BROKEN ESSAYS

A number of my readers know my thoughts on Blank Verse (non-rhyming) Poetry.
I have used the term "fractured prose" before now to describe some of the so-called modern poetry out there.....and so it is!

I must also add a big BUT to the above as there are real poets out there who can and do write magnificent soaring poetry that is blank verse. Most of this poetry takes flight when you read it aloud as the sound and timbre of the words elevate and colour the author's thoughts, taking the reader on the intended journey.

I have experimented with the concept of free-flowing verse myself and include below some humble examples of mine.

Please enjoy!


Broken Essays - Liquid Wisdom

Alcohol, that's the secret, alcohol.
Sterilizes anything, kills the bugs,
Fixes the stomach, corrects
Your vision of the world. It is
The Bringer of Truth.
The Liquid Illuminator. Ha!
You remember when you first
Got drunk?

Whoa! Steady on! How the world turned!
In fact you couldn't quite grasp
How it all turned so rapidly
Around you while you were
Standing so still!
There's wisdom there if you could
Just reach out and grasp it.
But the world is spinning too damn fast!

© Kim Randell




Broken Essays - Seaweed

In the dark,
Upon my bed,
Between the conciousness of day
And the drifting wooly black of sleep,
The ebb and flow of childhood memories
Crashes and foams upon Imagination's sand.

What beach is this?
A stranger's place now I've moved on.
The grass-topped dunes wail loudly in the wind.
The hills of sand flail my naked legs,
A punishment for running down their faces.
I thump to a jolting stop on the
Hard-packed sand at water's edge.

Breathe the ozone!
The salt spray stings my squinting eyes.
The wet and pungent odour of ageing
Seaweed fills my lungs, embraces me.
The rolling roar of boiling surf fills my head,
And then recedes.

The dark has come.
I turn upon my side and fall asleep.

© Kim Randell


 - and finally a composite which has rhyme, rhythm and free verse mixed together....

YOU ASK SO MUCH
(or The Laureate's Lament)

You beg of me some imagery,
Sweet pictures of my thoughts?
Some words that brush a scene
In living colour that cavorts
Across the canvass of your soul,
To carry you to pleasant rest
In quiet bliss on some enchanted knoll?

The great gallery of artwork
That fills hallways of my mind
Most times defies my tongue,
So leaving listeners blind
To all those views I have within
That might enrapture or enthral,
Or drown in dark far deeper than old sin.

Most words are just poor colours
When you want to paint a scene
Of some majestic thought,
Or sweet dreams that glow serene.
But I'll still put pen to paper,
Crafting poems as best I may,
Some sugar in the vinegar of truth.

© Kim Randell

HUMOROUS POETRY

Everyone likes a good laugh.
What we find amusing is normally something that is away from the expected.
A sudden change of events, an inverted view of something familiar, something that appeals to our sense of the ridiculous.
Total nonsense, if it is cleverly couched in the familiar, can be amusing.
From Lewis Carrol to Ogden Nash, the range is huge.

That venerable form, the Limerick, will not be featured here as it probably deserves several websites and many volumes of print to do it justice!

I hereby give you below a few of my own humble efforts.

Enjoy!





CRITICAL ADVICE

It's clearly so much easier to dismember and destroy,
Than to build a careful structure full of wisdom and of joy,
To criticise one's neighbour with a log stuck in your eye,
When all that neighbour's suffering is blurred vision from a stye.

It's not as if we're brainless, living life like boring sheep,
Who are always needing guidance what to eat and where to sleep.
We form our own opinions when we read a brand new poem,
So we don't need twisted visions from some wrinkled, gnarly gnome.

And so it didn't shock me after reading of Sam Hunt,
To pick up how some critic took Sam's meanings for a punt.
Interpreting in some way many miles from what was writ,
Clearly showed the criticizer had a very faulty wit.

The backlash from Joe Public was amazing to behold,
That foolish criticizer got far more than just a scold.
For tackling our dear icon, he was punished suitably,
And now cleans out the toilets in a place of purgatory.

So those of you called critics need to search for nobleness,
Please think twice before you call a writer's work a sorry mess.
Your usefulness is suspect in this great wide world of ours,
It is best you all join monasteries and take some silence vows.

© Kim Randell




SCOTCH MIST
(read with a soft scottish accent...)

I dinnae have some grottle
To stick upon my clunge.
It comes in plastic bottles
Labelled "Polymorphic Grunge".
You order from the Glorrich Shop
And wait for thirteen weeks,
Until the next delivery
Of Antiquarian Squeakes.

Ye cannae mix wi' haggis
Or the grottle will explode.
It must be handled carefully
And mixed in a cool groad.
A tiny pinch of heather plus
Three drops of ould Loch Ness
Will make the perfect grottle
And avoid a grannagh mess!

Och, thirteen weeks o'waiting
For my order to arrive.
Without my glorious grottle, man,
My clunge won't stay alive.
I'm begging ye to spare some
From your secret sporran stock,
I'll pay ye back with farrach lode
I hide in my right sock.

I cannae jest about it,
What's a man without his clunge?
This shortage of my grottle stock
Has sent me for a plunge.
I kept spare in my sporran too,
Which would have carried me,
But I was moved to save a friend,
Your uncle, Zebedee!

Oh, thankyou kindly laddie,
Ye'll ne'er regret your act
Of saving a poor clunge at risk,
To you I doff my hat!
I'll help ye with your grottle
When that time of yours arrives,
And cool your groad with ice-rock,
May your clunge have fourteen lives!

© Kim Randell





LIFE'S LIKE THAT

There is a tale that's told, I'm sure it's true,
Of uses for the brown waste from the zoo.
It's gathered very carefully drop by drop,
And sent it's odorous way without a stop.
Consolidated oft in places high,
The reader must read on to find out why.

As life goes by,  the realization dawns
That Fate no favours grants, but only scorns
In varying degree at various times, ad hoc,
Like blinded reapers mowing through a flock.
Life's neat surprises, good, bad, big or small,
With no prior warnings, happen to us all.

This brings me back to that brown odorous waste,
Which has some use in spite of our distaste.
When things go wrong, it's hurled with mighty force
Into great spinning blades which change it's course,
To cover everyone for miles around,
And cause them spluttering, to embrace the ground.

Another time when one will see it's use,
Is when someone has failed and "cooked his goose".
Then from those distant storage places high,
In bucket-loads, the waste will downward fly.
Aimed  with fateful care at victim's head,
It coats him 'til he wishes he were dead!

The wondrous thing that strikes me in all this
Is Fate's poor target seldom will she miss,
Indeed just after a successful hit,
There'll come from Heaven another load of it.
No matter if you're rich, poor, thin or fat,
When it's your turn you'll wear it. Life's like that.

© Kim Randell