Best Off Chance Poems
In the event that riches is the key to joy, at that point
The 'RICH' ought to move in the city.
Yet, just 'POOR' kids do that.
On the off chance that force guarantees security, at that point
The 'Authorities' should walk unguarded.
In any case, the individuals who 'LIVE SIMPLY', rest adequately.
In the event that excellence and acclaim bring ideal connections, at that point
'Famous people' ought to have the best relationships.
Yet, it's not here.
Effortlessness drives the world
So consistently recollect to
Live Simply, Walk Humbly & Love Genuinely..!!!!
Each day I come to this special place, to catch a glimpse of fairies fair
Each day I come with a smile on my face, hoping that today they will be there
The tress are old, their branches bent
The deer less bold, now silence is spent
I spy the ring of red and white, toadstools where the fairies sat
Not a hint is left in this flimsy light, not an echo of their chat
I hold my breath, I sit and wait
Yet once again I am too late,
Far off now I hear how they sing, about the wind and the stars warm glow
How I long to dance in the fairy ring just once before it is time for me to go
Someday soon I know I’ll spy,
Fairy folk flitting past my eye
Long years have passed since those magical days, the forest still stands
I walk with my grand -daughter on those old twisted ways, we hold hands
As together we try as hard as we can
To catch just a glimpse of the fairy clan
We whisper as we walk along, afraid to miss the celestial song
We count the butterflies fluttering by, wondering all the while why
They always elude us just by a glance
They always induce us on the off chance
Fairy folk are always to be, intriguing imaginary friends for you and for me
Yet deep in my heart I’ll always know, they are just there behind that tree
And one special moment or so it would seem,
To spy them, just once is every little girls dream
14/03/2014
Another crossroad.
Invalids weep when
wearing another's
soiled diapers suddenly
disappear.
In spite of the battered off-chance -
from a despondent interruption;
I'm the exposed exception.
Coarse fingers bleed.
My wheelchair spokes
are hardly friendly.
I proudly bawl when no one
can see me bow my head
amongst the company of
irreverent observers.
At rest
with this solemn disease -
the embrassing stench of inhumanity
forces me to open a
newly glass-stained window.
I whisk swallowed past-killings
onto bent steel hangers.
Neatly there, they elegantly droop -
angled and uninteresting;
in a dank closet where
falsified myths
and I
silently hide.
Leukemia, I personally, thank you.
Mid wives laugh at me.
Jesters poke a crooked finger, also.
Kings, queens
and jacks are left behind.
I chuckle, too - with an
unbridled Lucille Ball lament.
Four spaded-aces and a forgotten spittoon;
the uninviting hospice where we
comfortably bed together
crocheting darned finales.
Say farewell.
Don't tell anyone.
Blood bleeds beyond
frowned staled dales and
expiration is a personal moment.
Daddy and Mommy need to witness
the definition of
an unwarranted demise.
Open ended the
Grimm fairy tale concludes,
without a finely tuned
Aesop moral,
leashing the braille-exhausted
onto another muddied
crossroad.
Love blows in like a warm zephyr
melting away reality.
And arousing dormant desires
that erupt like molten lava.
Dying embers flare into flames
that linger in private places.
And you experience feelings
surpassing infatuation.
Love's such an extraordinary
sensation; you can't help but smile.
For it makes you feel euphoric;
and unbelievably happy.
Love's like a rainbow of color
you exuberantly pursue.
For hope keeps fantasies alive;
on the off chance, they may come true.
Your heart fills with exaltation;
when you first start falling in love.
And anticipation leaves you
feeling breathless, yet wanting more.
You want to know its merits?
Very well, then. Daylight slants
deliciously across the boy's
inclined, thoughtful face.
His lace collar, crumpled,
houses valleys of shadow.
Or what about the Water Seller?
Look at that poncho's warm
woven woollen texture:
and isn't the rip in the shoulder fun?
And the dimples on the pot!
They scream "potness" at us.
Or the beads of water
clinging to the larger vessel,
whose horizontal striations
practically smell
of the potter's wheel.
