind and heart are asynchronous
****** in to the vortex of indecision
Chaos becomes the typical jargon
For a mind that reverberate randomness

© Amitav (Radiance)
Vivek Dec 2012
Sunshine, evenin' rain,
Clouds in the sky
And shapes we try
We are the children of stars,
Orphans from Mars,
We smile during the day,
We smile alight,
But on a blue moon Monday,
We cry during the night!!
mark john junor Oct 2014
grey and worn
the lawn chair has dead leaves stuck to it
its one bent arm an expression of pained indifference
mud clings to its feet
and a single vine like a thin snake
wraps its way across its frame seeking the sun
i pull at it to set the chair right
to seat myself
and **** at the breeze from the open field
marvel that a cow stands not five feet away
silently watching my every move with a wary eye
lunching on the grass and ****
but the chair now uprooted from its long held position
seems more than ever a proclamation
of mans intent to be seated here on heavens lawn
clear illustration of the intent that you are supposed to
take this bent greasy seat
sit at your leasuire
in the bountiful sunshine
it is one of a dozen in the field
in this beautiful slice of heaven

the lawn chairs
litter the field like broken teeth
set in a line that wanders across the wilderness growth
each having suffered from years standing in the open field
two almost completely consumed by bushes
one had been tossed into the tree
where time had swallowed it into the bark
this broken and brutalized fence of chairs
these lawn chairs of heaven's field
sit in this beautiful place some would say eyesore
i say artwork of life's randomness...
what party of fools once sat here
dressed no doubt for the occasion
perhaps celebrating
perhaps mourning
then got up from these plastic seats
and left them behind as testament
to that forgotten day...
so i sit in heavens lawn chair
a mute salutation to my unknown compatriots
who painted this pastoral scene
of plastic in a field
A spontaneous creation unmatched,
to create a conversation is not a  plan that can be hatched,
it happens without you know it had began,
and it ends and rebirths without knowing it can,
like a different show but all the actors the same,
it cant be loud nor tame,
but afterwords you feel proud,
because it happened,
and something inside of you was tapped in,
to be able to share something that is hard to do,
a spontaneous creation in lieu,
of you being human.
Lets have a conversation dear reader? oh  and here's this-
Any Random seemingly unexplained connection(s) between two people who are disconnected, ties that person to the other in a mathematical world infinitely. They become forever connected in their disconnectedness.
Crushing Love Dec 2014
̿' ̿'\̵͇̿̿\з=(◕◕)=ε/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿
Over exaggeratedly mad.

It's okay to be sad.
Surprises are sometimes scary.
I really hate confusion.
(╯°□°)╯︵ ( ͜。 ͡ʖ ͜。)
If only  could flip my brothers.
Kitties are cute.
(∩`-´ )⊃━☆゚.*・。゚
This was just some serious randomness.
Ted Scheck Dec 2012
This one time,

12. or 13, when me
And a bunch of other kids
From a different neighborhood
Played. Outside. From about sunup
To 9:00 at night. I dimly remember
(This light-bulb memory is the barest bit of energy
In an ancient filament of thought:)

It was a nightmare come to life.
There was this one kid across the River
(Rock Island)
They found him naked and dead,
In a discarded pile of coal.
His life brutally taken from him.
But that was the only time
I'd ever heard of something so horrible. Happening.
It was as commonplace as school shootings.
Which is to say, it didn’t happen in the
World that was ‘As Far As I Knew’.
Outside, everywhere, as far as I knew;
Was just where you went. No matter what.
It’s just what we did. And we did a LOT.

We played. On a job application, I would have
Written that. “Player”. As in: “Hey, I’m a kid.
I mess around. I’m unhygienic and smelly and
My hair is long and arms sunburned and sweaty
And tired and about as happy as any kid
Could be in 1975.

This one time,
I go in this dumpster and grab a
Sandwich the Mgr. of the 7-11 mistakenly threw out
It smelled. Badly. I pretended to take a gigantic
Bite out of it. My buddies weren’t ROTFL.
That stupid phrase was pre-born.
They laughed so hard they fell off their bikes.
Probably painfully so.
I worshiped this praise. Ate it like
Seinfeld eats applause.
They were rolling
On hot Iowa summer pavement, laughing fit to split.
On top of that dumpster, that day, in that single moment,
I was the King of Whatever

The manager heard some kind of ruckus.
The sandwich was in my hand, a cheesy spoiled grenade.
Which I promptly threw at him. ‘Cause he was the Adult
And I obviously wasn't Victor Mature.
He waddled back inside and called the Cops.
Not amazingly,
They were literally right around the corner.
My buddies took off like scalded dogs
I got on my homemade trail bike, laughing so
Hard I pedaled into a sticker-tree.

