Best Bankroll Poems
I didn't want to break your heart,
I had no thought of that at all,
When I told you I'd be leaving
Right after roundup time this fall.
A cowboy's life is lonely,
With saddle, bridle and his horse,
A bedroll just to keep from freezing
When he's wandering off his course.
Your own daddy is a rancher.
He should have warned you from the start,
Should have cautioned you to never
Let a cowboy win your heart.
I'll be heading to the south lands
Until some wrangling work I find,
Didn't mean to fool you, Honey.
I didn't mean to be unkind.
If I had a stack of money,
I'd settle down, make you my wife.
Until I'm through meandering
I can't ask you to share my life.
Dry your eyes my little lady
And let me see that pretty smile.
There will be another cowboy
Who will outshine me by a mile.
If you find one with a bankroll
Who can afford a little spread,
Get your lariat and rope him,
Forget about these tears you've shed.
I'll be thinking of you, Honey
As I travel across the range,
But this cowboy is a rambler
And I expect I'll never change.
Placed 2nd in Ballad contest
The weight of old age increases with time,
dragging spirits down a depressive hole.
And taking pills, prescribed to ease your pain,
the last years are anything but sublime.
You question if believing in a soul,
is vain.
You squirrel away cash you'll never spend
just in case hard times should show up again.
But you pray you'll never need that bankroll,
choosing to believe God’s will, in the end,
will reign.
(Curtal Sonnet)
6/27/2021
Ka-thump-a-loon, my pet raccoon,
sings opera in the woods at noon;
I love so much to hear him croon.
At night he carols to the moon.
If you are lucky you might hear
the songs he sings most loud and clear;
he plans to make it his career
with performances both far and near.
He will audition sometime soon,
accompanied by his pal baboon
who plays a really mean bassoon;
I know they'll make the critics swoon.
I guess I'll have to go along
and keep long lists of all his songs
and iron his wardrobe of sarongs,
protect him from the cheering throngs.
He seems excited, that's for sure;
he never has been too demure.
He keeps asking for a new coiffure,
a glitter mani- and pedicure.
Last night that crazy old raccoon
sucked on a helium balloon
and ate way too much crab Rangoon,
said he planned to change his tune.
He switched his genre to rock and roll,
thinks he can sing with a lot of soul;
winning American Idol his one goal
with its million dollar prize bankroll.
Things are getting out of hand;
the raccoon's plans are just too grand;
I wish he'd join the forest band
and forget this superstar status plan.
Success can never come too soon
to a want-to-be Las Vegas tycoon
who dreams of a big penthouse saloon,
Ka-thump-a-loon, my pet raccoon.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, August 18, 2015
he parlayed a condom full of nouns
in bold thrusts of the quill
for the para structuralist cadres
many of them freeway orphans
who won't even read a stoplight
on the other hand
there's a lot of other hand
upon hearing the chimes of midnight
I opened the door
another surprise party
that I knew about all along
arranged by my body building therapist
who was a notorious sadist
requiring humiliation ab astra
went in after my scenario gland
in an act of divine pity
sewed me back up real fast
couldn't handle the pixel rate
the audience shrieked and laughed
it was the great awakening
after the Treaty of Lucky Seven
in which all nations pledged
to honor their accidents and idiocies
as though they were instruments of divination
uh oh here comes my chiropractor
a known mob boss
never found the need to knock
cracked his knuckles at the door
and politely asked may I enter
he spoke 7 languages
and several materialist dialects
and could talk without
moving his lips
many were blamed for
things they never said
a hundred times a day
nothing is uncontained
archaeologists in the city dumps
using a subway map with all the stops
snorted and toiled through Winter
at their historico-revisionist comedy
piecing convex to concave
any idea past its prime is stupid
this is the unfortunate fate of all humanity
nobody really likes change
unless it’s more money
oh I know I’ll never work in this town again
but with a bankroll
the size of a chewed pencil
you get the picture
now buckle up kids
mommy's going to drive a little faster
there's a cop on my ass
and I think I can lose him
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
You made a lot of money
selling lewd photos of nude
Then you parlayed your profits
into cyber surfing —
triple X cinema ***** crude
Nasty video sex business you were so into
Your vested interest was
a skin flick portfolio bankroll ...
Dirty money bottom line
Letting curious customers
put their cyber bit coins into the virtual pay slot
So they can take a ride on the carnal carousel
Then make them get off ...
