"tooled" poems - Hello Poetry

"tooled" poems

The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination) was not unexpected but its fury was without compare, poet awake in semi-preparation living by water should be a human right for all, even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to perspective we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in an IMAX 3D theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined, sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment stand before the screen, poets arms outstretched as a supplicant, the light of the lightening passes through him, yet , behind me, she still sleeps then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say: ”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth” bold poet window worshipping risky answers: “but who will know if even a poet cannot declaim sights no one else has seen?” ”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly, do you trust your imagination human, to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?” write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles ***”then you may call yourself a miracle too, a poet***”

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Aug 12, 2018

Aug 12, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC

The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination)

The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination) was not unexpected but its fury was without compare, poet awake in semi-preparation living by water should be a human right for all, even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to perspective we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in an IMAX 3D theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined, sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment stand before the screen, poets arms outstretched as a supplicant, the light of the lightening passes through him, yet , behind me, she still sleeps then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say: ”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth” bold poet window worshipping risky answers: “but who will know if even a poet cannot declaim sights no one else has seen?” ”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly, do you trust your imagination human, to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?” write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles ***”then you may call yourself a miracle too, a poet***”

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Hollywood is dead and gone It died a lonely death It's just too bad no one was there When it took it's final breath Forget the tales of yesteryear Of junkies and of ****** The Hollywood I speak of Is behind the golden doors Warner Brothers and MGM United Artists and 20th Century Fox Are now owned by conglomertates With more cash than Fort Knox Film is just an extra In a business it once ruled With the advent of computers The industry's re-tooled CGI and Green Screen Let them do more at great cost But, without the use of actors There is something that is lost The tie in with it's history We only see each year When they memorialize those who passed At the Oscars....shedding tears There is now just two places To process film itself When, way back in it's heyday Of these there was a wealth No new ideas forthcoming Movies get rebooted or remade And the startlets in the pictures They're the one's who're getting laid Merchanidising movies That is where the real cash lies If you're not attached to a food chain Your bottom line will die Hollywood died in it's sleep It died with dignity The funeral will be shown though On reality TV It smothered in it's excess A victim of it's greed It gorged on people's wallets Forgetting peoples needs Old Hollywood is magic It lives on in peoples hearts Too bad the studio system Was sold off in such small parts The western died, musicals next Then came the comedy You can't see them in the theatre But they're on your big tv I stand here and salute her She put pictures in our heads But, now thanks to her avarice Old Hollywood is dead...

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May 17, 2012

May 17, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC

Hollywood is dead and gone It died a lonely death It's just too bad no one was there When it took it's final breath Forget the tales of yesteryear Of junkies and of ****** The Hollywood I speak of Is behind the golden doors Warner Brothers and MGM United Artists and 20th Century Fox Are now owned by conglomertates With more cash than Fort Knox Film is just an extra In a business it once ruled With the advent of computers The industry's re-tooled CGI and Green Screen Let them do more at great cost But, without the use of actors There is something that is lost The tie in with it's history We only see each year When they memorialize those who passed At the Oscars....shedding tears There is now just two places To process film itself When, way back in it's heyday Of these there was a wealth No new ideas forthcoming Movies get rebooted or remade And the startlets in the pictures They're the one's who're getting laid Merchanidising movies That is where the real cash lies If you're not attached to a food chain Your bottom line will die Hollywood died in it's sleep It died with dignity The funeral will be shown though On reality TV It smothered in it's excess A victim of it's greed It gorged on people's wallets Forgetting peoples needs Old Hollywood is magic It lives on in peoples hearts Too bad the studio system Was sold off in such small parts The western died, musicals next Then came the comedy You can't see them in the theatre But they're on your big tv I stand here and salute her She put pictures in our heads But, now thanks to her avarice Old Hollywood is dead...

