Long Randall Poems
Long Randall Poems. Below are the most popular long Randall by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Randall poems by poem length and keyword.
I studied cosmology for 4 years before I realized there was no mention of make-
up or hair styling.
I saw the movir "Superfly", and didn't understand why they never even showed a
zipper!
I wanted Lasix surgery- but, due to being stupid, I wound up with Latex surgery;
now I have "boobs".
I love movies- and had my heros- and I was classified a "copy cat". But I got tired
of the hair balls in my throat.
I'm probably the only one who considered suicide by H-bomb.
I ordered a "Blair" catalogue, expecting a book about witches.
I had a car I nicknamed "Flattery" 'cause it got me nowhere.
Ever notice that some hospitals have a "detox" ward? Does that mean that
somewhere there's a "tox" ward?
I'm a musician-I've been, for years, trying to join a "Rubber Band". Guess that's a
stretch, huh?
My house is so messy, I don't remember the color of my carpet.
I used to be a department store buyer. But I could never afford to buy stores.
I suffered from chronic pain for years. Then I got divorced.
All this talk about "role models"- boy- just go to the bakery!
I have a very high IQ- but in my case it means "Idiot Quota".
Someone once scolded me about my self-depreication. I replied-"It's better than
self defecation!"
Everytime I went to the psych ward I signed in as "Randall P. McMurphy" true!
confused? see "One Flew Over the Cuckoo Nest".
Russian? I don't know, they seem to move pretty slow to me.
Napoleon Bonaparte? I don't know, I've had a number of Napoleons from
various bakeries; I never found any bones.
I guess the Nazis must'a needed a lot of underarm deodorant.
Cell phone? I don't know- seems like being in prison is hardly worth it.
If we capture Osama Bin Laden, instead of death, I'd make him watch Billy Mays
commercials 24/7. (Too gruesome to even think of!)
Jock itch is a bit_h. Glad I'm not a "jock".
Wars never end, they just change names.
I once spent a winter in my old home, alone- no heat, no gas, no phone,no
food,sometimes no electricity. Ever have your underwear frozen fast to your
body? True!!
Well, my friends, till we meet again! Here's to Soup!
Standing reverent in a dull cast mist
glazing my cheeks while prayers were said
so silent stood at Rand's memorial
My mind dashed to the self-drawn sketch
he staged as "The Youthful Raconteur";
profile, pipe, wavy cinema legend hair -
his final role, being lowered by rope
into a eternal, earthen wall home
Flowers fell like words fall, droplets in air
completing his circle, our circle too
His "Janie" bowed, seated solitary
almost estranged by her own dreams dashed
her beauty gone long ago, buried too
As the "Wedding Cake Couple" sixty years past
right up to the very day of their marriage
which proved a confection in itself
Rand was the one who always got the girl
perky, popular, blonde, "Homecoming Queen"
They spent lifetimes contriving their image
striving for the unattainable ideal
then crashing, having to pick up the pieces,
not content, tortured by delusions
This is how my older brother's life ends
a cacophony of misadventures
He wanted to be called only Rand
not Randall and never Randy, just Rand
So then, I always called him Randy
it's what a younger brother must do
to bring one down to earth, he was up there
Chasing fate, dashing towards his destiny
daring too often, reality hits head on
His good looks, handsome physique were no match
for surging corporate expectations
while sinking, his wake tipped lots of boats
his marriage, his family in a free fall
my piddling attempts to help were futile
Truth was, I never knew his inner mind
I guess I loved him but I don't know -
was he simply the superior image
or the vulnerable suffering reality?
So he flailed through his eighty eight years
disconsolate, in debt and detached,
his affections only came in a knot
Where were Randy's spiritual benefactors?
Are we heirs of our actions, not wishes?
Can we dream but not make dreams our masters?
So what about my own selfish frailties?
I take no pride in this awful life's play
my failures were many and to think now
I lost a life so close, that I watched
for so long devolve and did so little -
will be with me forever, this my fate;
not dashing towards the ones I love most
A quote from "90 North" by Randall Jarrell:
"I see at last that all the knowledge
I wrung from darkness -- that the darkness flung me --
is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing,
The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness.
And we call it wisdom. It is pain."
The first bike I ever owned --
when I was ten or eleven --
was a Christmas gift
from a friend. He was receiving a new one
and I was gifted with his old bike.
He had cleaned it up and brush painted it
with a nice coat of red paint.
It was the only gift I got that year,
one of my only gifts as a child.
I loved that bike:
it freed me to pedal around so
I could accompany my friend
as we rode anywhere in our tiny,
sandy, two-paved-road fishing town.
Before the bike, I ran alongside him.
I was quite accustomed to running everywhere,
especially in summer, barefoot, usually shirtless.
Most years from first grade
until we were about twelve,
we spent our time together,
at his house or in imaginary jungles
or on wild, indian-infested wagon train trails.
We defended those trails from apaches
intent on taking our scalps.