I didn't know what "irony" was back then.
Back then, I was so inherently goofy, that funny
Hilarious crap was somehow attracted to me.
Ironically, when I tried being funny on purpose...
Fill in the blank. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
I'm pretty sure.

We met at that French word I still can't spell.
Ron Day View.
Cackling like
Loony loons. We laughed out little butts off.

And we rode bikes EVERYWHERE.
Through the trails. There were bike
Trails trailing everywhere, short-cuts from point
Hay to Tree. And oh yeah, I climbed trees.
Constantly. And ate apples and plums from
That mean lady’s yard. She stood in her
Kitchen and glared through cat-eyed glasses,
Daring us. Daring me.
(Interestingly, we didn't hang out with the
plums which didn't fall too far from Mrs. Tree)

Ate whatever was edible. Wild clover.
Yeah. Grass. And
Crab-apples that held the promise of
Painful bowel movements squirting out of
Your ****. Not ‘***’ because cussing wasn’t
All that big of a deal. You heard it in R movies.
But it hadn’t permeated the marrow of
Our entire culture. Not yet. It wasn’t all over
TV after, say, 8:45.

Nothing about ***. Absolutely Nuttin' Honey.
'Cause I'd be making stuff up in 1975,
When I was 12. Kissing was just...
You know.

We messed around, got into and out of trouble.
We laughed. The future hung over us like
Those mean-sounding thunderclouds,
Miles away, but moving from the North-East,
Because severe weather in Iowa always came
In the same direction.

It’s what we did. It’s just about
All we did as kids. Man, we were crazy, and had
Crazy fun.

We built bikes out of spare parts. They were low-
Slung and cool. Mine was always breaking.
I did a lot of stupid things, and somehow,
Somehow I got away with doing a lot of
Stupid things.

I believe in God. Now.
Way back then, I was Catholic. I don’t
Know if that sufficiently explains it
Or not. We ate fishsticks on Fridays during
Lent. We went to church sometimes
On Wednesday nights, the Guitar Mass,
And on Sundays. The Mass felt like it
Lasted 93 minutes, like our services do
Now. But it seemed to go on forever.
It as about 45 minutes, and we would always
“Leave Early” which meant, we’d take
Our Communion, solemnly, eyes
Downcast and humble, but I would slow,
Then stop, lost in the visage:
I looked up at the Man on the Cross and
Wondered when the Priest would ever
Get around to explaining why He
Died for my sins.
Someone would wake me from my
Reverie, and whisper, “Please move ahead.”
Shamefaced, I would say, truthfully,
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.” Because, in 1975,
When I was 12, I really was.

Then an hour
Later I was dressed in
Salvation Army rags (today)
And I would jump in the creek with my
Jean-shorts and off-color shirt on.
Sometimes, the bikes weren’t in the picture.
So we hiked. Never ‘walked’ but “hiked” which
Was moving with a greater purpose.
Great distances. The distances weren’t the great
Part. I forget what the great part was, because
This was when I was a kid. When I was 12.

The things you did
As a kid
You store them in a secret kid-locker
In your heart
And your heart, it grows, along with the rest of
You, like a quarter pounded into the meat of
A young tree. The tree envelops the quarter,
Taking it in to itself, swallowing time
That you only try to clumsily relive
(Like I’m trying right now)

It used to be cold, icy, and snowy in Iowa.
I know this; I was out in it most of the time.
Does anyone sled anymore? Toboggan?
Round-saucer spinning uncontrollably at
About 12 mph? Metal sleds with runners
And power steering? Down crazy-steep
Barreling down frozen white hills, crashing
Into copses of thin pliable young trees.
You only see this kind of stuff on Youtube
In somebody’s ‘All-time Epic Fail List
The failure is epic, alright. We’ve moved on.
And not necessarily to a bigger, brighter future.

