Best Boozers Poems
They hung around the beer joint with the finest Western wear
with thumbs tucked in their belt loops and such a studly air.
But those boots weren't made for stirrups and were polished to a sheen,
and on those fancy cowboy hats not a sweat stain could be seen.
You could be sure they hadn't spent much time around a branding pot,
for the only brands they recognized were ones on stuff they bought.
And if they ever passed the time just musing 'bout their spread,
it'd be the one around their middle or the one they put on bread.
Just a bunch of cowboy wannabes in a modern masquerade,
but they drove the biggest pickup trucks that Detroit ever made.
The beds were big and beautiful without a scratch or scuff inside,
'cause the only thing they hauled around was a horse's big backside.
As they stood around outside the joint, in a smart-ass state of mind,
in pulled an ancient pickup with an old horse trailer hitched behind.
The truck an old green Chevy, year 'bout nineteen fifty-nine,
with two high wooden sideboards stacked with hay bales bound with twine.
Out stepped a skinny hombre, with steel-blue eyes and bandy legs,
but he had a rippling six-pack while all the boozers sported kegs.
His cowboy hat was sweat-stained; high-heeled boots were dusty gray;
he kicked off a chunk of cow pie, then he grabbed a bale of hay.
He was mighty parched and dusty, but he wouldn't quench his thirst
'cause you're not an honest cowboy unless you water horses first.
The pack of fools gave out a hoot, yelled "Hey there, Texas Pete!
Get yourself a man-sized truck and take that geezer off the street!"
As he finished with the horses, up walked two ladies smokin' hot.
The cowboy promptly doffed his hat, while the posers there did not.
The cowboy got a long admiring look and the rounders just a sneer,
as the sham was so apparent when a real cowboy was near
They flashed the dusty cowboy a big ol' smile 'bout ten miles wide...
Said "Honey, would a gent like you care to escort us gals inside?"
He winked, then gave the trucks a look and spat a stream of juice.
Said, "Boys, y'all's might be bigger, but mine gets a sight more use."
This site is looked after by the cops
poets are drunk dopers
losers and boozers that never win
the cops are coming after the poets
they are checking names and records
and entering accusing words
while sitting and eating doughnuts
the cops are locking up the poets
drunkards druggies get rid of the dirt
cops are reading your poetry
taking aim at you
and child support
run run run hahaha
The Small Cafe
Waiting...
for a friend.
I asked her to coffee,
she did not look well.
It is hard to say how.
A little disheveled,
perhaps heartbroken,
worried,
concerned,
flawed in some way,
self doubt,
illusive perfectness...
trending against the tide.
Soon she will be here.
One of many.
We are a club,
unknowingly joined,
some of us,
voted to higher levels...
of pain and rejection,
allowing for the service,
to others.
While others are too weak,
to recover without help,
and assistance.
Mentoring those that are hurting,
from cheating and lying spouses.
Abusive friends, that over stay,
and demand more then they are due.
Lovers that are users,
boozers that are losers...
What would your life be like free?
What if the idea although scary,
offered less pain,
and more gain.
If it gave more power,
and less abuse.
Control of self,
and the acceptance
by those that count.
The ones that always...
loved you.
If a new path were set,
would you take it?
If a different world were possible,
would you dare?
Skagway, Alaska in the late 1890s was sure a rowdy place alright!
It was seethin' with humanity a-raisin' hell all through the day and night!
'Twas the gateway to Chilkoot Pass beyond which lay Klondike gold!
Why! You could scoop up nuggets by the bushel, or so it was told!
Jefferson Randolph 'Soapy' Smith 'owned' the town and was so very brash.
He came up with nefarious schemes to relieve newcomers of their cash!
Madame Gertie arrived with her soiled doves and set up houses of ill repute.
Among the ladies were Ethel the Moose, Mollie Fewclothes and Maude the Mute!
Tinklin' pianos and screechin' fiddles played in saloons invitin' boozers in.
Hordes of horses whinnied, dogs howled and mules brayed addin' to the din!
