Richard Randolph

Perhaps the world is a living thing,
and we are merely parasites living on it.
At first, so small and insignificant
no one could imagine our causing any real harm,
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So, why is this a great poem?
Let me try to explain.
First, notice there's no rhyme.
Rhyming is for children.
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People say I'm cranky and mean, a cynic,
and I suppose that I am,
but I don't believe equal opportunity is enough.
I believe in true social justice.
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In Praise of Soft Light

I like soft light best,
candles and moonlight.
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All actions have consequences,
but inaction has consequences too.
Every cruel act makes a crueler act more possible;
every kind act helps the recipient and enriches the giver.
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We're all storytellers
reshaping our pasts in the hope that someone,
somewhere, will understand.
And we're all tragic heroes trapped by our flaws.
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Fanatics have managed to frame the abortion debate
so it feels the only option is choosing which side to take.
The result? Suffering, death, and a cultural divide
with everyone feeling pressured to take a side.
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The real meaning of life
is to create a life of real meaning.
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I love to dawdle, to waste time,
to drink fresh brewed coffee while reading the news
or doing a crossword puzzle.
I like playing guitar, too, though I'm not particularly good,
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I waited outside the House of Fame
as there was nothing else to do.
Then, when nearly all hope seemed lost,
an important woman noticed me there.
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It's Simple

Whether you're good or bad
is largely determined by how you treat others.
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Perhaps after I'm dead my wife will try to spread my ashes on the waves,
but the wind will come up unexpectedly and scatter them instead.
Everyone will think this an unfortunate accident, but it'll really be fate.
They'll go on with their lives, thinking that was the end of me,
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I traveled in the shadowland
where nothing's what it seems.
There I saw a poor young maid
trapped within a cage.
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Let's at least try to be smart,
read books, study things just because,
listen to others and consider their views.
Let's learn about other countries,
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I sometimes imagine myself dead,
lying in a morgue somewhere on a cold, stainless steel table,
or in one of those drawers with a name tag tied to my big toe.
The coroner reads it, lifts the sheet from my face, and steps aside.
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Let's throw out all the sacred cows.
Let's start with countries.
No more arbitrary lines in the sand.
And let's throw out religions, too.
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I think that I think.
Therefore, I think that I am.
If I didn't think, I wouldn't be.
I'd be like a hive without a bee.
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In the 70's, teenage girls often wore very short shorts.
It was a treat for me, but my dear Italian grandmother was horrified.
When she'd see one of her granddaughters with their legs exposed,
she'd shake her head and tell them to put some clothes on.
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I don't want to think about how the coffee I drink
was probably picked by children in inhumane conditions,
or how the clothes I'm wearing were probably made in sweat shops,
or how the fruit I eat was probably sprayed with
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