But oh, that drinking-glass!
Does it seem possible to you
that unctuous oils and minerals
of earth, gouged from the soil,
can render the ethereal soul of glass?
It was a winter afternoon.
I'd gone along to the gallery
on the off-chance.
Standing before this marvel,
I found myself entranced.
But even as I gazed, the sun
(though never very confident in London)
stepped out coyly from behind a cloud.
Duck's-egg orange light, resplendent,
now fell aslant the canvas.
Surely this was harmful?
Sunlight bleaches (does it not?)
the colour out of things.
Alarm bells should be ringing.
I summoned a uniform attendant.
He nodded sagely as I explained
- but did nothing.
Why should he care?
Minimum wage is no great motivator.
An hour from now,
he'd be hanging up that peaked cap,
and be a person until Monday.
No point in bursting
a blood-vessel
over a silly painting. Later.
But I couldn't leave it.
If I stood just thus,
my human frame was just enough
to block the sun.
One little skirmish could be won
if I remained here
until the sun’s trajectory was done,
or the gallery closed,
whichever came the sooner.
So I did. On tip-toe,
spine inclined, quiet,
I crowded out the light of day
for more than an hour.
Pointless, you say.
I can't deny it.
The very next day,
And each subsequent foray
of Phoebus would
merely recreate the problem.
That's hardly the point.
Finding myself there,
I beat my ploughshare
into a sword and,
for that tiny slice of time,
I made the sacrifice,
bore the quizzical looks
with equanimity, quirky,
standing like a turkey
on tenterhooks
and saved the painting.
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Facing brutality daily;
you deal with abuse and brute force.
And though you feel betrayed by love,
faith helps keep you on the right course.
When you look into a mirror,
you see a stranger, bruised and blue.
And her vacant eyes look empty;
as she blankly stares back at you.
Living in the shadow of fear,
you bear the scars upon your flesh.
And at times, you'd ask yourself why;
when the pain was throbbing and fresh.
You cannot make yourself leave him;
on the off chance that he loves you.
And yet, you pray he'll change someday;
for you're scared of what he might do.
Your love's not always understood;
in the depths of your broken heart.
But you're a slave to your feelings;
even when they tear you apart.
SPONTANEITY
Like nature working
inside from out,painted feelings
impressions..from within
drip by drip An abstract
creation pure form in colour
A spontaneous, frieze to and
fro,high then low ,back and forth
so off chance, large scale ;
a web of paint,layer on layer,
Drop by drop-one by one
out of the unconscious mind
to arrive as a statement ,alive
in the here and now;
Colour on canvas remade
Listen to me read this poem aloud on youtube under name of ichthyschiro
My eyes grow heavy and my sight is blurred;
I fight for wakefulness but steadily cede ground.
I am being drawn down,
seduced into the abyssal realm of sleep.
Wandering these moonlit halls
I stumble upon oddities unending,
my slumbering mind rife with mysteries,
falsehoods and problems; no solutions in sight.
Scene after scene plays out across my field of view,
colors and sights impossible and astounding.
They obstruct my battle for consciousness,
my struggle to escape this nightmare landscape.
On the off chance I win and make my exit,
the awaiting reality grants no reprieve,
no relief from the hell
that stalks my every motion and thought.
When even the eclipsing state of sleep
provides no rest, no sanctuary,
and awareness drains you of life;
what is left?
I'm a Poet
It goes without saying
In the event that you need
Some poesy rhyme
Come on and read some
Verse with me
Take a tour down poetry road
I got lots of jingle knowledge
I yowl, bellow and roar
I'm a Poet
And it fits me to a tee
On the off chance that you
Need some poetry in motion
Come and howl with me
I've never been much of a worrier,
Others do that far better than I,
Nor am I renowned as a scurrier,
Which is not to imply I don't try.
My small circle of close friends and loved ones
Is diminishing one at a time,
And one of these days
I'll wake up to discover
That it's my turn, and I'm next in line.
But if, indeed, that's the next big adventure,
I hope it's a pleasant surprise.
