Poems new and old
Four walls
of the finest material
quarry the
neverending attention
of river rock along the
thousand edge
of the road
The weight of the land
is that of a bird
a wing among clouds
a path in the valley
between the large, red eggs
When we graduated
from the mining of gold
into ownership of the best flints
there was eventually a battle
Not listed, a battle.
Don’t say, a battle.
It was a sweet death
in that stone beloved,
uniformed with the kiss
of a clean shadow
Like how a tooth
together with
another tooth
becomes the jaw
of the land
***This poem initially appeared in the second issue of Horned Things Journal, which you can find here.
Somewhere in the
lamp-lit dark of
this hospital parking lot
aye, yes, the hospital I was
born at, a killdeer
beseeches the night.
It’s got a nest to protect
a shallow scrape, it’ll
break a wing if it must.
Ambulances come & go.
For a moment, leaf smoke wafts
while LEDs burn bright
and it’s quiet, even peaceful.
The beer helps, engines idle.
A wind sock lit in orange
dangles lazily on the
hospital roof in a
mild November breeze.
The night shift leaving in threes
makes me nostalgic for exit.
Leaves litter the grass below a
healthy-looking ash.
The ash gleams leafless
in this blue-white
hospital parking lot light.
The first time I was here I
arrived safe in my mother’s belly.
Dad had just finished mowing the grass.
Now I remember. Even when I can see forward
that forward is never enough.
I awake at two-something in a
start. Is that Mom, coming out?
A tall woman in boots, headed this way,
unmistakable, alone. Dad
on a bed somewhere inside. I rifle through
my pockets in search of keys;
she is only getting closer. I find
them under me, hit the button,
clamber out of the back seat to greet her and
take her away along empty streets
to the place we all called home.
I have a poem appearing today in the summer issue of disquieting muses quarterly, aka DMQ Review. You can read my poem and the other prose poems appearing in the issue by clicking on this link:
https://www.dmqreview.com/sum23toc
The poem is called "They Were Monarchs." I wrote it a few years ago. I am grateful to the editors at DMQ Review for giving a voice to my work.
A tight, glaring
Earring
A waxy, flippant
Moonbeam
The spot on the field
Where I place my hand
My swing is a fine piece of machinery
When it catches the late light of June
Which is why I’ve got
Two axes—
Because I knew
That the first one
Would rust.
You wanted to get the old band back together.
But we didn’t even have a band.
All we did was
sit around and drink
and talk
and smoke.
We played music
but it was music other people recorded
onto compact discs
and then sold to us.
Yeah, we’d go to venues.
There were crowds,
not drawn by us.
And there’d be bands there,
but not our band.
None of us wrote any songs.
None of us sang.
We didn’t even have any instruments...
I had a poem published last week on the website of Horned Things Journal. I will publish the poem on this site later this year. But you can read the poem on Horned Things now by following this link:
Horned Things Journal, Issue Two
This site is still relatively young but they have assembled an impressive and eclectic mix of writing and art in this second issue. I feel lucky to have had "Making Minerals" included in their journal.
I am posting today to highlight a poem I had published yesterday on another website.
My poem called "Newville 108" is currently running at a site called the Under Review.
I am hoping you will check my poem out there. Later on this year, I will post it here but for now I want to thank them for publishing my work and I want to invite you to check out their site, and to take a look at my poem there by following this link:
https://www.underreviewlit.com/issues/7-winter-2023
If you are headed there on your phone, I should say that my poem will read best and look best if you tilt your phone sideways so that the screen gets wider, allowing the poem enough room to accommodate the length of its lines. It also looks good on a laptop.
Finally, the Under Review has suggested that it might produce a limited run of print copies of this current issue, which I hope will happen.
If I have already
gone insane
but I want to get
crazier yet,
what’s my move?
Go outsane?
Crazy outside means
Attack of leaf blower,
mind wound down
like weedeater string;
the smell of suddenly
snipped neurons;
amphibious on gasoline,
when two strokes are
none too many.
How many RPMs?
How much throttle?
Green guffaw,
zero turn.
In the end,
I throw myself
to the ground
and roll around
on freshly mowed grass
until there’s nothing left
to cut.
Note: This poem first appeared at The Literary Bohemian.
https://literarybohemian.com/poetry/two-poems-by-john-randall/
by Phil Williams
whither you come from
-or-
the magic eight-ball
i venture into something, it's a mind-blower, but i gotta keep it under wraps for j-rand.
see: i had envisioned a wry conversation/transcription that was intertwined. red-vines
and mr. pibb; chronicles.
adjacent antecedent (i.e. addendum): the spatial discrepencies had been a problem, but
the chronological shifting was downright vexing. first it was 2004, then 2007, then 2003,
the years and specific dream ramblings resemble a rorschach test; it's another brick in
the wall.
the wood desired chasing, and the family desired spaghetti. sorry, but my thoughts get
confused, like waves in the midnight surf. german balloon aka led zeppelin: it parks its
dreams @ ground zer0. eros may have called, but failed to identify himself, leading me
to this shell of thoughts. it could be an atkins of fiction.
outra-verted, a word i wordlessly think when i encounter 'yar.' i consider the rivulet to
my s(l)ide, but conclude she's w/ the tall man. i'm obviously hallucinating. the police
have arrived and i've simply said the word 'plant.'
realizing i had entered a house of mirrors and drugs, i texted j. still and nick s. they
were part of my cleaning crew in the mid 90's. i suddenly understand that i'm alone and sweating,
in a basement, no shaman. the disorientation slowly dissipates and my carb-stricken mind intuits
the next phase may require an umbrella, inverted.
JBR.com 