62 Random Poems You Can Realistically Relate To

It is a manufacturing process. Pistons
Pump, surface against surface, tolerances pushed
To the verge of deformation, lubrication
Is necessary against the friction and heat.
Flywheels fly and belts burn, everywhere there is the
Moan of metal pushed to its limits. The sodden
Air fills with salty-sweet smoke, oil and rubber, the
Scream of tinsel strength – the verge of melting – stretching
To resume its original shape if it does
Not first break or shatter, to the detriment of
Everyone involved. Producing something of steel
Which may last for years in a world of middle-sized
Dry goods. The analogy is self-evident.
Making love is a manufacturing process.

I want to make love to you, soon. I want to meet
You at the door, kiss passionately, removing
Your clothes before the door is completely shut. I
Want you naked before me, I want to press down
On your shoulders and I want you to know that this
Means for you to drop to your knees. I want you to
Tease me hard with your lips and tongue, take me deeply
As hard as you can, then back to your feet to be
Impaled by your own creation. Take a seat on
The table. Sit where meals are served, legs akimbo.
I stand between them, enter you, and dance to your
Guttural song till you shiver with joy – withdraw
Slowly, bend you over and enjoy the vista
From behind for a while. I will erupt in you.

I love you, I think, but then, what is love? I say
This as we lay naked, side-by-side, in the sun.
I hold something back, I don’t say this to her, I
Just can’t give everything to love as I once did.
Once I was a fool. Twice I was a fool. Sixteen
Times I was a fool. I’m beginning to get the
Hang of it. I want to forget the repeated
Lesson, but the reflex in me will not allow
Touching the hot stove. I want to love you, embrace
You like a spoon, from behind, and slowly enter.
I want you to stay, but I don’t know what to say
That isn’t a betrayal of everything I
Know and believe to be true. The best one can hope
For is here – focus, pay attention – and right now.

 

• poem 4545

To win trust you have to be consistent and you
Have to endure. That’s called integrity. If you’ve
Got it, it won’t take long. If you haven’t got it, 
It won’t take long. You can’t help yourself. It’s all a
Matter of the habits you’ve developed over
The course of your life, and the amount of effort
You’re willing to expend in changing those that need
Changing. Habits are the things you do without a
Thought, without being aware of them, and for that
Very reason they are hard to hide. It is not
Possible to fake integrity, because if
You fake it consistently for long enough, it
Becomes real, just as a man pretending to sleep
Becomes a sleeping man — thus also with virtue.

 

poem 4544

An anxious mess trips and traipses around the house
Doing ten thousand things, each one left in some state
Of incompletion, the attention span flitting
From blossom to blossom, a pollen gatherer
Hard at work. The dogs, now empathetically
Anxious, follow every move close at foot, and with
Any turn, suddenly, in the midst of some shard
Of fleeting thought (as is often the case) there’s a
Scramble of nails scraping on hardwood, and sometimes
A fall, cursing all the way down. The job will through
Mysterious means get done, but it will take ten
Times as long as it would have for a person less
Anxious about travel, which is a hard one for
Me. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve done it.

 

• poem 4543

It was just s’posed to be funny, but it got me
In shit. There had been another typical mass
Shooting; they’re so common now I can’t remember
Whether it was a school, or a mall, or what. True,
I was pissed about the “thoughts and prayers” response,
But I thought the sarcasm would be obvious,
Especially since the proposal was, itself,
Somewhat contradictory. But no. Four hundred
Death threats against me alone, and they threatened my
Children, my students, and my boss. I had no choice.
There was only one thing I could do, and that was
Resign. So I did, and was out of a job for
A lot longer than expected. It was just s’posed
To be funny. My sense of humor is lethal.

 

• poem 4542

To a friend in Germany who just got bad news.

How are you? That news you delivered a couple 
Of days ago seemed pretty devastating. Are
You okay? I just met you. I like you. We click
In many dimensions, notwithstanding that thing…,
What do you call it? The Atlantic Ocean, that
Comes between us. Don’t go and fucking die on me.
I mean it. That would suck. I want to meet you in
Person. I’ve got your manuscript. It’s longer than
I expected, but I will read it and make your
English idiomatic when necessary.
All of my friends seem to be writers. I’ve got more
Manuscripts to read than my body has cells. But
I’m flattered that people want me to read their stuff.
Remain in the flesh so I can meet you in it.