Ice! I skated on long-bladed racer skates.
I could stop on a dollar’s worth of

And this one time
Fell right on my knee hard enough to
Grind a hole in my jeans. It looked like a ******
Meteor crater. A pretty girl named Tina
Felt sorry for me and sat right next to me
She wore pink pom-poms and I fell in
Puppy with her for about three hours.
Then she smiled and hugged me and
I was more frozen than the ice outside
And she left, her Mom picking her up
And eying me balefully as I stood
Pink-faced and flushed and utterly
Confused about the randomness of
What had just happened to me.
Girls from my town all knew
More about myself than myself knew
About me. They had me PEGGED, brothers
And sisters. But not this girl. She was from
The next town over.
That was a good day, if I’m remembering
It correctly. If. I’m pretty sure I am.
Or, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

We played a game called ‘Blackman’
Like a tag game in Gym, where
One kid is “IT” and a mass of skaters
Goes from one end of the ice pond
To the other, and the people you capture
(I couldn’t catch an old man in front-wheel
Drive figure skates and I got so frustrated
I gave up to jeers and yells and found the
Trees were good listeners to kids
Who couldn’t skate as coordinated as
They wanted to.

So ten minutes later
I would go into the Warming House, and
Listen to am radio. All the Hits! KSTT! Davenport,
Iowa. On ******* Blvd., which was really
River Drive, because the Hostess Plant stood
Sentinel on top of the hill, pushing out
Sponge-cake filling and HoHos and Cupcakes
And those awful coconut snowballs, and
This one time, in high school, I shoved one
Inside my mouth and tried to swallow it
And about choked to death.

I walked to Mark Twain Elementary School
And ran home for lunch, and was usually
Late because I was easily distracted
And when the school day ended,
I walked or ran home, hurrying, because
Captain Ernie and Bugs Bunny Cartoons were on,
And then Gilligan’s Island from about 4:00 to
5:30, when the news would come on,
And then Dinner,
And I couldn’t stand to sit still
To save my life. I have ADD. I
Know this now. I didn’t know it
(Nobody knew what it was)
I knew something was wrong with me
Or not-right. It was just the way
The World Turned.

Back then. I had no sense of ‘self’.
I was a changeling. I tried to fit into
Whatever people expected of me, which
Was very often extremely difficult, because
These people I emulated and thought were
So **** cool were just as messed up
As I was, maybe more; But I
Didn’t have the emotional maturity
(Or I couldn’t face the awful responsibility
That went with that awful truth)
To deal with it, so under the rug it went.

I was moody and happy and singing
One moment and crying in the shower
The next.

This one time, I was stuck
In the borderlands of childhood
And the beginning of a man
It was safe, for awhile
This one time.
Geno Cattouse Sep 2012
1968  I remember 1968..
The land of milk and honey.
The war was still cold but not
The Tet. That ***** was hot.

1954 I made my debut. Lotta my boys did too.
** chi Minh amped up his crew.
Can't. We all just get along.

No way LBJ. Young guys all over town stressin the lottery.
The randomness of body bag.
Friday hip deep in rice paddy.
Monday a letter to your moms.
Third Eye Candy Sep 2012
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
              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 !

                        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.
              this one served
              an invisible

              of unsurpassed virility
              who charms       kaleidoscopes
              with  offhand sketches    
              a landfill
              a basket weaver,  
              that unravels to
              achieve pure
              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
              as the hand
              of god
              or a vole
              as a lifeline
              on his
some aesthetic modifications and heartfelt snipping. like a bonsai. i like it better.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2019
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom)

“a new day, a new chance for my soul... to heed
a small voice ... to give flowers, to plant new seeds.
to not trample on wildflowers and unwanted weeds...” Sally

“Sweet baby
with your head on my shoulder
I'm no more growing older...” Pradip


the unpredictability and randomness of the winds,
seed carriers, of small voices, yearning to be heard,
powerless in appearance only, for within are powers superior heroic,
           who can grow others       who can feed    
                             who can sustain multiple living creatures

each seed unique, a poem composed and complete,
authored by precedents, authorized by predecessors,
utilizing the cocoon of soil and sun,
rainwater from space and deep driven to
the clear milk of underground railroad rivers,
to give nurture to its revisional generational code

these new children of an old mix,
are quiet lifesavers giving proofs positive,
that those who will one day grow old,
with deep gnarled roots, are most capable
of finding ways of manufacturing fresh youth whim within,
to those who give babies homage, in attendance

this then the newborn miracle, the new seed,
wind borne, replants itself in old soil,
taking but more so giving,
injecting bits of vitality into its arterial ancestry,
how can this be?