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Let's face it its more ******** warfare culturally they are used to faking it as thimbles and chipolatas in ninety seconds do not reach first base much less seeing stars on cloud nine hence they woke and fake the reality they chose be it feel or fright in woke solidarity against frustrations they cloned their made-up foe what better than sturdy shining Mandingo loaded and tied up there for the having to your heart's content presented to you the untamed beast the wild moor tooled hot and ready raw animalistic unfettered passion rock hard we can name him Rocky that goer that delivers every time the one that is all your men aren't and can never be cause he's gifted sleek like dolphin in rhythmic glide tasty like fresh clean mushroom Arabian stallion if ever there's one with absolute pedigree and class take a break from the mediocre from the wham bangs no can dos from the floppy quick-draws saps imagine the dark horse with the most in smooth soft pink leathery velvet tis your secret your guilty pleasure tis the obsession you made into a war the fantasy that plays in your heads tis behind fervours that haunts you that you so well disguise in hatred telling metaphors slip out Freud hold him down, grind him hard wear him out, let's wreck him so the sado masochistic 'punishing him' give him a hard time, it all says a lot you twist innocent sentences into ****** innuendos and innocent actions are falsely given ****** meanings as morn noon and night you toil you troll and agitate for attention yes you twist turn bite and nibble in Freudian throes you talk love you glaze unrequited love relentlessly you close your eyes and dream sweet pain yeah! get real, its no psyche warfare its a flutters obsession, it's the classic ' "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." its how you float your boats and and get yer thrills you better face it you're all addicted It's an ******** War-fare and you all know so.....

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Jun 22, 2021

Jun 22, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC

My pinky for a horse.....

Let's face it its more ******** warfare culturally they are used to faking it as thimbles and chipolatas in ninety seconds do not reach first base much less seeing stars on cloud nine hence they woke and fake the reality they chose be it feel or fright in woke solidarity against frustrations they cloned their made-up foe what better than sturdy shining Mandingo loaded and tied up there for the having to your heart's content presented to you the untamed beast the wild moor tooled hot and ready raw animalistic unfettered passion rock hard we can name him Rocky that goer that delivers every time the one that is all your men aren't and can never be cause he's gifted sleek like dolphin in rhythmic glide tasty like fresh clean mushroom Arabian stallion if ever there's one with absolute pedigree and class take a break from the mediocre from the wham bangs no can dos from the floppy quick-draws saps imagine the dark horse with the most in smooth soft pink leathery velvet tis your secret your guilty pleasure tis the obsession you made into a war the fantasy that plays in your heads tis behind fervours that haunts you that you so well disguise in hatred telling metaphors slip out Freud hold him down, grind him hard wear him out, let's wreck him so the sado masochistic 'punishing him' give him a hard time, it all says a lot you twist innocent sentences into ****** innuendos and innocent actions are falsely given ****** meanings as morn noon and night you toil you troll and agitate for attention yes you twist turn bite and nibble in Freudian throes you talk love you glaze unrequited love relentlessly you close your eyes and dream sweet pain yeah! get real, its no psyche warfare its a flutters obsession, it's the classic ' "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." its how you float your boats and and get yer thrills you better face it you're all addicted It's an ******** War-fare and you all know so.....

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~~~ Mouth to Mouth, Chest to Chest ~~~ "Heard the song of a poet, who died in the gutter" from Bob Dylan's song, "It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall" ~~~ heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter, last verse, last curse, not a shout, more a mutter, a question answered in the asking, mix tape tune of mournful and joy, a dying man's elixir. who will me, anyone recall? I will. not each poem, nor stanza, but more each hard rooted, weeded and impossible to remove letter, will come to be in, carried and burnt upon my chest, chiseled, precision hand tooled. though my body to dusty ash fated inevitable, following yours, those letters of yours, will not to heaven ascend, but come to miracle rest on the skin of another, renewed ***for this the way poetry gets passed on, a sustainable, renewal natural resource, never down, always, always, upward ear to ear, mouth to mouth, from chest to chest*** ~~~ July 10, 2015