 

• poem 4541

Thank you for the freedom from caring about the
Lack of intimacy in my life. Thank you for
The wisdom not to know, and the fire burning to 
Find out. Thank you for the fatigue that keeps me out
Of trouble. Thank you for the pain that prevents me
From falling too much in love with life. It has not
Turned out well for me, does it ever? But I no
Longer raise my fist and curse my birth – a wrathful
Waste of what time and energy remain. I no
Longer resent having been thrown here, shot like a
Big-headed cannonball from a birth canal, with
No knowledge or consent ever sought from me. Had
I known what I know now, there is a good chance that
I might have said no, and chosen nonexistence.

 

• poem 4540

Happy endings I have learned never to respect
And look dourly upon Pollyanna and the
Smilers, an Evangelical Gospel quartet
From down around Moline; they’re here to tell you folks
About the palimpsest, what it means, and about
The consequences of misinterpretation.
Prisoners of misprision, inevitably;
The feint of heart, dodging mortality, have lost
Their taste for char-grilled cherry scruples. They need stuff.
Meaning, truth, purpose, everything must go! Lowest
Prices anywhere! Hurry, rush, run…, although it
Works out in the end, for the agreeable sheep,
The goat-song is nonetheless sung in the dark on
Speakers about the size of refrigerators.

 

• poem 4539

The difference between lying and promise-breaking
Is not so terribly subtle, but a matter
Of knowledge and intent. To convey as true what
Is known to be false is to lie; to promise or
Give one’s word with no intent of keeping it is
Also a form of lie. But to promise in good
Faith and then to break it for reasons beyond one’s
Control – this is no lie. This is not even a
Thing of any moral wrong; it is a form of
Failure, to which all mortals are prone. Indeed, should
One attempt to conceal one’s failure, some degree
Of turpitude sneaks in; but who owns it and takes
Responsibility does all that’s possible.
If such confession is called a lie, there’s the wrong.

 

• poem 4538

Stirring the dark nest, divided in so many
Ways. To run or not to run; whether tis nobler
In the mind to flee the stings and barbs of twenty
Thousand outraged wasps, or to stand, and by standing
Hope for anaphylactic shock. But hope is such
A consistent traitor; how is it that that it keeps
Returning, like a friend who steals petty cash and
Thinks I do not notice? I’m not sure I should give
Credence to premonition, but I think I’ll meet
Death on this particular highway. That would not
Be my preferred method; I was hoping to trip
And fall on LSD, but it is what it is.
Turn and face the familiar. Blanche is under the
Dashboard. Stop hiding. Take a seat and we shall ride.

 

• poem 4537

I like beers that bite back, that are crafted to be
Savored and not slugged down, hand over fist, as an
Alkie would do. I want them to take a while to
Drink, I want them to scream out, “Thou shalt not ignore
Me!” Thou shalt not employ me as background noise while
Doing something else, thou shalt not drink solely for
The buzz. If your purpose here is to get drunk, I
Shall rip out your tongue and throw it on the floor, and
You shall return to your carbonated horse piss.
Which, by the way, is the actual name of a
Beer brewed for the Kentucky Derby. At certain
Events, like sports, it may be okay to allow
Beer to become background noise. But for the most part,
No. A palate can be as good as a pen*s.

 

• poem 3350 [didactic verse]

All human belief about God is necessarily
False, in some detail if not largely and completely, if
For no other reason than that these beliefs are expressed
In human language; no human language is adequate
To capture the essence of God in a conceptual
Box. Even to claim that God exists is to place upon
Him, Her, or It the same label that we would place upon
A table and chairs. But God is not furniture. Such talk
Is nonsense, not because it is meaningless, but rather
Because it is inherently and inevitably
Inadequate. That is why scripture is always written
In verse. That is why I eschew metaphysics most of
The time. And that is why it really doesn’t matter what
We believe, but it matters tremendously how we live.

 

• poem 3749 [didactic verse]

Explaining Agnosticism in sonnet form.

Belief without commitment is ephemeral;
Such beliefs change from day-to-day. In that sense the
Agnostic might seem a pendulum, believing
One day and not the next. Faith differs from belief
In requiring commitment, and that is what the
Agnostic will not do – one way or the other.
The advantage is that the Agnostic gets to
Try on beliefs like shopping for new clothes, see how
They fit, how they look, and what they do. Sometimes the
Agnostic might even buy a few, but seldom
The kind of coordinated wardrobe that could
Count as ideology. We can’t think without
A network of beliefs, but the Agnostic does
Not quite grasp why we need be limited to one.

 

• poem 4535

The Hallelujah Chorus as Remixed for Blanche.