The Home of Hooch, Red Onion and Mangy Dog saloons flung open their doors,
To sate the thirsty sots before they tried their luck at diggin' by the scores!
Hawkeye Blevins, notorious gambler, grabbed a table at the Hungry Pub Saloon,
And with slight of hand relieved many gullible rubes of their moolah all too soon!
Even preachers tossed aside Bibles and grabbed shovels to join the endless queue,
To foolishly struggle up Chilkoot Pass in the dead of winter with that motley crew!
A few hardy stampeders found their Eldorado but many more came to naught!
Death, disillusionment and starvation stymied the quest for which they sought.
Many a hapless feller lies beneath that frigid land never more to roam.
Infamous Soapy Smith lies at rest in Skagway Cemetery, there, his final home!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
So slick and sexy. Purred past Temple Bar.
That throaty engine advertising punch.
All legal London, strolling out for lunch,
with turning heads declared, “Now that’s a car!”
So many barristers are – if not losers,
low earners and slow learners. I was one.
I, plodding back from Penge, felt put upon:
a plea, a pittance. Now for Holborn’s boozers.
That mean machine was not for saps like me.
I turned my face towards the threatening rain,
and started wearily up Chancery Lane.
A cup of tea and, hopefully, a fee
awaited me in Chambers. Alloy wheels
slid sleekly, silently – stopped at my side.
That car again! I watched the window glide
wide open. And I almost had to kneel
to see the driver. Handsome. Tall and thin.
The shirt was pastel pink, the tie was silk.
The suit was Savile Row, or of that ilk.
His words astonished me. “Well, clamber in!”
And then the penny dropped. It’s Alex R!
Agility has never been my thing,
so Reaney waited, engine idling,
as I shoe-horned myself into his car.
We’d known each other at the School of Law,
but then our paths had radically diverged.
Me, in pleas and poverty submerged,
and he, the wide blue skies of Libel to explore.
“I’ll run you back to Chambers – beat the rain.”
He asked me what had occupied my morning.
For him, the King’s Bench judges were adjourning.
I’d copped a plea in Penge – how to explain?
The major stars had Alex at the helm
when they unleashed their lawsuits on the press.
Defending thefts of bicycles – and less –
was my domain. He ruled a regal realm.
His clients of the moment, man and wife,
were household names. They’d sold their wedding day
to paparazzi, who refused to pay.
The plaint was something weird, like “Stolen Life”.
The man, from Delaware, big hair, and Jewish.
They crank out movies like there’s no tomorrow
(Chicago, Basic Instinct, Traffic, Zorro):
the girl, from Aberdare – think Cher, and shrewish.
To talk of money is a vulgar thing,
but I was desperate to know his fee.
The forty quid I’d earned, I wouldn’t see
for months to come. His wrists were dripping bling.
We’d be at Chambers in another minute.
“So, Alex,” (best to blurt the damn thing out),
“a case like that. You’re looking at … about …?”
He grinned at me and said, “you’re sitting in it.”
NYC nior in black and white
NYC nior in black and white
Dark landscapes 1957 NYC
of automats radio city and hotdog stands
memories of things past
Take us back to lucid dreams of light and shadows cast
set the stage late night dark wet NY detectives on the beat
slow moving like grit and steel they stride down the great white way
steam and clouds shoot to the sky from sewer covers
smoke rings blast out from bill boards of urban midnight cowboys
from route 66
On the street hipsters glide down in pinstriped suits
cool sleek long with straddled watch chains dragging
smoking stogies from drooping lips
wing tipped shoes rested on black boxes at shoe shiners row at 53rd and lex
wanting fem defal’s dark diva’s in fish nets tight red skin dresses with sleek spike heels long cigarettes with long brim hats and netted veils as they walk the line swinging their Purses leaning against posts on the foggy corners
Dharma bums gaze at city lights dreaming of old bards songs
through garment push carts and rushing feet
in the machinery of the steamy night
the boxcars moving past open doors
The cities glare in shadows bare
neon signs striptease flashing in the backdrop of honking horns and traffic
night clubs casinos and one night stands in greasy motels
pool hall hustler’s poker players loan sharker's and scheamers
whisky bars dockyard and widowed screams
tenement houses windows open curtains drawn
sweat and muscle tee shirts yelling out to others
saxophone city of butchers boozers bribers and brown baggers
Bright yellow checkers and taxis on Times Square
down the smoke hazed dark lanes against the hard walls
slim Jim zoot suiter’s lazy dazed side leaning
roll loaded dice with steaming cheap Tricks
Newspaper stands and barbers shops with marbled checker floors
white steaming towels with waiting hot lather
man with straight edge and black leather strap leans over
with Sinatra playing in the back
Neon city balanced in chaotic disorder of abstract lines
of municipal signs
city where monk lady day and Coltrane play Improve
in old coffee houses of smoke filled cafes for pennies a day
as street poets whisper and drink their troubles away
dreaming of Brando bogie smoking Joe's and blondes
of slip hips and jive
I was a self-admitted misanthrope
unwilling to lose or drop a case.
