Best Behind The Eight Ball Poems | Poetry

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Details | Behind The Eight Ball Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Roar

Always young at heart and old in soul
never at ease in the linked up, stuck-up clichés
of childhood or the bizarre unfriendly world of adulthood,
I always roared…at five my boyfriend Dave was four.
He was a good kisser too.
Just about the only kisses I got [except from mom] till I was sixteen,
at which point a charming fifteen year old
and Irishman [black Irish rosy red cheeked
dancing black eyes and a curl which feel into them]
became my beau and to my junior prom as a sophomore
he went, returned the favor, he did, the next year.
I went as a senior to his Junior prom,
hair all done up like Olive Oil. “God it looked awful!”
My Senior prom, he was my Napoleon,
again and I in empire white his Josephine 
[no we weren’t crowned King and Queen].
College saw me behind the eight ball again
With all my lovely new friends “hookers?”
[‘Well, Ma said!!! If you did that you were…]
Since I wouldn’t I had a slew of BOY friends
[Sometimes three would drop in on the same night
ahhhhhh the power of abstinence!]
Sophmore year I found true love, it almost killed me.
And yes Adonis was a freshman, an Italian dream
with a wrestlers Greco-roman body…lasted three years.
And, in walked the next Italian lovers [three years younger]
A few years latter we were married. Thirty years passed
Closeted cloistered years, over protected, smothered years
and with freedom came new loves, all younger than me.



Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011


Details | Behind The Eight Ball Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Her wind blew the castle down

                                    Her wind blew the castle down

                                 she asked me to give her work a call
                                    I did, she called in sick that's all
                                    how bad was that to see me fall
                                    smitten with her mindless appall 

                                  to her, i was a seal to bounce a ball
                                 with, off my nose so she could squall
                              playing the mouse game with glee and gall 
                         baiting me with cheese to see me come to a crawl
                                                                      
                               for her to say call me then hymn and haw
                             that was bad day, it makes a person sprawl
                              and ask for answers why she be so small
                              then I did ask, it was like talking to a wall
                                                           
                              where i go in life the shadows of her pall
                               won't resign me into being her rag-doll
                             or being the subject of her phantom drawl
                              in poems where she hitches to sad rainfall

                              a rainfall of tears i see not, i see her thrall
                            to reel in her fish, me, so she could enthrall
                          the spells now be broken for no longer i'm befall
                       with her river of grief of being behind the eight ball

connie pachecho

2/8/17








Copyright © connie pachecho | Year Posted 2017