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Jul 11, 2015

Jul 11, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC

Mouth to Mouth, Chest to Chest (heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter)

~~~ Mouth to Mouth, Chest to Chest ~~~ "Heard the song of a poet, who died in the gutter" from Bob Dylan's song, "It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall" ~~~ heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter, last verse, last curse, not a shout, more a mutter, a question answered in the asking, mix tape tune of mournful and joy, a dying man's elixir. who will me, anyone recall? I will. not each poem, nor stanza, but more each hard rooted, weeded and impossible to remove letter, will come to be in, carried and burnt upon my chest, chiseled, precision hand tooled. though my body to dusty ash fated inevitable, following yours, those letters of yours, will not to heaven ascend, but come to miracle rest on the skin of another, renewed ***for this the way poetry gets passed on, a sustainable, renewal natural resource, never down, always, always, upward ear to ear, mouth to mouth, from chest to chest*** ~~~ July 10, 2015

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Spanish Guitars A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101). This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig. Spanish Guitars two weeks pass. I have seen two guitars one of wood, one of sheet metal. both were alive, both were inanimate both birthed for display, useful for granting pleasure and heating up le jus d'creation products of a tradesman's craft, animated to pierce my brain and pleasure me with the realization that when you see what I see When you, you hear, What I see we all perforce speak but one language, an alphabet of music, art and love A young, oh so most beautiful Croat guitarist girl, Ana, coaxes an urgency from her love, the blonde wood, she takes Piazzola's notes, as if they were Picasso's thoughts and set them within so days later, the resonance plucks at my temples Picasso, like a little boy, collects collaged bits and pieces of life's stuff most ordinary, postage stamps, playing cards, wallpaper, pieces of cardboard, cutouts from Le Journal, and with fingers delicate sticks and glues discrete notes, individually nothing but pieces of this and that, bits and bobs superimposed on faux woodwork, presenting an instrument tooled to conjures up a milonga^, the sounds of angels dying, a fandango of trembling tones a sonnet of sounds, celebrating human touch upon animal, strings taut, feasts both, a banquet, a triomphe of sounds that tutors my senses to hear sheet metal guitars imprisoned in museum glass gush sounds of parallel lines and delicate contrasts, A duet of animate, inanimate Virtuosity All is clarified. One language. Many dialects. Both, Spanish guitars. ^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party

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Aug 21, 2013

Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC

Spanish Guitars

Spanish Guitars A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101). This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig. Spanish Guitars two weeks pass. I have seen two guitars one of wood, one of sheet metal. both were alive, both were inanimate both birthed for display, useful for granting pleasure and heating up le jus d'creation products of a tradesman's craft, animated to pierce my brain and pleasure me with the realization that when you see what I see When you, you hear, What I see we all perforce speak but one language, an alphabet of music, art and love A young, oh so most beautiful Croat guitarist girl, Ana, coaxes an urgency from her love, the blonde wood, she takes Piazzola's notes, as if they were Picasso's thoughts and set them within so days later, the resonance plucks at my temples Picasso, like a little boy, collects collaged bits and pieces of life's stuff most ordinary, postage stamps, playing cards, wallpaper, pieces of cardboard, cutouts from Le Journal, and with fingers delicate sticks and glues discrete notes, individually nothing but pieces of this and that, bits and bobs superimposed on faux woodwork, presenting an instrument tooled to conjures up a milonga^, the sounds of angels dying, a fandango of trembling tones a sonnet of sounds, celebrating human touch upon animal, strings taut, feasts both, a banquet, a triomphe of sounds that tutors my senses to hear sheet metal guitars imprisoned in museum glass gush sounds of parallel lines and delicate contrasts, A duet of animate, inanimate Virtuosity All is clarified. One language. Many dialects. Both, Spanish guitars. ^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party

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There are those down the bookies and them in the butchers and they're all a bit hooky, a right bunch of wrong 'uns, young guns. The police don't have a clue, but you know what? they're all tooled up too, and what for? for a war on the streets blood down the drains, making widows of wives who'll spent the rest of their lives looking through the curtains on lonely window panes watching blood down the drains. Reminds me of what's behind me, back in the days when crazy paving was the craze and the grass was covered in cartoon concrete, I'd take a seat by the bow front and look out on the car, a Singer Chamois which was green, seen it parked in front of the house on crazy paving where there used to be grass through which no water was able to pass into the water table and so having to go somewhere it went down the drains, a waste of an element because we had no brains. Hooky's not new it's what some people are and what some people do, we try and we die or we thirst for and win, but I always did think that to waste was a sin and now it is blood down the drains because we've all been trained, it's an army out there and they've got to go somewhere and the drains are open to all.