I often threw a rope-a-dope
just to win; I never lose face.
I worked the dark streets
for dark, and even darker, clients
while the cops walked their beats,
shadows showing giants.
As far as I was concerned,
they were all a bunch of losers.
They were bad; they’d get burned.
The lot were boozers or bruisers.
I had caught a difficult case
The man was stabbed and shot.
He deserved it; he was debase,
but the perp would be caught.
The lawyer was my client,
he was dirty; the worst he could get.
Damn, he was mighty defiant!
Still, I didn’t think he did it.
He had no motive, but also no alibi.
So why were the cops after him?
He was a jerk, but had no reason to lie.
But for him the outlook was grim.
I might have to pummel every john
on the streets to get to the truth.
It wasn’t unpleasing to use my brawn
and I was a hellava good sleuth.
I’d search every city block.
I’d find the filthy little perp.
I’d find the lowlife and knock
the truth out of the twisted twerp!
26 August 2022
Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
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“A body can’t do everything,” frets Grandma.
Hannah instantly joins kinswoman, laying
monogrammed napkins, opening peas quickly.
Reluctantlyly stopping, turns unto visitors.
“Who xrates young zucchini?”
-----------------------------
R ashly he didn’t stop
A t the railroad crossing
I t is known that he was seen
L ots of liquor tossing.
R oaring train just couldn’t stop.
O nward it sped ahead.
A t the crossing a big crash!
D rinking dude is dead!
C rying relatives bemoan
R ashness of young Moses.
O n his casket they have lain
S ome red and yellow roses.
S igns and signals cannot stop
I nattentive losers
N o words of wisdom enough for
G uys who are driving boozers.
__________________________
Cheerful Carolyn carries coffee
in capacious cups from coffee shop.
Whiny Willie wails for water.
Susan snappishly shouts , “Stop”.
Black hoodie, black gloves and a black balaclava
Allegiances born of belligerent father
A council estate with yards full of tyres
A rucksack that’s laden with tin tacks and wires
Cars outside boozers where loyalist losers
Don’t spot the briefcase with time delay fuses
One man and his neighbour of different persuasions
Soldiers and ministers weighing equations
Each side will tear you apart with their bombs
Some will send ‘letters’ to where you are from
Some cite religion or national pride
Or family honour when taking a side
Orange and green the colours of choice
BBC using an imposter’s voice
Still the news media expresses surprise
When pubs, cars and trucks light up the skies
A town-centre nightclub to which people flock
Across the street came Messrs Browning and Glock
In hands now committed to unleash their guns
They fingered their triggers... and then there were nuns
***
[During ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland, whilst many individuals were targeted due to their religious persuasion, targeted attacks on any particular religious institution were, seemingly, rare. A lengthy chat with Mr Google named two Catholic priests who were deliberately killed, but only one nun who was killed when she happened-on-by a bombing; she remains the only nun killed (albeit inadvertently) because of ‘The Troubles’. ‘And Then There Were Nuns’ simply prompts the question (to which I have no answer) what would a team of gunmen do next if a group of Nuns wandered into their ‘hit’?]