Have them taste naked flesh boiling hot
in an abominable lascivious pot
You are so proud of yourself,
Mr. Sleazy bit coin billionaire
You make it so easy —
sex suckers love to lick poisoned lollipop sticks
Getting minds addicted to wicked desires,
those tempting tokens are gonna take ‘em there
You’re so filthy rich cavalier ...
crushing souls, you really don’t care
What those turned-out cyber tramps,
hopefully, will come to one day understand,
those grimy bit coins
is greasing somebody’s dirty hand
And that palm is on a beach somewhere
getting a penthouse triple X suntan
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty old man
with a Howard Weinstein leer
Bit coin billionaire,
you got sticky floor hands
and semen oil slick hair
Spreading your cyber surfing
triple X flotsam everywhere
You’re just a devilish voyeur,
a nickel-and-dime fleshpot billionaire
Your trashy ways smells like
a STD flea-bitten garbage can
And your infectious craves are a
CDC health hazard quarantine
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with semen snake oily hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy green scaly skin
In need of some brimstone lotion
Bit coin billionaire,
you’re a dirty money man
with sticky floor hands
Bit coin billionaire,
with filthy lucre ashy skin
In need of a brimstone suntan
This poem was inspired by the
talented Richard Lamoureux’s poem,
“Church Perfect Surface.”
— Romantic Warrior
Debbie Reynolds won my heart when I was twelve.
The Unsinkable Molly Brown, her role.
Her spirited acting did into my imagination delve.
Her voice and expressions shone on a grassy knoll.
Raw enthusiasm and dreams bubbled from Molly’s soul.
Reynolds portrayed her well; the character is woven in my mind.
Whether she was rich or poor, or burning up the bankroll,
I remember her well as through my memories I rewind.
She has played in several other movies over the years.
Choosing characters with valuable messages was her voice.
"A Gift of Love", the Daniel Huffman Story brought me to tears.
An actress with talent and values makes her my choice.
There have been many great actresses since movies began.
Stars like: Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, and Sandra Bullock
Brought in big bucks because of each supportive fan.
But with Debbie Reynolds, I remain awestruck.
Singing is Bi-polar.
Some songs sound like an aching molar
Packed with violence, hate and anger.
Other songs are sung to win him or her.
Soft sweet words that cause love to whir.
Passion packed with minds a blur,
Bi-polar songs make emotions stir.
Singing touches the soul.
Old love, new love, no love…take their toll.
A heartfelt song can break a man or make him whole.
Singing about God help’s reach Heaven’s goal.
Songs that strengthen fulfill that role.
Where Heaven’s gates need no bankroll.
Only pure hearts who found time to enroll.
Singing vociferously is fun.
Whether in the shade or in the sun,
It does not matter where it’s done.
I did it once where a spider spun.
My woodland tune like opera sung
Brought birds to listen one by one.
A peacock’s courtship I once won.
Personal singing is not just for a bird.
They chirp all day singing no word.
Like man, they tweet when love is stirred.
Then comes the rooster; someone is spurred.
Anhingas sing; blurred tunes…absurd!
Meanwhile the raven’s voice is heard.
Why are they singing; we’re all bestirred!
Copyright January 14, 2014
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Three or More Stanzas, Three or More
Thoughts on the Same Idea
Sponsored by: Sheri Fresonke Harper
I'd find nirvana, if I could,
on distant coast by lapping bay,
far from all strain of daunting day.
Sustain no drama, as I should,
an ataraxis of my mind
that is a spot I'd wish to find.
If I ask you to join, you would
find full placidity flows not
from finding an idyllic spot.
Unlock this truth that long has stood:
it's good to know tranquility,
pursuing kind civility.
Concordant harmony is good;
it's worth our diamonds and bankroll
to own it in our inmost soul.
I'd find nirvana, if I could,
sustain no drama, as I should.
If I ask you to join, you would
unlock this truth that long has stood:
concordant harmony is good.
Lipogram
A lipogram is a composition from which the writer systematically omits a certain letter or letters of the alphabet (in this case, the letter 'e').
Constanza
Created by Soup's own Connie Marcum Wong, a Constanza consists of 3-line stanzas of 8-syllable lines, where the first lines of each stanza are monorhymed and combined to form the final stanza. The remaining lines of each stanza are rhymed couplets.
"I didn't want to break your heart.
I had no thought of that at all,
When I told you I'd be leaving
Right after roundup time this fall.
A cowboy's life is lonely,
A saddle, bridle and a horse,
Bedroll, just to keep from freezing,
When he wanders off his course.
If I had a stack of money,
I'd settle down, make you my wife.
Until I'm through meandering,
I can't ask you to share my life.
Dry your eyes my little lady
And let me see that pretty smile.
There will be other cowboys
Who will outshine me by a mile.
If you find one with a bankroll,
Who can afford a little spread,
Get your lariat and rope him.
Forget about these tears you've shed.
I'll be thinking of you, Honey
As I travel 'cross the range.
But this cowboy is a rambler,
I expect he'll never change.