I do not know the why or the how,
but am evidence of the therefore,
and the thereafter, of impossible wisdom

7:07am 4-5-19 a newborn poem for poetry passing grandparents
the dawn here is hours behind their sunsets, this then, a refreshment for the
wisdoms of their evening prayers
Emma Langley Dec 2012
how can butterfly?
Do they have bread wings,
and butter bodies?
Or butter wings and bread bodies?

Do horse flies look like horses?
Lewis Carol says that they look like rocking horses,
with wings like dragonflies

That reminds me,
What do dragonflies look like?
Are they like little dragons with wings like flies?
Or little flies with wings like dragons?

You know what dragons remind me of?
the way that dragons fly
and curving.
As they soar through the sky.

Do you know what that reminds me of?
All kinds of birds soar,
but mostly birds of prey.

Do you know what that reminds me of?
Do you know why that reminds me of him?
Because you're supposed to prey to him.
Doesn't mean I do though.

You know what that reminds me of?
You know why that reminds me of bullies?
Because bullies are mean,
the push,
and hit,
and say mean things to little kids.

Why do I have to be so random?

We are tangled
so much
in our bitter PAST;
Choosing to unsee
the should-ve seen,

Chasing the wrongs
Losing the rights
Blaming you own
Digging your faults;

Letting the Dark
Deep clouds
Veil you
in their shadow;

You let,
Sadness to grow
Depression to follow
Dabbing lies on lies
Rubbing sentiments
till it flies;

High above
so above
You lose your sight
Yet you go back
Again to the lies
To the dead,
To the hollow sadness
To the excuses
To the regrets
Blaming it all
on this thing called love
Yet, You,
YOU choose to lie.
#RandomThoughts #Musement  #ThisWildHeart  #TheHappyHippie  #TheNotSo  #dongaala #StuckDieAndRotTheHeartBreakers  #MeanMode
KM Aug 2013
You know, for a girl with
Such a wild imagination,
She argues with
Logic, far too often.

She's pretty pessimistic
For a girl with sunshine eyes
The darkness makes her tick
And a soul that's full of lies

Sometimes she gets so morbid
I scare my friends away
She's fascinated by blood
I like it better that way

An enigma in her randomness
She is a song that holds no words
Staring down life's rabbit holes
Both the blessing and the curse

Time is always standing still
The sunshine never lasts
She dances to her own drum
Waiting for the one who understands

The voices that softly whisper
From the outside in, to the inside out
Putting reason out of mind
Adding an inkling of doubt

The boy who sees her light
And can hear her dancing beat
As they explore the darkness
Fighting voices of deceit
At the rate we're going, Mike Hauser and I could write our own poetry book ;) check out his work! He's a fantastic poet.
Amitav Radiance Apr 2015
Sometimes the unspoken words
Where you seem to stumble
Shrouded by unknown feelings
Hesitant heart wants to decipher
Taking the time to shuffle them
Create meaning of the randomness
Words, spoken within the heart
And the soul privy to the feelings
One needs to search thoroughly
The heart that holds the secret
Maybe be not for the stranger
Only the one who wins the heart
Will be given passage to the soul
To decipher the unspoken words
Pradeep Dec 2018
To hear a bird singing  
like a flute has come to life,
to hear the water flow
of its own free will,
with a transparent glow.
Of slices of warmth,
of sun's golden cones
splayed upon.
That's silence.

The randomness of the plan
to arrive to myself,
invite me to me,
unravel me to me,
gift 'now' to me,
grand, not showy,
fleeting yet eternal.

The bird stops singing,
the water stops flowing,
my mind is still,
not seeing beyond now,
not seeking beyond now,
finding a sweetspot,
a crevice
through which I fall
uncaring but aware,
deep into a depth unknown,
into a safe and inviting well
of silence.

In the well of wellness,
dusting off layers
of noise cobwebs,
letting peace heal
me with light,
the warmth just right,
I rise more than I fall,
as colors orange, gold and blue
each a kiss on my being blew,
as in mother's womb,
both of us asleep,
silence our lullaby,
setting us free.

