Best Behind The Eight Ball Poems | Poetry
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The Best Behind The Eight Ball Poems
Behind The Eight Ball Poem
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
Behind The Eight Ball Poem
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
Copyright © connie pachecho | Year Posted 2017