Drink booze
You lose
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 in Brian Strand's "Two Lines of Two Syllables" Contest - May 2011
God on my side
Guides my path and controls ripples
That endeavor to sneak astride
Initiatives I take in triples
To galvanize and utilize my talents
To the fullest in concordance with the Creator’s specifications and intentions
Cooperating and collaborating with kindred souls God crowned as consultants
To bring about the realization of innovations and inventions
Which stand humankind in good stead
As rat race dies and disruptive ventures
Diminish to extinguish malice from the homestead
Where foes and friends bury the hatchet and embark on conducive adventures
From which I and souls in my life I accost
Work towards common goals and promote goal congruence
Ensuring we achieve unity of purpose at the least cost
Building bridges across different perceptions to influence
The course of events in which neither winners nor losers
Feel they lose face thus embracing one another
As members whose demand I tolerate boozers
Praying that they perceive me as a brother
Whose intentions mean to build lives
To bless the lost, caress the stressed and distressed
Ensuring that chives and sharpened knives
Hobnob with one another as they grow well versed
With interpersonal skills and display unusual tact
In dealing with one another day and night
As they build and rebuild trust to make contact
With the best assets within their souls to kill plight
Praying for one another’s growth
One another’s success
Taking and keeping the oath
That ensures one and all to bliss they get unlimited access.
I am a true Saints fan
(A grouchy old 'Aints' man)
Always pessimistic
(Let's be realistic)
Disastrous seasons
Futile beyond reason
Professional losers
Cast-offs and boozers...
Could it be we're undefeated?
Shake me and repeat it!
We started many fads
(Fans in paper bags)
Would they have the GALL
To maybe win it ALL??
Yeah, Bourbon Street would shake
Hang-overs would throb and ache
I'm certain we would surely
See Mardi Gras come early
We'd party JUST a bitty...
Down in the Crescent City
Beet red face,do you just booze to lose.
Sorry old life,but it's a life that 'you' choose
Whatever you've done,and whatever you do,
your lives just a waste,sad but it's true.
Boozers are losers,you can't change that fact,
Boozers and users, happiness is their act.
There fun is all fiction, aint no changing their ways
But fictions no fun, when it can shorten u'r days
Boozers are losers,you can't change that FACT
If u'r a boozer u'r a loser, now how you gonna ACT
PALLANES
Another one bites the proverbial dust
offing them's difference tween boom and bust
well, not really boom, sure not nuff for a trust
but YAY now there's three down just two more to go
foxy cats glad to see me, blue fish says hello
(yeah, yeah it's not true love just hunger, I know)
No one cleaned the bathroom or maid up my bed
while I smiled at jerks and boozers without shaking head
or rolling eyes.. hey, whate'er it takes to make that bread.
Maybe someone's god'll gift me generous on my demise
but dwelling there impedes bright glorious gratitude for I
and thou and we and now and unity... hmmmm... serendipity?
You knew he was in when you heard the loud din,
his trademark for letting folks know,
he had arrived and his voice loudly cried,
to make sure that we knew it was Joe.
The whole bar was alert, with ears starting to hurt,
as he shouted 'hail fellows well met'
with backslapping, handshaking, his volume earthshaking,
as he roared his jovial outlet.
He'd come to watch racing, flat and steeplechasing,
It was easy money he cried,
the bookies are losers, so come on all you boozers,
bet these horses that I will provide.
You won't need a job if you lay down a few bob,
you'll be made for the rest of your life,
so follow big Joe and part with your dough,
you'll be a hero to your trouble and strife.
He'd go watch the telly and we'd laugh from the belly,
at the sounds that were coming from there.
There were groans, there were moans, in really loud tones,
as he shouted then started to swear.
His selections all failed, as the winner they trailed,
putting on a very poor show.
But he swore that next time he'd pick ones in their prime,
and his pockets would be bulging with dough.
He went out with a grin, and said, 'when I came in,
I said there was money for free,
And I knew I was right, there was plenty in sight,
Cos the bookies just took it from me.'