A hammock of calm caresses
soft and polite,
half closing my eyes,
whispering to my nerves,
I am home.
Where I come from,
and always welcome
to revisit
the womb of silence.
Crystal June Sep 2014
The tiny droplets of rain created constellations in my slowly dampening hair.
Little stars, scattered with the most pleasant randomness one could wish for.
Magic was all around me.
Do you believe
that a poem
has not one meaning
                                                                ­                                                                 ­     but imports as numerous
                                                        ­                                                                 ­           as the eyes that experience
                                                      ­                                                                 ­                                     its existence
                                                       ­                                                                 ­               and try to piece together
                                                        ­                                                                 ­              how it exists in their life?
that the core of a poem
is some internal light
that the poet has basked in
which has manifested itself on the page?

                                                          ­                but that for each of us
                                                              ­    who is touched by its presence
                                                        ­                   it is an aurora borealis
                                                        ­                  which holds us rooted
                                                          ­                 panting in excitement
                                                      ­                       lost in admiration
                                             and appreciating that someone somewhere understands?

                                                ­                                                                 ­           that an encounter with a poem
                                                            ­                                                 is like trying to find shapes in the clouds
                                                          ­                                                                 ­       or constellations in the stars
                                                           ­                                                                 ­            or meanings in inkblots

that within its randomness
patterns emerge
and each one  may discover
exactly what one is looking for
                                                             ­                                                           that within this meeting of minds
                                                           ­                                                                 ­     there is an universal connect
                                                         ­                                                                 ­                        a personality test-
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                        that reveals both
                                                            ­                                                                 ­            the reader and the poet

so while reading any poem
it may be worthwhile to think
what did I learn about you?
and what did I learn about myself?

-Vijayalakshmi Harish

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Anonymous Sep 2012
Lying on the bed
I think of what to write...
....words don't flow out
of my pen
my mind is clogged
vaccum surrounds me
I've ****** all the noise
into my self.
It's waiting to explode.
I realise I am too conscious
of myself,
I realise I am trying to pretend.
My pen leaks out
a random flow of ink
shaped in words
I strike them out
they don't manifest my feelings.
I don't want farce to appeal
to the eye,
I want honesty to touch
the heart.
I am waiting
for my words
to strike a chord
with the strings of my heart.
I am longing
for clarity
that will give my writing
a sense of purpose
and shorn it
of its randomness.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write.... mind is a clean slate
I want to colour it
with thoughts
and feelings,
I want for it to
lose its barrenness
and be fertile
with imagination.
I want for it to
be bereft of fear
for it is,
the place
where revolutions were conceived
and philosophies were born;
the sole reason
for Man's greatness.
It boasts of coveted freedom,
feared tyrants failed to ******,
it is a guiding light
to the often faltering humanity.
It has been
subject to manipulations,
deceiving history
into changing its course;
scripting moments
of momentous change,
all, of course,
owing their occurrences
to the enchanting influence
it wields over the body.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write.... mind is deluged
with a rush of thoughts
flowing in and out,
a haze of colours
mesmerises me,
letters, words
dance before my eyes,
songs play out in a loop,
a multitude of
smudgy-outlined faces
gazes at me....
....And I realise
with an epiphany,
It is this very train of thoughts
I shall elaborate on!
Lying on the bed
I think I know what to write on.
Venusoul7 May 2014
There is a Softness in the Shadows,
On a breezy, Sun~filled Day.
Splashing Contrast divides the
Colors, trading within the shade,
An interlacing patchwork, Arrangement by Rotation,
Earth's Grandly Spun Bouquet.

Movement amongst the shifting Patterns, playfulness in~All direction,
Like children chasing randomness, Laughing in the garden that echoes through with effortless, nonchalant Expression.

Eastwardly to Westwardly,
Tracing loftily between Tree leaves, Mountains broad projectories, deepening the Shadows Shade, Yawned in stretching reach,
Duality of Accolades,
like Coastlines of a Beach.

Lost in Lover's parting Kiss,
In Amorphous amore,
Animates explicitly,
A shy Shadow's story.
Into the deep embrace of Night,
A lingering at Sunset's Crest,
Hallowed out in Shadow's shade, Sewing~dreamy patchwork Seams
of Fabric feathered Sleep.
Intro + Middle + Outro

— The End —