Author: johnbrandall

John Randall is a writer living in Missouri. His interests include camping, running, walking, cutting and burning wood, messing around with magnets, foraging, and listening to podcasts, many of them about baseball.

Line for Billy

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment 

How are we gonna
heat our house this winter?
One mourner has a stove
but it eats a lot of wood, he says,
standing in a line
barely any light left and ten degrees
behind an IGA
and no place for parking.
A great loss…
A great tragedy…
He sold me mulch…
He sold me flowers…
He taught me how to hunt…
We hoisted one together.
We followed The Dead.
Here we all search for understanding
on our feet for how many hours
at this crowded Northfield funeral home.
It’s not like trying to find a lost watch.
It’s not like re-building a house.
We know the faces
          (but some of the names escape us…
He’s bearded,
no tie,
his hands folded for the Lord’s Prayer.
I can’t pretend I knew him
but plenty of other people did.
As I’m writing this a multitude pays its respects.
I’m sitting in a rental car drinking a beer.
For him, I say.
All’s I remember is the maroon Corvette
he couldn’t get started after JB’s funeral…

Continue with this poem...

Hey, We’re Goin To The Moon!

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

by R.L. Wisdom I, along w/            about 200 other americans       (and 200 russians, grumble, grumble)           boarded a ship                    slated to launch                              into space. It was part of an experiment           to shuttle large numbers                                         of people          in order                    to assess thefeasibilityofthecolonizationofeitherthemoonormars           The ship was extremely large                    w/ multiple levels.          During liftoff people were                    roaming around,                    acting indifferent.There was an oversight during           pre-launch … Continue reading Hey, We’re Goin To The Moon!

The Painting You Never Did & Then Never Did Again

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Oh, the people will come, friendthey’ll bring their hangovers& drive right through ‘emlike union men punching their tickets to stardom Oh, the people will most definitely comethey’ll ask for chairs, they’ll sayhow about heightoh, canvas, cover meleave me manic twelve hours later "Mon frer," you said,                              "Art is in the doing:          "Core one."You were a … Continue reading The Painting You Never Did & Then Never Did Again

politico

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

          snow is                      cold rain                             rain is warm snow      that shit was weak,     then it was right, yo “You would never run for President?”           Naw, I’m too old.                               “Too old?”           Too young, then.

Highway One Across

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

I rolled into the pocket of
that eight-ball-sided dream.
I bumped out with the poetry heebie-jeebies,
crapulous and reeking of split-end angst.
I could not sleep until I brushed the clues away;
it was only then I’d filled the crossword in:
as quiet as the heron fishing
reluctantly in a culvert along the bleeding interstate;
as solemn as the screeching hawk perched in a sunset tree
meditating keen on its blind, nocturnal dinner—
At home amongst the long-legged power towers,
changing colors like a leaf, not afraid to fall.

Betty Cave

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

Edit Post Switch to Draft Preview(opens in a new tab) Update Editing Code Exit Code Editor Add title Betty Cave Type text or HTML 

Cleansing begins with the
          eyes closed
vanquish
          and thoughts of 
          her.
A cave
          an underground stream
          pure and cold
                    making slick
                    the heft
                    of vague & ageless rocks.
Who was this woman
          Betty Cave:
          (A)  minor poet
          (B)  darts champion
          (C)  president’s wife, or
          (D)  the first American shaman 
The sound of wind chimes
          is air’s soliloquy
Pine needles fall
          and bring to ground green fragrance
In her clinics by the brook
          no one sleeps alone.
Not she
          not Elizabeth Taylor
Not Kurt Cobain
          nor any of the other
          27 suicides.
In the morning it is
          pecan waffles
               with falls of syrup
               (world’s highest)
Coffee is OK
In her words, “Permissible.”
With the gleaming ink of morning
she signs the executive order
of waking, satisfied for us all.
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All I Got From Finnegan’s Wake

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Out of the question? Sure.My dad’s got anairline out of there calledWhistle.One-twenty one-way.Tell the reverend not to get too formal, though.I don’t know.You can’t wrap it around you.You’re gonna have towrap it around you.Where’s the clock, sir?Someone should be coming.No way.Thanks.I remember, he’s a year old.You think I’m gonnawrite something about him when he’s onlya … Continue reading All I Got From Finnegan’s Wake