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May 25, 2015

May 25, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

The neighbourhood

There are those down the bookies and them in the butchers and they're all a bit hooky, a right bunch of wrong 'uns, young guns. The police don't have a clue, but you know what? they're all tooled up too, and what for? for a war on the streets blood down the drains, making widows of wives who'll spent the rest of their lives looking through the curtains on lonely window panes watching blood down the drains. Reminds me of what's behind me, back in the days when crazy paving was the craze and the grass was covered in cartoon concrete, I'd take a seat by the bow front and look out on the car, a Singer Chamois which was green, seen it parked in front of the house on crazy paving where there used to be grass through which no water was able to pass into the water table and so having to go somewhere it went down the drains, a waste of an element because we had no brains. Hooky's not new it's what some people are and what some people do, we try and we die or we thirst for and win, but I always did think that to waste was a sin and now it is blood down the drains because we've all been trained, it's an army out there and they've got to go somewhere and the drains are open to all.

Continue reading...

The rainbow’s bright colors gazed out of their prism, speculatively, cautiously, almost contrarily, with no wall to paint their patterned pictures on, fading into irrelevance as they vanished into the void . Time ; torturous and tyrannical, toyed with the torrential turbulence, as it’s transitive tenaciousness thoughtlessly, tactlessly, tooled through the torrid tempest . The starry-eyed girl gazed glassily across the expanse as if in a quandary over the night sky . A half human silhouette in a sky filled with thunder heads and birds of prey rooted in a tapestry of alien galaxies and blazing stars playing a melodian . Water glistened on the skin of the naked woman and rainbows danced in the air before her as the waves crashed against the rocks . A young man with a pony tail in the center of the back side of his head played his drum while he danced on the grass .

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Jun 27, 2013

Jun 27, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC

toreinss-pinwinkel-iii

The rainbow’s bright colors gazed out of their prism, speculatively, cautiously, almost contrarily, with no wall to paint their patterned pictures on, fading into irrelevance as they vanished into the void . Time ; torturous and tyrannical, toyed with the torrential turbulence, as it’s transitive tenaciousness thoughtlessly, tactlessly, tooled through the torrid tempest . The starry-eyed girl gazed glassily across the expanse as if in a quandary over the night sky . A half human silhouette in a sky filled with thunder heads and birds of prey rooted in a tapestry of alien galaxies and blazing stars playing a melodian . Water glistened on the skin of the naked woman and rainbows danced in the air before her as the waves crashed against the rocks . A young man with a pony tail in the center of the back side of his head played his drum while he danced on the grass .

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an eagle's eye is one of precision it observes well all items of near duplication familiar in form a matching identic yet there's a minute disconnect the incisive eye is never totally fooled the imitation had not been well tooled in detecting the flawed item's sham the eagle's eye noted well the scam

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Aug 8, 2014

Aug 8, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC

ElizabethSquires

an eagle's eye is one of precision it observes well all items of near duplication familiar in form a matching identic yet there's a minute disconnect the incisive eye is never totally fooled the imitation had not been well tooled in detecting the flawed item's sham the eagle's eye noted well the scam

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proscribed extra-curious carnality be gone, begin, become the exigent immersion of a prescribed insertion, deep genetics within this drowning pool, drooled and tooled. now cruel jewel, for this dowsing fool, offer up a different inheritance, draw wider tracks of innate capture, let mortal culpability sail white whaled, high tailed, to a communal land of neutral precept not constrained by dictate neuter. one click, **** temptation, flavoured Russian, *** Asian. first though herbal, fruitful, extension. such friendship investment, one clit-k sensation, new phone, who phone, ***** moan, iFone©, fear & gear. solutions are here, hear? with 1 or more I full, sim-pull, sinful maybe? snout deep, cracked badger’s honey kink, snake in ‘n’ baking ‘n’ shaken sac, quick, whip crack a flay, today? the way you wear those ankles so well that far back, a la mode, cherry high pie and cream, no sweet reluctance of bristling itch, searching eye ******* incontinent twitch from mondo trespassed hush-pushed niche.

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Apr 2, 2015