If it’s cancer, I don’t know yet, I may opt for
Non-treatment. What’s so great about my existence
That I should seek to extend it through the countless
Grotesqueries of chemotherapy, or the
Internal burns of radiation? Which part of
My life justifies the extension of the pain
Which never ceases? What contributions have I
Made that amount to anything? Oh, don’t throw my
Children in my face. They are their own people now,
They don’t need me, and that’s been made adamantly
Clear. I feel like a waste of water and carbon.
I hope it’s not too painful, or slow. I won’t ask
My sister to babysit, she’s had enough of
Death. I will take control and make my own exit.

 

• poem 4534

I picked up a slug. It crawled, imperceptibly,
Across the deck. An impish grin came over my
Face as I held it out to her and watched the stark
Horror come over hers. Mission accomplished, it
Was tossed into the grass and I washed my hands, to
Discover that the slimy film left behind would
Not wash off, not even after three tries. It took
Hard friction, with a dry cloth, to remove it, and
Afterwards my uncharacteristically
Smooth hand felt as if even fingerprint ridges
Had been removed. Is that possible? Must be some
Kind of digestive juice. Have criminals tried this?
Or cosmetics companies in anti-wrinkle
Cream? Now that would be knee-slapping hilarious.

 

• poem 4533

Of the two-thirds of our lives spent awake, how much
Is spent waiting? How much being bored? How much in
Busywork? Add it all up, you do the math, don’t
Forget commuting to and from work, and that leaves
How many microseconds for what? The TV,
The phone – which has grown into a many-headed
Monster – the computer, the starship, the horse and
Buggy. I wonder if my great-great grandfather
Spent more or less time waiting. And if it was more,
Did it matter less? Maybe they had answers I
Lack, maybe they sat around the campfire and told
Comforting stories. I seem to have no stories,
Comforting or not, unless I tell them myself.
Oh, okay. Yeah. Right. I think I see how that works.

 

• poem 4532

Any direction which would call for them to look
Inward and own up is met with strong resistance,
Interrupted, talked-over, or shouted down. It 
Looks like a place they dare not go because, most times,
They have some flimsy story which makes what they are
Doing okay, and they know it will fall apart
If they look too closely. So, no, I don’t think they
Find inwardness strange, I think it is frightening,
But not a fear born of the unknown; rather, a
Fear born of the very well known, which they seek to
Avoid with all that still remains of them, until
They end up cold and pallid in a gutter or
On a slab in the county morgue. This is life and
Death, not some abstract moral relativism.

 

• poem 4531

The hardest thing, for me, about growing older
Is doing it alone. With a string of lovers
Reaching back forty-five years, and three marriages
That failed, it seems clear that this outcome was not what
I expected. To be honest, I never thought
Of it at all, one way or another. Something
Deep inside seemed to be steering me away from
Solitude – without success. The second hardest
Thing is the pain, mostly skeletal, which never
Relents. The third is fatigue, which steals time and days
Away from me till I can no longer keep track.
The easiest thing about growing older is
Facing death, which no longer appears as menace,
But as alleviation, comfort, and savior.

 

• poem 4530

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
The first thrust came from the Roman Church, its doctrine
Of confession and forgiveness. It is said that
No Mafia Don ever misses confession.
Then Luther, outraged by indulgences, only
To dismiss all action altogether, and his
Followers, who made God the great, gracious giver
Of free passes. All one must do is believe, how
One lives is a matter of indifference – as long
As one is always sure to ask for forgiveness.
More libertine than blood-soaked Nero; do as you
Please, licentiousness deified. Believe, and ask
Forgiveness, even on death row. We have killed God.
What was left for us to murder, except ourselves?

 

• poem 4529

The whole house is silent save for the ice machine
Dumping a load into the tray, and this damn fly
That seems to regard my bald head as the orb it
Must orbit. The sunlight slants low through the window,
Late afternoon, the yellow star caresses the
Green hillside. This dust mote in the beam may be as
Old as the universe, it may be the remains
Of Alexander the Great – see how the mighty
Have fallen. Time gives us each our own judgment day.
I shall pass into nothing and I will not care
About anybody, anything, anyhow,
Anywhere. As Dostoevsky returned to the
Tables after his faux execution, I spend
My remaining time with typical unwisdom.

 

• poem 4528

There is a difference between Alpine yodeling
And the kind that was once found in country music –
No longer, as if they’d grown ashamed of their roots. 
There is a similarity, without question,
Between yodeling and whatever it is that
Auctioneers do with their voices…, except that the
Yodel comes from deep in the throat, the auctioneer’s
Call from more toward the front, but there’s still that rolling
Chant from somewhere behind the tongue. Oddly enough,
I wish I could do that. I’m not even sure why.
Maybe because yodeling is a song of joy,
And I could use such a song now and then. Yodels
And bagpipes would make an interesting mix, at
Four in the morning, to wake up the neighborhood.