Sometimes, on pirate ships, we manned canons
or forced reluctant traitors and mutineers
to walk the plank for failures and misdeeds.
We were never bored, usually outdoors.
On jungle safaris we were frequently attacked
by ferocious lions and tigers and
often captured by cannibal head-hunters
who put us into large pots to cook us
while dancing all around and brandishing
their spears. They sang or chanted
amazing, invented language repetitive
verses overloaded with frequent "ughs'
and tongue-twisting nonsense phrases.
His mother served us gallons of Kool Aid,
gave us snacks we ate with relish.
With a child’s trusting nature,
I hoped this could never end –
I felt secure in friendship and
apparent acceptance by
my friend’s parents. Of course,
things did change.
But..........I did not.
Not for a long, long time.
This is an original.....
Filbert Finds a Friend
By Randall Smith
Filbert the Dog..... Lives up on a hill,
under a tree, in a meadow...
Filbert can look and see all around
The river and the town
The sky so Blue
With puffy clouds....everywhere...
Filbert was soooo happy.
He began to sing....
"Oh how nice today is, It's not rainy or cold.
Oh how nice today is....The sun is shinning bright!
and I am so happy....
Oh how nice today is
I want to sing and play all day. long.."
Then Filbert got an idea!
Filbert hopped up and down
On just one foot
and spun around and around
Faster and Faster...
I wish....I wish...I wish
I was at the river so far away
and....................................POOF
Filbert vanished!
From this home up on the hill...
Like magic....Filbert popped out of nowhere...
Oh how wonderfull!
It's the river,
Filbert ran to the bank
and looked into the
clear running water.
And what did he see?
Oh my...it's me!
How could that be
Filbert wondered...
Is that really me?
Oh how fun it is
to play with me
by the rivers edge....
Filbert hopped all around
and played in the water
all day long....with his new found friend.
Until the shadows grew long
and the street lights came on.
Oh my...
It's late...it's late...it's late.
So, Filbert hopped up and down on just one leg
and spun all around
Faster and faster.....
I wish....I wish...I wish.....that I was back home
and …...................POOF!
Filbert was home
snug in his bed...
Yip, yipe yipe...I made a new friend today
and it was me.....
The Son of Three Fathers
In all the days since first I knew, I ventured to find… the me… that is true.
Surely amidst all human kind, there stands oh but one… who in me will define,
the who and the why, and the where of my soul,
the meaning of shadows, my place in the fold.
A man of great wisdom? A lass yet divine? A prophet of old?
I sought to long find.
But just as the wind in hand never grasped,
the me… that is true, yet eludes the die-cast.
Now penniless in spirit, no flesh to exact
for the prophets and lovers and wise men of fact.
So here in the silence, standing void of speech.
At the end of myself, it’s within…. that I reach.
To a place unfamiliar, yet eerily known
Full of forgotten, reminders of home.
Those thoughts of my Papa, and his gentle way.
His smile and his laughter and blue eyes of grey.
Of Grandpa and Daddy, and their struggle to speak,
kind words that would heal them… of the fear to be weak.
To witness this drama, played out in my life,
Its strength, and its weakness, its triumph and strife.
Like carving a canyon in rivers forced flow,
So has it etched, the walls of my soul.
From rage to a trickle as seasons prescribe,
This river of struggle has shaped me inside.
Now searching for courage, to see that long sought.
The portrait of struggle, this river has wrought.
In silence now standing, stripped naked and bare,
Eyes now wide open, of self… now aware.
What be the verdict? Oh what shall I see? The measure of men?
Or a portrait of me?
I again stand in silence, no utterance of need
No bribes from the sculptors, no halter or lead.
Only the portrait, the me, that is true.
The son of three fathers, behold…..I’m anew.
Randall
I was watching the TV the other day
When a certain Rerun began to play.
It brought me back to one of my brain's stifled bans
Because it was about Lucas McCain...the Rifleman.
All of a sudden I was drenched by a flood
of Western Shows that have been long since dead.
I'll just begin with a few you may remember
Like Marshall Dillon - later Gun Smoke as it came on one September.
But I remember The Cisco Kid
and how Poncho always did what he did
we can't forget the masked stranger
who of course turned out to be The Lone Ranger
Then there was Wyatt Earp, Cimmaron Strip, and Rawhide too,
The Guns of Will Sonnet and a Wagon Train rumbling through.
Will anyone ever forget Paladin in Have Gun - Will Travel
or Trackdown or Wanted Dead or Alive with Josh Randall?
Can we ever forget The Big Valley,
or the Ponderosa's size when Bonanza came on the tele.
There were Tales of Texas Rangers and even an F Troop,
Let's not forget Rin Tin Tin and how down on the bad guys he'd swoop.
I still can see Lash Larue and Hopalong Cassidy with his black hat
There were Three Mesquiters to watch when I sometimes sat.
Do you remember Yancy Derringer and his friend Pahoo
or Johnny Yuma, The Rebel who never yelled "Yahoo"!
Maverick, Sugarfoot, and Cheyenne were favorites of mine
There are too many more here for me to rhyme.
