Best To Boot Poems
Old Zack Adams sits a slouch’n so sloppy drunk on a bar-room stool,
Wear’n his cheap-threaded cowboy suit and a stained satin shirt.
All the while a peek’n and a leer’n at women like an old poor fool,
But think’n man tonight—Oh Boy, I’m really gonna hit the pay dirt!
Old Zack in this small Texas town is reputed to be quite a lecherous hoot,
As he raucously and recklessly rolls old worn quarters into the slot
Of the old bar-room Wurlitzer while snicker’n and smil’n to boot,
And plays his tearful and twangy jerk-water music while smil’n a lot!
Old Zack is this town’s “Jukebox Gigolo,” a real lover boy—Oh Boy!
He wears his patched cowboy hat and his scuffed silver-studded boots,
Meant to impress young girls and bar-fly floozies who have the Joy!
Of being with this bewildering, withered, weathered man and his boots.
Old Zack has a fad’n recollection of events and a silver mane of hair,
With a cigarette in his hand and cuss’n like a nasty little stable boy,
He downs whiskey shots and tequila seconds like no tomorrow on a dare,
While chas’n whiskey glass ice cubes and the tequila worm—being so coy.
Old Zack while a swigg’n down his whiskey mucho fast and direct,
He has now that blind courage to fight or to love—whichever is first,
While the old Wurlitzer resonates a rueful hick song for a teary effect,
But Old Zack can’t move now for this song has him sobb’n the very worst.
Old Zack with his nicotine-whiskey breath and his pockmarked face,
Personifies the image of an ideal loser of a man—with problems all,
While fight’n, scream’n, and punch’n others to gain some precious space,
He’s a showcas’n his reservoir of manly prowess—with problems all.
Old Zack was young once and not so wild, withered, weathered like now,
And he thought he was a really smart dude—all right moves and all,
But was really a man act’n far above his funny fake smart brow,
And now a cry’n on his bar-room stool and act’n like a fool before a fall.
Old Zack Adams—alcoholic as he truly is and sly and slick as a Texas fox,
Is not really so good with his women friends nowadays—for his real talent
Is in roll’n those old worn quarters pieces one-by-one into the old Jukebox,
Sing’n—“I’m the Jukebox Gigolo”—“a Drunk and a Delight,” that’s real talent!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (October 7, 2014)
(Rhymed Quatrain)
My rhino can play the flute
And is good at the maracas to boot
Alas he is quite forlorn
For his flute bangs into his horn
So now he has a saxophone to toot
This is the last poem on the history of Felicity, a person I know from correspondence with a friend abroad. No relation of mine.
In one year's time, I shall retire
What is there to look for?
Two of my daughters got married.
They live quite far from me.
Only Felicity remains, the middle one,
The one I loved most.
Mind you I paid for a grand wedding for both of them.
No favouritism would impede me from
Granting their wishes., but living far
I rarely see them especially as babies came
To brighten our humdrum life.
But where was Felicity? She spent so much time
At the hospital, except for our usual Sunday lunch.
Until one Sunday, a bomb blasted my brains.
Felicity had a fiancée, whom she invited
To our Sunday lunch. Was I angry? Confused?
He was a comely fellow, a brain surgeon to boot.
He promised to buy a house adjoining mine,
And a door would join both our houses.
Soon Felicity got married and what a wedding I paid.
They were the happiest couple on earth.
And soon she gave birth to a bundle of joy.
From that day on I did not act as a father
But a nanny for my lovely grandson.
Santa Claus has travel worries at the North Pole,
With terrible winter storms brewing there afoot,
He knows Christmas is so close and so he must put
His children first now whom he loves deeply and whole!
And so he must find red-nosed Rudolph to cajole
Him into guid’n his sleigh on Christmas Eve to boot,
For this would bring his kids so much joy—what a hoot!
Rudolph’s red nose bright guiding them from the North Pole!
Rudolph leads Santa’s reindeer on Christmas Eve Night,
While all shout out with joy on this blessed holy night!
Santa’s reindeer love Rudolph in equal measure,
For with him they won’t be lost—oh what a pleasure!
Rudolph’s glowing red nose shines now ever so bright,
As we all with Santa celebrate the Lord’s night!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, (December 12, 2014)
(Petrarchan Sonnet poetic format in Iambic Hexameter)
A gecko who represents GEICO
My fame sure continues to grow
And because I am cute
I have money to boot
Who’d guess I’d been raised in a ghetto
Insurance I’m in, so let’s begin
Assessing your worth, to your chagrin
No policy covers
That place where you hover
Think we insure bats? You’re mistaken!