 

• poem 4527

Staring out through the stench of the pool of sewage
Collecting above and slightly to the right of
My heart, dead center in the factory of my
Ribcage. Work comes to a halt. Call in maintenance
To snake the drain, pour in some acid to dissolve
The shit that congealed there. And the hair. I once had
To live in the future, because I had one and
I did not want it to end as it ended. So
Much for my futile efforts. Ten years after I’m
Dead, only my children will remember, and when
They pass, no one at all. The tomb of the unknown
Poet. Let the weeds and the insects stand their posts.
Let all of humankind and the earth pass into
Dust. Immortality is the dream of a fool.

 

• poem 4526

Grim determination. So be it. Jaw set and
Locked. Brow drawn and vision focused. So that’s how you
Want it. Then that’s how it will be. At no time did 
I wish for it, desire it, or seek it – it was
Foisted upon me without my compliance or
Any consent. But now, here, I am encircled
By circumstances, surrounded in situ. You
Want a piece of this? Come and get it. You haughty
Bastard, you know I have no chance, but you’ll know you
Were in a fight before I go down. I know you’re
Not there, I know I’m talking to myself, but I
Really don’t care. I’ll still kick your ass before I
Breathe my last. If it was all just an accident,
So much the worse. Who is there to beg my pardon?

 

• poem 4525

How can a man thrive in tribal society
When he neither plays your tuba, lives in the haus,
Nor in the igloo? How is an outsider to 
Make it, and what tragic history has raised this
Intolerance between ancient Nigerian
Families? Is hatred imbued in the human soul,
The remnant scar of original sin? Or could
We escape fate and call ourselves free? Violence
Is the question, not the answer. If we do not
Foster the future, the future will leave us and
Never even notice. Gandhi brought down mountains
And did not raise a hand, and died by the gun. What
Mathematician could possibly solve for this
Most troubling and perplexing of possible worlds?

 

• poem 4524

It doesn’t matter to me what you believe, just
As it doesn’t matter to God. I don’t care if
You don’t believe I exist, or existed, in
The event of my death. Would I be so petty
As to concern myself with these – like a housewife
With nothing better to do than watch overly
Dramatic soap operas on TV? Does God
Eat chocolate bon-bons? But I care deeply about
What people do to each other, and I pay close
Attention. I know who to trust and not, I know
Who may call for action. I do not need after
Lives to see justice, there will be consequences.
The inevitability of consequence,
In Eastern religions, is what’s known as karma.

 

• poem 4523

Today is the summer solstice, the longest day
And shortest night of the year. After today, the
Darkness begins once again to encroach. After
Today the sun begins to retreat southward and
The cold begins to advance, reminiscent of
A battle front in which the allies, on the verge
Of victory, have somehow been turned back, have botched
The campaign and are suddenly in retreat…, for
Six months. Then, on the winter solstice, the tide of
War will once again turn. The Vikings saw nothing
Inevitable about the victory of
Light, and felt compelled to summon Wodin by the
Candles they placed in the evergreen trees. Perhaps
Today we should begin placing lights in the trees.

 

• poem 4522

Dear Mom, Life’s really hard lately, pain every day,
Rain every day, depression dancing like dark flame
On the periphery of consciousness. Some days
I long to come and join you, even if it is
In nothing more than eternal dissolution.
Poverty looms always over the horizon,
The money you left me misspent on an unwise
Marriage – but that is past, nothing to be done. I
Fear at my age I won’t live long enough, be strong
Enough, or have the energy to get myself
Out of this one. I wish you were here, if only
For the reassurance. Tell Dad I’m still working
On forgiving him. I’ve made some progress, but there
Are many miles to go. See you soon. Love, your son.

 

• poem 4521

For my next trick, I shall turn myself inside-out;
I shall open my mouth and spill out my guts, right
Down to the metatarsals, right here on the stage
Of this hitherto blank page. It’s kind of gross, but
My trick-after-next is to magically make
It interesting – perhaps beautiful, but that’s
A bit of a stretch, limited to randomly
Select engagements. Here we see the outside-in
Imagination, busier than Times square at
Mid rush-hour, Friday afternoon. And memory,
Torn and tattered and moldy, almost to the point
Of liquification. Here we see the dark star
At the center of it all, around which all else
Orbits, into which it will fall and disappear

James Pearce

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