I'd love to prove, or disprove,
All the theories I've had
About life and love,
And good and bad,
And wisdom and learning,
And ethics and such,
That faith is a pillar
And not just a crutch.
But, of course, I’m not worried,
I don't do that, you see.
"Que será, será",
What will be, will be.
But on the off chance that there is a hereafter,
I'd like to reserve a small space there for me.
And should any of you get there before I do,
Try to grab us a nice window seat with a view.
I always do what I want.
As long as they are ok with it.
As long as mom gave me permission and Dad is proud.
Alys doesn’t matter so much but in the end, she has to be ok with it.
Otherwise, I can’t sleep on her couch when I visit.
And then there is that voice that just will not shut up.
And actually, it is more like a feeling than a voice.
When the other hippies talk about all the crazy things they’ve seen and heard I can’t relate. I just say somehow I knew to go there. Somehow I knew to be here at this time. It just felt right.
And that voice I was talking about, I mean the feeling.
It guides me.
It was the one that told me to bring my toothbrush to the beach on the off chance I wouldn’t be coming back. It guided me to Sabena’s. To sitting this morning and letting the dull throbbing in my leg pulse until It was tired.
And after my whole body shuttered. I told her what I want with all my heart is to not feel the heaviness. She said
“breathe, It’s ok.”
I have a feeling it has something to do with when you were, 5 when you were 9 too. Kindergarten, and my first girlfriend.
I had to convince her to go, Mom made me jump through hoops just to go outside. I think she might have reluctantly handed me the phone when my nine-year-old girlfriend called.
The throbbing stopped, I feel a little lighter. I used the golden sword she gave me to cut the chord and get my power back.
And finally, I can do what I want.
More at : http://brendenpettingill.com/index.php/2017/12/03/i-do-what-i-want/
Makin' proper time for the rule of rhyme,
With a hint of lime, see? It ain't no crime.
I'm breakin' my fast, watchin' the broadcast,
See what's amassed, from first I'll everlast.
Standin' 'bout face causin' rackets in case,
I'll put in place all them chasin' my ace.
I'm on the off chance,
In my happen stance.
Makin' all eyes dance
In my happy stance.
Go 'head, call me fool, I'm shakin' the tool,
I'll make ya drool draggin' in the deadpool.
Rollin' the bones, riddin' the moss off stones,
Ev'ry bird moans payin' off all them loans.
Got my care package, it got ev'rywhere,
I know little bears, it's hard not to stare.
Put you in a trance
In my happen stance.
Knowin' in advance
In my happen stance.
Luck's my lady all-night, she's outta sight,
But she feels me alright, my hand's so sleight.
I make jokers laugh 'til they break in half,
Fall over their staff like a new-born calf.
Ain't no yearling, I'll start with static cling,
Who's askin' me "Is it good to be king?"
I'm author and lance
In my happen stance.
And it ain't by chance
In my happen stance.
POLLOCK
Chance
accidents
intricate
yet plain
in time&space
counterpoints to
tease
& float in unreal
swirl &mounds
apparent to the eyes
textures
alive
opulent adventures
flowing
without restraint
turmoil released
energetic
explosions
of
loops&sprays
rich & strange
in a mist
without precedent
flung
splattered
a random
spontaneity
of liquid flowing
motion
arrested in space
in a life
of its own
an easy harmony
dripping
drop
by
drop
short moments
in rivers
of rain
off chance
inside to out
of the
unconscious
mind
I've been keeping at a Detroit distance,
Maintaining that chary "Buffalo Stance",
Patient with ink-filled scalpel for instance,
Don't you dare me, I am on the off chance.
Now I've shaken that speare, I'm shaking free,
What's that you say? I'm out of my pined tree?
Like I said 'fore, of all colours praise be,
Just as time, it is all the same to me.
'Cause I'm at it again, making m'own art,
Remembering order of horse and cart,
So, are you singing that line, "Don't you start..."?
The hour's near here, I hope you've learned your part.
I'll beam you into my Renaissance fair,
See you be still before my blue-eyed glare.