Apr 2, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC

proscribed extra-curious carnality be gone, begin, become the exigent immersion of a prescribed insertion, deep genetics within this drowning pool, drooled and tooled. now cruel jewel, for this dowsing fool, offer up a different inheritance, draw wider tracks of innate capture, let mortal culpability sail white whaled, high tailed, to a communal land of neutral precept not constrained by dictate neuter. one click, **** temptation, flavoured Russian, *** Asian. first though herbal, fruitful, extension. such friendship investment, one clit-k sensation, new phone, who phone, ***** moan, iFone©, fear & gear. solutions are here, hear? with 1 or more I full, sim-pull, sinful maybe? snout deep, cracked badger’s honey kink, snake in ‘n’ baking ‘n’ shaken sac, quick, whip crack a flay, today? the way you wear those ankles so well that far back, a la mode, cherry high pie and cream, no sweet reluctance of bristling itch, searching eye ******* incontinent twitch from mondo trespassed hush-pushed niche.

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I've had a journey to Hell And back Yet.. The journey has had many lessons along The way The people good/bad The traumas endured YET I stand proud Proud as a King Standing high on his throne Pleased that he has reigned through hardship He has now become a warrior A tooled and skilled individual Knowing that he is stronger now Wiser and more precious to life He has battled through wars and won The most prolific war was that from within To discover the peace that has been hiding for so long! Now my queens ... I take this crown to place on my head Knowing that I have battled to this point The demons are now at rest I breathe deeply The journey continues ... Yet it's now with the Sun Not a black cloud drowning my soul Peace will prevail and all will be well! I've fought this fight to enjoy NOT to endure The beauty of life ... Now my demons have gone. This day is a celebration to all I love you so My life line and foundation That I'd have crumbled without My heart is yours as you have given me life ❤️

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Feb 12, 2014

Feb 12, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC

I've had a journey to Hell And back Yet.. The journey has had many lessons along The way The people good/bad The traumas endured YET I stand proud Proud as a King Standing high on his throne Pleased that he has reigned through hardship He has now become a warrior A tooled and skilled individual Knowing that he is stronger now Wiser and more precious to life He has battled through wars and won The most prolific war was that from within To discover the peace that has been hiding for so long! Now my queens ... I take this crown to place on my head Knowing that I have battled to this point The demons are now at rest I breathe deeply The journey continues ... Yet it's now with the Sun Not a black cloud drowning my soul Peace will prevail and all will be well! I've fought this fight to enjoy NOT to endure The beauty of life ... Now my demons have gone. This day is a celebration to all I love you so My life line and foundation That I'd have crumbled without My heart is yours as you have given me life ❤️

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^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Arthur Benjamin Franklin: my Unca Artie, my favorite. A High School football star, known as Red Franklin, he was famous for his dark red hair. He used to chuck me into deep water at Chrystal Pool to terrify me for 5 seconds, then hoist me onto his broad shoulders.I suspect I was his favorite too. War came and he had to go. I cried and cried on the herringbone patterned bricks at the train depot in Kelso. I have a v-mail he sent to my mom, his sister, dated 1942. He was a belly gunner on the B-17’s that were flying the area where Rommel was fighting. He brought my sis and I back little leather suitcases, tooled in wonderful designs by a skilled artist somewhere in the orient. I still have it. A treasure. Grover Cleveland Franklin: My suave uncle, joined the Navy in WWII and became a deep sea diver. The kind that wore those heavy suits with the big glass bubble head. He helped detect and destroy mines around battleships. In doing that brave work he lost his hearing and came home as a lip reader for most of my childhood. I was always a bit suspicious because he seemed to read lips so well. He even got written up in the newspaper because he could sing while putting his hands on a phonograph and feeling the vibrations of the music he couldn’t hear. We kids would always try to make loud noise behind him but he never once reacted to it. Many years later I learned that he confessed that his hearing had gradually came back. He was a hero nevertheless. About their names: Both being born in North Carolina, back in the 1920’s it was common practice among the country folk to name sons after famous people. I also have another distant relative named George Washington Franklin. I love having hillbilly DNA.

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May 26, 2025

May 26, 2025 at 6:28 PM UTC

LoriJonesMcCaffery

MEMORIAM FOR MY UNCLES

