Local People

Published on July 17th, 2017 | by Randy Weeks


The View from The Balcony Poems

The View from The Balcony Poems by Randy Weeks, Self-Proclaimed Poet Lariat of The Balcony


Risky Business

The crowd is changing

and I’m rearranging

the sad state of mind that I’m in.

Sitting here, waiting,


the glory of you walking in.


My chances are slim,

but the lights are quite dim,

and the drinks? They’re filled to the brim.

If I got your attention

and dropped all pretention,

I just might go out…

                                    …on a limb.



There is this word, “dichotomy”.

It hints at death – duality.

I fear it smacks of surgery –

the cleaving of me from – me.


It doesn’t want me to be whole –

to integrate all of my soul.

Division is its highest goal,

exacting a hideous toll.


“Just part of you,” the demon mutters,

“I crave one side or the other –

the sunlight or the shut tight shutters –

either the hater or lover.”


It wants to steal my unity –

destroy me by calamity.

To split me would be travesty.

So, why not just take all of me?


For most of life is in the gray

where drunk saints dance and devils pray.

Take either one of them away –

why would any seeker want to stay?


My shadow self lurks within.

The light needs dark to travel in.

No use, the beams, if all is bright.

It was the darkness birthed my sight.


Baby, Don’t Go

It’s late, I know.

We both should go,

but you can’t be blind

to the signs.


There’s no way you can’t know –

I put on such a show,

So, baby, don’t go.

Please, don’t go.


Please, baby, please.

Please, baby, please.

Please, baby, please, baby, please –

don’t go.


I won’t follow you

unless you ask me to.

That’s not what I do.

Well, maybe a time or two..

So stay a bit longer

while my heart grows fonder

and savors your smile.

Won’t you stay for awhile?


Please, baby, please.

Please, baby, please.

Please, baby, please, baby, please –

don’t go.


Sit closer to me.

This is such ecstasy!

You’ve nothing to dread.

This is all in my head.


Fresh drinks are poured.

A few moments more?

Then you can leave

with my heart on your sleeve.


Please, baby, please.

Please, baby, please.

Please, baby, please, baby, please –

don’t go.

Don’t go.

Please, baby – don’t go.



We walk,

but we do not talk –

at least not with words.

I prefer the silence.

I can hear you better that way.



Chipmunks remind us to play.

Chapped monks are rubbed the wrong way.

Whatever may come your way today,

May the chipmunk in you hold sway.


All Poems @Copyright 2017, Randall S. Weeks, ASCAP. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission. The Local Voice Ligature









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