Many a big star began on that little screen
If it hadn't been for the Westerns...What would they have been?
It can be fun thinking about some of those shows
Because they are a part of TV nostalgia as everyone knows.
They have come and gone like the heroes they'd portray
I remember the Westerns...and their horse's neigh.
Glenn Turner and Randall "Randy" Thompson were the best police officer and volunteer firefighter in all of Cobb County, Georgia, until March 1995 (WWF Monday Night Raw and WWF Wrestle-Mania XI) and January 2001 (Raw Is War, WWF SmackDown!, and the WWF Royal Rumble) when their lives were taken away from their loving families by Julia Lynn Womack: aka the "Black Poisoning Widow." It seems that it was these two guys in uniform who married the same woman, especially when she was after their money, totaling hundreds and thousands of dollars, even in life insurance. Glenn and Randy have been killed by a deadly liquid by the form of Etheline Glycol rich antifreeze; Lynn Turner used it to spike that of lime-flavored gelatin (green Jell-O), sweet iced tea, and chicken noodle soup. Now, how cold-blooded was that? But to be honest, Maurice G. Turner and Randy Thompson, God rest their souls, really never should've met this gold digging assassin named Julia Lynn Womack (who's now dead) to begin with. Their families, their colleagues, and the citizens of Cobb County, Georgia, they still don't understand why the lives of these two men have to end in a tragic manner. They've got a bunch of whole lives ahead of them. But now that Lynn Turner, who killed both her police officer husband and her firefighter boyfriend, is dead, she can't hurt anyone else ever again. Randall and Glenn are no longer with their friends and families (including their moms), but their spirits will live on forever and they'll see their loved ones in heaven one day. And as for Julia Lynn Womack-Turner, she got what was coming to her and may she burn in the giant pit of inferno for all eternity.
over the bridge
to 'western street
&parminters for savoury
sausage meat
along by
the slaughterhouse
in silver lane
pop into jones&cocks
out of the rain
pass the fire-house
to aylesbury news
glance the photos
of the weeks who's&who's
to adams tobacco,corner
of the market square
pass mcilroys
hear the traders shout
their wares
my favoured table
at the ancient 'old beams'
tea ,scones &
local churned creams
thru ' bullshead ' alley
to upper high street
&nurricks,for a dental 'date'
then swiftly retreat
window-shop spraggs hermons,
& hepworths selections
into hopcrafts
for enticing confections
on to adkins
for an inner-tube kit
the walk uphill
keeps me fit
shop for groceries
at pearks,greggs&maypole
stopping at the co-op
to order the coal
into to kingsbury
for ashfords linctus
best not delay
in hasberrys ,seventy-eights
to spin and play
collect mum's hat
from the bonnet-box
next,bradfords
for those needed locks
fresh breadrolls
from baker page
&quick back&sides
styling,not yet the rage
box of nails from
ironmonger jowett
calling at sayers
for my lyons cornet
over the railway bridge
to west bros shop
for north&randall tizer
& a lemon lollipop
long lost names
in a memory fading fast
here recollected
from aylesbury's distant past
Yesterday’s Tears
Today the rain seemed colder, than ever I had known.
Each drop awakes a memory, as cold and wetted stone.
Drops like tears of melted snow, yet frozen fast in time.
Appear again like stony steps, looking back on this path of mine.
Countless tears left standing, to peer through soulish gates.
Gates secured, and chained within, each tear awaits its fate.
A fate well known to all within, to all who fear to cry.
For all the tears that go unshed, denied the chance on cheek to dry.
Yet here again they stand at gate, as if to deny their destined fate.
And pour like rains deluge in spring, to sing their song with cleansing bring.
Oh to deny this salty death, this parched and painful swallow of breath.
To breach the bars of soulish gates and loose the chains where past tears wait.
If only one in earnest shed, could scale this briny wall,
Then pain’s dry dust would moistened be, removing taste of gall.
So cleanse now this palate of tears, salt and brine,
And sweeten the taste of this path of mine.
Randall
Going to church,
it’s Sunday morn down south
Giddy feet youngsters
racing to the door of the temple,
having shrieks of joy erupting from their mouth
They are so glad when they get ushered in
While the solemn congregation gathers within
to hear another fiery sermon delivered
with holy conviction
It’s hot down in Alabama, Birmingham,
as the sermon heat starts to kinetically expand
Explosive words demanding social justice
Old black folk hollering: Amen, amen!
They remember
what their parents told them
about how it was back then
And the tears fall ...
as they hear the cry for change,
because nothing much has changed
Then at the rise of the Alleluia cries,
a river of tears gushes out ...
after the bomb explode
Shattering young dreams, windows
and bodies
with terrible, mutilating shrapnel
Prayers of wails without words
from a charred church service is sadly heard
Dedicated to the memory of all the victims
who died during the civil rights struggle of the 60's
This poem was inspired by the poem, “Ballad of Birmingham,”
written by the late great black poet, Dudley Randall (1901 - 2000)