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Arthur Benjamin Franklin: my Unca Artie, my favorite. A High School football star, known as Red Franklin, he was famous for his dark red hair. He used to chuck me into deep water at Chrystal Pool to terrify me for 5 seconds, then hoist me onto his broad shoulders.I suspect I was his favorite too. War came and he had to go. I cried and cried on the herringbone patterned bricks at the train depot in Kelso. I have a v-mail he sent to my mom, his sister, dated 1942. He was a belly gunner on the B-17’s that were flying the area where Rommel was fighting. He brought my sis and I back little leather suitcases, tooled in wonderful designs by a skilled artist somewhere in the orient. I still have it. A treasure. Grover Cleveland Franklin: My suave uncle, joined the Navy in WWII and became a deep sea diver. The kind that wore those heavy suits with the big glass bubble head. He helped detect and destroy mines around battleships. In doing that brave work he lost his hearing and came home as a lip reader for most of my childhood. I was always a bit suspicious because he seemed to read lips so well. He even got written up in the newspaper because he could sing while putting his hands on a phonograph and feeling the vibrations of the music he couldn’t hear. We kids would always try to make loud noise behind him but he never once reacted to it. Many years later I learned that he confessed that his hearing had gradually came back. He was a hero nevertheless. About their names: Both being born in North Carolina, back in the 1920’s it was common practice among the country folk to name sons after famous people. I also have another distant relative named George Washington Franklin. I love having hillbilly DNA.

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The sweet never grows old Or so it has been said silently and fortold But one never knows what fortune may hold Fortune, the misguided traveler Whom, winds wildy send That,in dandy-lionic fashion is fortune's fend All the troubles of tyrants have brought to bend There you find him, dicingly deciding Riguriously rolling away, not minding This carousing of carelessness Is what bought and sold him his business And business is good The lifestyle and the luxurious lude All was pefect, even the mood But that's the aroura allure Falling into flooding failure And business is too good Lucious conditioning can have one fooled Fortune is not to be mettled with or tooled Now it is time for this traveler to be leaved All the misspoiled one needs is his soul to be retrieved Luckyliy the lucid fortune's duty has been relieved

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Mar 3, 2017

Mar 3, 2017 at 1:55 AM UTC

gerhardt-de-lange

The sweet never grows old Or so it has been said silently and fortold But one never knows what fortune may hold Fortune, the misguided traveler Whom, winds wildy send That,in dandy-lionic fashion is fortune's fend All the troubles of tyrants have brought to bend There you find him, dicingly deciding Riguriously rolling away, not minding This carousing of carelessness Is what bought and sold him his business And business is good The lifestyle and the luxurious lude All was pefect, even the mood But that's the aroura allure Falling into flooding failure And business is too good Lucious conditioning can have one fooled Fortune is not to be mettled with or tooled Now it is time for this traveler to be leaved All the misspoiled one needs is his soul to be retrieved Luckyliy the lucid fortune's duty has been relieved

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As he stepped down from stirrup to dirt the road worn traveler reached up to the boiling sun. How far had he rode today. From pillar to hitching post a wayward ghost a hollow merchant. Swathed in leather and silver...tooled steel on his hip...a killer by trade. He was made to this By nightfall alone on moonlit trail would he be in slow self procession to find bad intentions.Tradesman in sulfur and lead...black smoke and resounding explosions. Then silence. Tradesman in black. Death and deliverance. Paid in full.

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Jul 18, 2015

Jul 18, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC

geno-cattouse-1

As he stepped down from stirrup to dirt the road worn traveler reached up to the boiling sun. How far had he rode today. From pillar to hitching post a wayward ghost a hollow merchant. Swathed in leather and silver...tooled steel on his hip...a killer by trade. He was made to this By nightfall alone on moonlit trail would he be in slow self procession to find bad intentions.Tradesman in sulfur and lead...black smoke and resounding explosions. Then silence. Tradesman in black. Death and deliverance. Paid in full.

Continue reading...

A departure unforeseen , Father , gun in mouth , routine stop for policeman and paramedic , in bed , at peace , thankfully not witnessed , trigger mechanism and human mind , complicated machinations and machinery , revolvers easily taken apart , analyzed , correction to design , re-tooled unlike thought , perception , objectivity , inner workings of depressed , hopeless and panic stricken inner wounds not attended to or recognized .......

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Sep 23, 2015

Sep 23, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

A departure unforeseen , Father , gun in mouth , routine stop for policeman and paramedic , in bed , at peace , thankfully not witnessed , trigger mechanism and human mind , complicated machinations and machinery , revolvers easily taken apart , analyzed , correction to design , re-tooled unlike thought , perception , objectivity , inner workings of depressed , hopeless and panic stricken inner wounds not attended to or recognized .......

