Running ̊Son – Poems collection pt. 12


August 18 by The Running Son




-• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •-

Here’s the best of my unpublished poetry over last week or two. Part 12. Love you all. Enjoy. 😉

Related posts:

All Poetry by RunningSon, aka Jim Aldrich

 ̊Running ̊Son


collection pt. 12


“..with mild cyclical aftereffects”

I ate the moon.
It was blue,

and It was cheesy.
I threw it up too.

It was gruesome,
it wasn’t easy.

But then I grew up
moon phasing,

crazy cycles making
me crescent

for days, pulling many
tides my way.

previously unpub’d

tongues spoken in the face of a shyster

You spit snake oil! You could soil a boiler room.
I’m toiling for nothing, I could be off converting
a tree
or a bee
or a geese
or a meece
or a rock
or a clock
or a crock-
or a dial.
Probably easier to drink the whole Nile.



facebook poem.

connected reflections

connected reflections red-line affection–friction dictated–a necessary expression confessing depression, lesser passions, and questions. Beloved, affecter, deep-throater for credit, your absence is so select, so precisely meant for neglect. Always erect, waiting. I guess such direct attention is senseless, best left for the efforts of guarding Angels, my replacement, or half-lidded, and latent but intent sages carrying extra supplies of placeholders, and patience.

Written, as is, while listening to loud music (house, I think) 8/16. I wrote despite broken concentration, a sort of stream of consciousness, curious to see if I could carry rhyme and theme.


That’s me, shameless.

you’ll never name me.

I remain cross-category,

leaving me nameless.



unpub’d snippit.


I will make a home in you.
I’m viral, like the flu.
I spiral down, bi-polar,
a side-bar on you-tube.
No pokes or jokes told.

I’m hopelessly sold
out, statistically all-in,
will never fold or go broke.
Just holding my take
and spending my winnings.

waiting to see.. previously unpub’d

“a verbal abuse”

A fact I’ve observed: to incur
claps and reactions for my absurd
and crappy ass laugh-lines,

I crack half words into verbs, turn
verbal slurs and curses into nervous
little verses, just to pass time.



previously unpublished snippet


Wake up! Train’s
at the station, leaving
for Facebookland.
One nation under
a strict 5-7-5 haiku plan,
rationing 140 chars, @signs
and promotions, #hashtags
and feint notions of
“Dead Poet’s Society”
motion-picture flashbacks.

facebook poem.

bad daddyo

All I’m saying is Adam burst.

Combusted under pressure first.

Eve’s little words weren’t the worst

part, or the serpent that happened on

her, in person. Adam was no man,and

no man, or manly nomads can take

that shit back after it’s been spat.



facebook poem

“unfit alien

By neutron stars he is hypnotized.
Surprised by how nebulae collide.
Foraging for his glasses, this four-eyed
Alien misfit forgot his three alien asses
(now he cannot sit, or even shit).

facebook poem


Reaching back in memory I find my lost youth waiting for the tooth-fairy, imagining what it would be like in school, where all rules make sense, and futures snap into concrete clarity.
But school became heavily ruled structure–form followed function–and we made assumptions that life was one big need to be met by toil and human production.

previously unpub’d


♫ hope u enjoyed! Jim  –

-• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •-

9 thoughts on “Running ̊Son – Poems collection pt. 12

  1. WilderSoul says:

    Hope all is well with you Jim. Love the #hashtag poem best! Sometimes life is a mad sprint, and other times it is an endurance race with a heavy pack to carry. Wishing you rest stops on the hard climb, and a peaceful view from the metaphorical mountain-top… all in good time.

  2. You never cease to amaze. I hope things settle for you soon. You have a lot on your plate friend. Am all ears here – but know you likely have many such offers. Hugs

    • Thank you Belinda. My salvation has come, more than once, through writing. It is a genuine pleasure having you as a friend.

      • Writing is an outlet that comes without price but for the emotion poured into it – perhaps that is heavy enough a price to pay. Your friendship – was the avenue by which I felt welcome here, and the inspiration when we did that fun challenge – helped me grow. Not to mention all the nice people you introduced me to. I take loyalty very seriously. I am always here. I just hope you can be here more too. Smiles

  3. Awesome collections of thoughts Jim! Hope you are well, happy and you have be graced by the object of your affections! 😀

    • Thank you Michelle. Frankly, times are very rough, but instead of reacting in alarmed poetry, I am keeping on keeping on, as they say. Good to hear from you (:

      • Say it ain’t so? Ah man! I was hoping and wishing and praying for you! Did you get moved you mentioned a move. I’ve been keeping an eye on your work…pouring out your heart is a good thing. I have a feeling things will be looking up for you! 🙂

        • Lots of writing about family, you may have noticed. I moved back home to care for my ailing parents Aug 3rd. Hell broke loose on several fronts. Family is the great test, and relationships afar may nearly match the difficulty.

          • I know I took care of my Pa before he passed. I come from a totally dysfunctional family! So I know how it is to move back home to take care of ill parents. I focused on my Pa and let everyone else worry about themselves. Remember this….nobody can bring you back and make you think you have never made any progress more then family. They want you to stay who they think you are. Breaking out of the mold is hard but you will never regret loving your parents. To me that is the ultimate in honoring them. I also have a far away love and I wish I was magic somedays! Stick to your core purpose which is to love! You can’t go wrong with that. Don’t stop pouring our your sweet heart! I promise that sweetness in a man is so endearing! TMI prob but I rooting for you! Go Jim!

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RFB editor Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013

RunningSon aka Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013 | This site is dedicated with the deepest gratitude to Dr. Cláudio Naranjo, whose writings gave me life.

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