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Best Famous Bottom Line Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Bottom Line poems. This is a select list of the best famous Bottom Line poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Bottom Line poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of bottom line poems.

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Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

MARGINALIA

 Here is a silence I had not hoped for

This side of paradise, I am an old believer

In nature’s bounty as God’s grace

To us poor mortals, fretting and fuming

At frustrated lust or the scent of fame 

Coming too late to make a difference

Blue with white vertebrae of cloud forms

Riming the spectrum of green dark of poplars

Lined like soldiers, paler the hue of hawthorn 

With the heather beginning to bud blue

Before September purple, yellow ragwort

Sways in the wind as distantly a plane hums

And a lazy bee bumbles by.
A day in Brenda’s flat, mostly play with Eydie, My favourite of her seven cats, they soothe better Than Diazepan for panic Seroxat for grief Zopiclone to make me sleep.
I smoke my pipe and sip blackcurrant tea Aware of the ticking clock: I have to be back To talk to my son’s key nurse when she comes on For the night shift.
Always there are things to sort, Misapprehensions to untangle, delusions to decipher, Lies to expose, statistics to disclose, Trust Boards And team meetings to attend, ‘Mental Health Monthly’ To peruse, funds for my press to raise – the only one I ever got will leave me out of pocket.
A couple sat on the next bench Are earnestly discussing child custody, broken marriages, Failed affairs, social service interventions – Even here I cannot escape complexity "I should never have slept with her once we split" "The kids are what matters when it comes to the bottom line" "Is he poisoning their minds against me?" Part of me nags to offer help but I’ve too much On already and the clock keeps ticking.
"It’s a pity she won’t turn round and clip his ear" But better not to interfere.
Damn my bloody superego Nattering like an old woman or Daisy nagging About my pipe and my loud voice on buses – No doubt she’s right – smoking’s not good And hearing about psychosis, medication and end-on-sections Isn’t what people are on buses for.
I long for a girl in summer, pubescent With a twinkle in her eye to come and say "Come on, let’s do it!" I was always shy in adolescence, too busy reading Baudelaire To find a decent whore and learn to score And now I’m probably impotent with depression So I’d better forget sex and read more of Andr? Green On metaphor from Hegel to Lacan and how the colloquium At Bonneval changed analytic history, a mystery I’ll not unravel if I live to ninety.
Ignorance isn’t bliss, I know enough to talk the piss From jumped-up SHO’s and locums who’d miss vital side effects And think all’s needed is a mother’s kiss.
I’ll wait till the heather’s purple and bring nail scissors To cut and suture neatly and renew my stocks Of moor momentoes vased in unsunny Surrey.
Can you believe it? Some arseholes letting off fireworks On the moor? Suburban excesses spread like the sores Of syphilis and more regulations in a decade of Blair Than in the century before.
"Shop your neighbours.
Prove it.
Bring birth certificates to A&E If you want NHS treatment free.
Be careful not to bleed to death While finding the certificate.
Blunkett wants us all to have ID Photo cards, genetic codes, DNA database, eye scans, the lot – And kiss good-bye to the last bits of freedom we’ve got" "At the end of the day she shopped me and all I’d done Was take a few pound from the till ’cos Jenny was ill And I didn’t have thirteen quid to get the bloody prescription done" To-morrow I’ll be back in the Great Wen, Two days of manic catching up and then Thistledown, wild wheat, a dozen kinds of grass, The mass of beckoning hills I’d love to make A poet’s map of but never will.
"Oh to break loose" Lowell’s magic lines Entice me still but slimy Fenton had to have his will And slate it in the NYB, arguing that panetone Isn’t tin foil as Lowell thought.
James you are a dreadful bore, A pedantic creep like hundreds more, five A4 pages Of sniping and nit-picking for how many greenbacks? A thousand or two I’d guess, they couldn’t pay you less For churning out such a king-size mess But not even you can spoil this afternoon Of watching Haworth heather bloom.
Written by David St John | Create an image from this poem

Los Angeles 1954

 It was in the old days,
When she used to hang out at a place
Called Club Zombie,
A black cabaret that the police liked
To raid now and then.
As she Stepped through the door, the light Would hit her platinum hair, And believe me, heads would turn.
Maestro Loved it; he'd have her by The arm as he led us through the packed crowd To a private corner Where her secluded oak table always waited.
She'd say, Jordan.
.
.
And I'd order her usual, A champagne cocktail with a tall shot of bourbon On the side.
She'd let her eyes Trail the length of the sleek neck Of the old stand-up bass, as The bass player knocked out the bottom line, His forehead glowing, glossy With sweat in the blue lights; Her own face, smooth and shining, as The liquor slowly blanketed the pills She'd slipped beneath her tongue.
Maestro'd kick the **** out of anybody Who tried to sneak up for an autograph; He'd say, Jordan, just let me know if Somebody gets too close.
.
.
.
Then he'd turn to her and whisper, Here's Where you get to be Miss Nobody.
.
.
And she'd smile as she let him Kiss her hand.
For a while, there was a singer At the club, a guy named Louis-- But Maestro'd change his name to "Michael Champion"; Well, when this guy leaned forward, Cradling the microphone in his huge hands, All the legs went weak Underneath the ladies.
He'd look over at her, letting his eyelids Droop real low, singing, Oh Baby I.
.
.
Oh Baby I Love.
.
.
I Love You.
.
.
And she'd be gone, those little mermaid tears Running down her cheeks.
Maestro Was always cool.
He'd let them use his room upstairs, Sometimes, because they couldn't go out-- Black and white couldn't mix like that then.
I mean, think about it-- This kid star and a cool beauty who made King Cole Sound raw? No, they had to keep it To the club; though sometimes, Near the end, he'd come out to her place At the beach, always taking the iced whisky I brought to him with a sly, sweet smile.
Once, sweeping his arm out in a slow Half-circle, the way at the club he'd Show the audience how far his endless love Had grown, he marked The circumference of the glare whitening the patio Where her friends all sat, sunglasses Masking their eyes.
.
.
And he said to me, Jordan, why do White people love the sun so?-- God's spotlight, my man? Leaning back, he looked over to where she Stood at one end of the patio, watching The breakers flatten along the beach below, Her body reflected and mirrored Perfectly in the bedroom's sliding black glass Door.
He stared at her Reflection for a while, then looked up at me And said, Jordan, I think that I must be Like a pool of water in a cave that sometimes She steps into.
.
.
Later, as I drove him back into the city, He hummed a Bessie Smith tune he'd sing For her, but he didn't say a word until We stopped at last back at the club.
He stepped slowly out of the back Of the Cadillac, and reaching to shake my hand Through the open driver's window, said, My man, Jordan.
.
.
Goodbye.