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I talked to someone today who made me feel extremely self conscious about my writing so i decided to retool what i posted today. Let me know if you like this version better This is the last night I'll see you. Soon i will miss you, Rain be-speckled your tender cheeks. Will you indulge a kiss, To wash away our sorrows? There is nothing beyond us tonight, A feeling to halt the world. Sickness, a near pox of the heart. The distance will seem so great. Do you think the sun misses the moon, As they sway from each others embrace? Only to meet again as they eclipse, As they collide together. Into such tender eyes i confessed, The smile i loved to bear witness too, Roses adorning the tint of your cheeks. I will miss you, Melting under the touch of my lips. You are perfection I will never forget this night. Am i to fade away. a ghost in the snow?

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Oct 10, 2011

Oct 10, 2011 at 11:13 PM UTC

This Nights Requiem (Re-Tooled Version)

I talked to someone today who made me feel extremely self conscious about my writing so i decided to retool what i posted today. Let me know if you like this version better This is the last night I'll see you. Soon i will miss you, Rain be-speckled your tender cheeks. Will you indulge a kiss, To wash away our sorrows? There is nothing beyond us tonight, A feeling to halt the world. Sickness, a near pox of the heart. The distance will seem so great. Do you think the sun misses the moon, As they sway from each others embrace? Only to meet again as they eclipse, As they collide together. Into such tender eyes i confessed, The smile i loved to bear witness too, Roses adorning the tint of your cheeks. I will miss you, Melting under the touch of my lips. You are perfection I will never forget this night. Am i to fade away. a ghost in the snow?

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remember your craft diligently, passionately, curiously remember your craft without forgetting your past apply your reason without committing treason to the values you hold true never forget that which makes up You self esteem reflects that which afflict reminded again nothing is perfect a blessing in dis-guide, one could say confessing to the skies on a clear day

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Jul 19, 2012

Jul 19, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC

remember your craft diligently, passionately, curiously remember your craft without forgetting your past apply your reason without committing treason to the values you hold true never forget that which makes up You self esteem reflects that which afflict reminded again nothing is perfect a blessing in dis-guide, one could say confessing to the skies on a clear day

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like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths hemmed in by white paving like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds out of reach of more fertile fields like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes out of sight of the forest like polar bears in a child-infested zoo missing their glacial quiet like a killer whale peering through glass at knitting grandmothers like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds - we were made for more than this

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Aug 13, 2021

Aug 13, 2021 at 4:41 PM UTC

like lonely grass reduced to PGA lengths hemmed in by white paving like wild flowers in raised sleeper beds out of reach of more fertile fields like black-birds nesting in machined-tooled boxes out of sight of the forest like polar bears in a child-infested zoo missing their glacial quiet like a killer whale peering through glass at knitting grandmothers like a 58 year old man tethered to the white light of his next zoom call while the sun breaks through a crack in his bedroom blinds - we were made for more than this

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Born from the heat of hell A smoke filled glass Catches your eye A reflection in perfect time Darkens and river softened Sharpest edges worn smooth Once, able and tooled Weaponry of demons And history's schools Now lost for a time And razored edges soothed Plucked from a pool An innocent girl Plays with it in warm sun Soft and blended, Dark colors spoiled Frozen in glass Held to the light Just to see She can just see through A trick, a trap Her soul catches And held Between layers Soft colors Almost like Light Shining though To catch your eye And tease yours, Too

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Nov 26, 2014

Nov 26, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC

httphellopoetryacid-love

Born from the heat of hell A smoke filled glass Catches your eye A reflection in perfect time Darkens and river softened Sharpest edges worn smooth Once, able and tooled Weaponry of demons And history's schools Now lost for a time And razored edges soothed Plucked from a pool An innocent girl Plays with it in warm sun Soft and blended, Dark colors spoiled Frozen in glass Held to the light Just to see She can just see through A trick, a trap Her soul catches And held Between layers Soft colors Almost like Light Shining though To catch your eye And tease yours, Too

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impressionistic, dabs at life's canvas trying the light and dark, usually violating the rules, freely expressing outside the contours, the boundaries no limit for me, I am not tooled or succinct in the palate of medieval details limiting a certain number of syllables, I use adverbs and adjectives interchangeably try though I may my write hand wobbles, and veers of the course , and I see