Cold smiles,
cadaver touch
Whatever love you had for me,
now ain’t much
My tender heart still not yet tough
In-bed pleas to a deaf shoulder
get covered with stone silent rebuff
You flaunt your affairs openly,
with no regard for my feelings
You don’t tip up the stairs quietly,
or try to hide your indiscreet dealings
Empty promises, empty promises
Broken vows written in blood
Empty promises, empty promises
Scarlet cold hearted love
You gave me lots of flash photos of hope,
as you kept plenty of negatives in the darkroom
You whispered a lot of mirrors and smoke,
then disappeared into a world of distant, cold gloom
Once you got your hands on the joint account,
the marital demands didn’t seem to matter much
Now you’re on the move
like a bunny beach ball ready to bounce
Saying we lost our groove,
and your love gets paid by the pound, not by the ounce
Empty promises, empty promises
Hollow house built in blood
Empty promises, empty promises
Bricks of stone cold hearted love
Cold smiles,
cadaver touch
Whatever love you had for me,
now ain’t much
Bankroll from other lovers
lay brazenly on the night stand
Cigar smell cologne on your clothes,
scented trail mix of another man
You kept one promise though,
said soon it was all gonna end
And that when we part ways,
we ain’t gonna be best friends
Empty promises, empty promises
Scarlet tears flowing in a river of blood
Empty promises, empty promises
Love got carried away in a crimson flood
A curled-dry orange peel,
all that stands against gray
dark lips of gaping hole,
whose eye can steal your form,
or lift your full bankroll.
A curled-dry orange peel,
hanging pith on the cliff-
edge ridge of my laptop,
now camera obscura
made of a lunchtime prop.
A curled-dry orange peel,
braver shield than post-it,
organic digestive,
space between aperture
hints at curves, suggestive.
A curled-dry orange peel,
modesty's upholder,
bulwark of hair carefree;
hunger's leftover coat
might have been potpourri.
The rich fare so poorly
in completely divesting of the gold chains
Losing it all ... casting away
the luster of the pearly platinum
family portraits on the baroque mansion,
spiral stairway wall
The copper savings ... deposit daub
straw crumbs,
that built the foundation of it all,
starts to totter and fall
When accumulations begin to fail,
put the diminished sprawl
money sign up for sale
Cashing out prematurely ...
losing it all
It's the fatal heart attack,
before the disappearing assets
hit zero
And the cancelled checks
start bouncing back
There are no bankrupt heroes
This penny dreadful thought
gives the wealthy
Freddy Krugerrand nightmares
Leaving the golden nest behind ...
to wing it pauperously alone,
is a wallet tear, safety net falling out
Parachute pursed lips don’t ever
reveal all —
Where the secret stash is mnemonic hid,
in case of an emergency landing
liquidity call ... phantom accounts off-the-grid
Covertly cashing out,
don’t leave much room for
mint condition doubt
Keeping a stuffed mattress attitude,
it’s poor manners to be
obnoxiously soup-line bourgeois rude
Maintain fiscal proletarian discipline;
looking fo’ mo’ easy-open vault,
capital idea opportunities
to reinvest the debt reset default
Staying on a silver cloud
at all cost
Means rushing headlong to a sky precipice,
bullishly fretting fearful
of a bearer bond, bear market free-fall
Piggy bank 401k squeals
be just another Poor & Standard
snout pocket poke to the profit-strapped chin
No-frills credit rating T-note bills
are being dividend, early retirement cashed in
It’s all down-low, bankroll covert action ...
‘cause everybody know
that being milk poppy poor is a withdrawal sin
He can only find oil by opening a can of sardines.
By hoping to make money, he employs some strange means.
He takes his metal detector, and wanders along the beach.
Is there some buried treasure well within his reach?
With almost any IPO, he buys big blocks of stock.
Sooner or later, he goes down the street to pawn and hock.
This individual thinks he can break the bank in the casino.
With any sense, he knows this isn’t the way to go.
The way he rolls the dice leaves plenty of room for doubt.
His bankroll goes down the tubes with each seven out.
Lottery tickets are purchased at the corner store by the bunch.
He thinks he has the winning number. There is always a hunch.
The morning after the drawing, there is usually disappointment.
He is always aiming for the penthouse, but winds up in the basement.
Does this individual’s description have familiarity?
That is a person who reeks with gullibility.
One of my many foibles is greed.
I have placed myself in a bad situation indeed.
If I only hadn't sat at this blackjack table today.
My depleted bankroll won't permit me to stay.
I am flummoxed by the way the dealer pulls twenty-one.
That's it. I am over and done.
Haikus of Suffering
Your memory rains
Sorrow drenches me with tears.
Crashed... last fifteen years.
Now sixty-two... old.
I have no young grand-children,
but one abortion.
She left, now alone.
I never had her... alone.
Stolen, by... desire.
Gold, silver, bankroll.
Shovel, seduction, harlot.
Stolen by my lust.
Best friend... ever had.
Fifteen years of loyalty.
Laid my dog to rest.
Missing you, away.
Another late night ... office.
You sleep without me.
My daughter grows old.
I died for you to be free.
She flew away... gone.
Tears, empty, wanting.
Hold, touch, hug, love, tender, want.
Gone... lost... hate... anger.
Longing... long-ing... long...
I long... longing... for so long...
very, very... long.
by, Martin Braun
August 24, 2023