Poetry Visualized

It's Broken

A reading of an original poem by myself: It’s broken Said the boy While holding his most cherished toy Fix it please you kind fellow The boy inquired in a voice quite mellow But my dear boy I had to say There just isn’t any way To fix what’s broken The damage is done No more playing, no more fun You broke it now so pay the price Find yourself some other vice Take up smoking, take up booze Whatever addiction you so choice But regardless of the choice you make Still loving that toy is a big mistake It’s useless now, best thrown away Trust me boy you’ll thank me some day But the boy still pressed me to fix his toy Truly he’s a stupid boy I told you son once broke no fix Any notion to the contrary you must nix Fact is fact and I say again the toy is useless That’s the end But the boy did ask one last time Prompting me to give a final reply After gathering my thoughts and releasing a sigh I spoke, it’s broken son and I’m the reason why

I Dont Get It

I Dont Get It
by MrDaMan
Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

The auras flare and sparkle around me,
drifting upon the currents of lifes breath.
Sweet winds adorned with the scent of love,
a fluttering pine, a sigh embraced and absorbed.

They trinkle, they tinkle, they flood the spectrum, the prism of my
mind, scattering thoughts of crystalline faceted perspectives.
Mirrored in experience, in fantasy, in desire.
They float in empathy and entice emotion to flicker.

The brightness of a smile, contagious as a yawn,
the twinkle in an eye that shares understanding spirit.
My brothers, my sisters my humanity.
What pleasure there is in this, our love.

And then there is fire, a blessing and curse.
Knowledge and ignorance, which is which, which is worse.
We worry and fret and toil as we age,
succumb to our evils and lash out in our rage.

Were human, were Gods, were deep in our shallow.
Were light and were dark, we choose what we hallow.
A little pleasure and little pain, a lot of both if you let it.
Measure wisely your hate, I want love I dont get it.

When Trains Collide In Finland

Risk

Anti-Fade

Anti-Fade
by MrDaMan
Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

Mixed dreams awake and scheming in shadows of reality.
Screaming in silent rage, mute in volume, a seething
artificial silence so loud it can’t be heard. Banging upon
the thrum of experience and hiding in quiet depravity.

Fade into the audience of humanity and applaud with the
mob as it devours the sweets of cultural charisma.
Ignorance is bliss, it is the kiss of naiveté and gloom.
Complain not of want, it is but a corruption of need.

Don’t worry, be happy… Thinking is for grief, for sorrow,
for the sun that secures the shadows. Fade from the light,
cling to translucence, taking form only enhances the souls
burning. Why dare to shine when you can fade in comfort?

A ghost in a bottle drunk on empathy, sighing to the winds
of simpatico distemper, naked but for a fig leaf of
dissatisfaction. Succumbing to the quiet rage of normalcy.
Fade, fade, fade away… dreams are for sleeping.

A Tempest in a Crackpot

A Tempest in a Crackpot
by MrDaMan
Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

A poke full of broken dreams, of schemes,
of fame fortune and worldly significance.
In a bag of perspectives carved out of fantasy,
filled with the sands of reality and placed carefully
on the souls levee to manage emotional flooding.

A tempest in a crackpot, swirling life brimming with love
and dampened by doubt, inhibited by vexations without.
Survival of the whit in the pit of don’t quit, shammed,
crammed and damned into the doom of the gloom in the
spirits room exiled extroversion introverted into a silent
raging sea. Behind this levee of broken dreams.

It’s leaking now… weakened by age,
by wisdom that understands nothing.

Understands nothing.
Wisdom understands nothing.

NOTHING!
Wisdom, a word to the wise,
a word to the wise,
Wisdom understands nothing.

Sandbags of broken dreams, of schemes, of living, of
crying, laughing and sighing of whying and trying…
Again and again … Old soul where have you been?
You’re wet, you’re leaking, you’re speaking.
You’re dreaming.

Aint Got Time

(Destiny is not an end, its a path traveled, carved in time, in a breath, in passion.)

Aint Got Time

Destinies destination is destined to be
desirous delightful and decidedly done.
Danger defied and defeated you see
deliriously divine and drastically won.

Ain't got time, for a second, for a moment to reflect how.
Have to touch it, have to squeeze it and have to feel it true.
The youth, gotta get it, wanna get it, have to get it now!
Ain't got time for the rhyme when ya got daring do!

Lost in translation between here and there,
sparkling trinkets of wisdom, of fractions of time.
Enlightening prismatic, souls rainbows lain bare,
Rushed love, rushed passion, rushed past, is a crime.

Find time in life, in love, and in passion,
within a breath caught in... antici...pation,
chasing your dreams will not go out of fashion.
Why rush to the end, to deaths destination.

Destinies destination decidedly won,
deliriously delightful, desirously divine,
dangerously defied and defeated for fun,
destination is distraction, destiny is time.

Unappreciated Garbage

Unappreciated Garbage

The eyes of depression track the cracks
in the sidewalk and the curve of the curb.
They miss the beauty of joy on the horizon and
the flit of the bluebird and the red cardinal.

Happiness is blind to the appeal of bubble gum
stained concrete cracked by the shade tree roots of time.
Delighted in the clouds billow it stumbles upon pain and
falls discomfited, scraping raspberry the spirit.

Misery is a gloomy language, downcast in anguish
a tongue tripping melancholy of woe. Looking up
is often the only direction left. Lift spirit fly,
look unto the sky, you don’t want to die, stop asking why!

Happiness is the trash of depression a discarded treasure,
homeless and disheveled. Kicked to the curb pleading its
case of joy. Collected by rolling shopping carts and spent
frivolously on spirits and artificial dreams. Wasted want.

Trash or treasure in the gutter or in the sky, filling the spirit
and falling out of a hole in the soul. Littering the planet,
recycled and abused over and over…. Laughing and
crying, living and dying. Cast off and found wanting.

Is it nothing more than unappreciated garbage?

Variations on Innocence Penetration

opportunity arrives; we bashfully reach and withdraw and reach again until finally courage persuades us to sieze it and reap the rewards and the trials.

out in the beautiful world, the seed is pressed in through the skin; penetration begins.

Variations on Innocence Millicent

a dynamic visual journey showing youth and innocence and the technicolor potential of how we see the world.

YES BUTTING

I hear your pain, my friend.

You do seem stuck.

With every effort thwarted

you're depressed.

Yet, while you blame

your fated, lousy luck

you veto

every option I suggest.

You either have a god

you must appease

who seeks to do you ill

at every turn

or else

each time you do

“just as you please”

creates a consequence.

It's what you earn.

You cannot change the past

although you try.

You cannot change the weather

or your lot.

You cannot take

because you haven't got.

You cannot win

because you rage or cry.

You whine,

yet seem invested in your mood.

You have the strength to change--

your attitude.