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May 20, 2016

May 20, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC

impressionistic, dabs at life's canvas trying the light and dark, usually violating the rules, freely expressing outside the contours, the boundaries no limit for me, I am not tooled or succinct in the palate of medieval details limiting a certain number of syllables, I use adverbs and adjectives interchangeably try though I may my write hand wobbles, and veers of the course , and I see

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I have a gold tooled chiseled mind of David marble; pure white interior and a godly glow of smoothness; that tumbles in lush lands of opulence, openness, and awareness

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May 14, 2017

May 14, 2017 at 2:54 AM UTC

I have a gold tooled chiseled mind of David marble; pure white interior and a godly glow of smoothness; that tumbles in lush lands of opulence, openness, and awareness

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Black steeds reveal their charged breath with splendid revelry o'er the piedmont valley .. Green , gray facades sweep across a volley of cannon and tooled steel reflections as Plough hand , Artist and neighbor stand garrisoned before their final hours .. Morning skies are a terrific blue in springs first fleeting gasp .. Is Barabbas among these warriors ? If so , let him stand forward !

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Mar 11, 2016

Mar 11, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Kennesaw Mountain

Black steeds reveal their charged breath with splendid revelry o'er the piedmont valley .. Green , gray facades sweep across a volley of cannon and tooled steel reflections as Plough hand , Artist and neighbor stand garrisoned before their final hours .. Morning skies are a terrific blue in springs first fleeting gasp .. Is Barabbas among these warriors ? If so , let him stand forward !

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*To the herdsman counting his flock in the moonlight The plowman repairing his tractor by lantern- light The wood splitter , the fence builder , framer and rail tender Architects of frozen December morns Unsung engineers , freight worker and brakemen 'Twould be a privilege indeed to sup cold beer with the countries heroes , privy to stories of hardship and raw weather days endured by these American patriots Iron tooled with steel , the churning grist mill , diesel engine roar , black earth turned anew , billowing steam settled over valley floors Masters of metal , brake and die , machine and anvil The crack of the peen long before sunrise 'Tis the bailiwick of farmer and tradesman* ..

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Oct 21, 2016

Oct 21, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

The Forgotten ...

*To the herdsman counting his flock in the moonlight The plowman repairing his tractor by lantern- light The wood splitter , the fence builder , framer and rail tender Architects of frozen December morns Unsung engineers , freight worker and brakemen 'Twould be a privilege indeed to sup cold beer with the countries heroes , privy to stories of hardship and raw weather days endured by these American patriots Iron tooled with steel , the churning grist mill , diesel engine roar , black earth turned anew , billowing steam settled over valley floors Masters of metal , brake and die , machine and anvil The crack of the peen long before sunrise 'Tis the bailiwick of farmer and tradesman* ..

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most oft, the wherever I write, is duly noted, it is a due, due you, and hopefully, the why I scribe, arrives ‘pon your eyes with Steuben glass, of diamond tooled curettage, a clarifying visual of beauty, but always with fair detailed precision is the when denoted, for it is the timing of the mining the specificity, of the exact momentous, a precious decision taken by you, when to turn words of a few seconds of a heart’s unburdening, with an inescapable reminder, of the thereabouts & the whyabouts the very verity of a serious causality that parented the casualties we call our poems join me then, in the processional of denoting the origins, linkage contained therein to the work we c r e a t e *•for in the recording of the reckoning• •exactitude of the longitude• •and l’atitude is the truest revelation• •of yourself•*

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Jan 3, 2025

Jan 3, 2025 at 11:21 PM UTC

The importance of knowing the longitude and latitude of the WHEN of your writing: 9:27am

most oft, the wherever I write, is duly noted, it is a due, due you, and hopefully, the why I scribe, arrives ‘pon your eyes with Steuben glass, of diamond tooled curettage, a clarifying visual of beauty, but always with fair detailed precision is the when denoted, for it is the timing of the mining the specificity, of the exact momentous, a precious decision taken by you, when to turn words of a few seconds of a heart’s unburdening, with an inescapable reminder, of the thereabouts & the whyabouts the very verity of a serious causality that parented the casualties we call our poems join me then, in the processional of denoting the origins, linkage contained therein to the work we c r e a t e *•for in the recording of the reckoning• •exactitude of the longitude• •and l’atitude is the truest revelation• •of yourself•*

Continue reading...