*NOT a contest entry
By the light of a window sits an old man, his pennies he does count.
His hair is gray, his eyes are old, and there’s little in his bank account.
He has lived his life by the book of what is good, kind and just.
He had some fun when he was young, was a man you could trust.
He’s done all the things you have, he worked his whole life thru.
And now he sits, by the window of life, wondering what he will do.
As his health went away, his life went away, he never doubted it would.
He saved and was frugal his whole life long, he did the best he could.
But the way of money is often misunderstood, and it often slips away.
Now he wonders how he will keep all those predators at bay.
The economy went bad; his job went away, his medical insurance, too.
He’d already been sick, medicines were high, and he lost his house to boot.
The new medical insurance is high, so much he can’t afford any treats.
Air conditioning’s a dream, heat may be soon, but he’s not on the streets.
Now in an apartment he will rest his head, and sparingly he does eat.
Gloom and doom are not his way, so a new life he will greet.
He can’t write, he shakes too much, but with a computer he gets it done.
He has trouble traveling. Finding work is hard. None his way will come.
His mind’s not sharp, but he’s seen so much, he’ll find a way to get along.
And he still has a passion for words, the world, and of course for song.
So with that in mind, as a poet he was born. And as a poet, he has grown.
He’ll never be Shakespeare, Milton, or Poe…but a poet all his own.
From his work, great poems will come, as his foundation is solid as stone.
He’ll write about people and places, and in time his light will be shone.
Some poems will be up, and others down, and a few of dreams he knew.
His thoughts and work gave him a passion for life, to which he will be true.
So tell a friend, and buy his book, have them use it in their school.
It’s the history of people, places, and things, a beautiful history jewel.
His life went to dust but now thrives, and he’ll gladly continue to work.
The rest of his life he’ll be a great poet, it’s a responsibility he’ll never shirk.
In his poems, his hope, bright soul, and heart will continue to shine.
It’s something that again calls to his heart, that he can say is truly mine.
Impress Me4 Epic Carol Eastman Written 2009... for all poets...
DESSERT TABLE
Yes, it’s a beautiful spread
A tantalizing sight
With not Cezanne depth or solidity, but
Our hostess’ fond delight
She’s gathered not justs -
Not just cakes, cheeses and fruit
But a famous pot of snowball flowers,
A tall bottle of ultra-expensive wine, to boot
Now witness her many noted guests
Completely sated, become indecorous, loud,
A regular old-times gathering –
This flouncy, pot bellied, gut roaring crowd
And there are eager eyes, thrust noses
The sober might spy
Peering through banister slats, through cigar smoke.
For just one taste they would die
A wedge from an extant white, coconut cake,
Circus of green wrapped sweets,
Strawberry shortcake, cheesecake
An invitation what they seek
I fear, though, this luxury shall go elsewhere
The pastries, cheeses, fruits gathered all,
The youngsters, discovered, sent off to bed,
And cookie, chauffeur and butler shall have themselves a ball
My first grandchild was turning three,
sweet girl with a motherly bent.
The perfect present seemed to be
a dollhouse; so, shopping we went.
She found one not by accident -
real bells for the front and back door,
three stories, carpet on the floor
two-car garage, a three bedroom,
kitchen and bath. Who could want more?
Memory on the breeze, presumed.
She had moved on, Kid's Kraft was done.
Trying to hide my discontent,
I asked, “What is wrong with this one?”
“It’s not real.” Not like home she meant;
her place, the five-room flat they rent.
The Little People caught her eye
"Here is my house," I heard her cry.
there's mom, dad and me, just like home."
With three dolls to boot, a good buy;
no chic decor, no polychrome.
Happy memory? not so true,
but truly it is in a way.
Only one went shopping, not two.
I bought that dollhouse on display
the fancy one, for her birthday
and sensed her dissatisfaction.
Her mom had bought the other one,
small with three dolls a child could clutch.
Three’s magic, mom’s gift so much fun
while mine sat at my house untouched.
written 02/03/2018
I was dancing and prancing
And singing whooped Dee Dee
Not realizing I was not alone
Until he opened his shirt to me
He threw out the mayo, some jam and some jelly, a real hoot.
I caught the chocolate milk in midair, he was dancing up a toot.
He laughed and winked and some ice fell down his crushed ice shoot
He was a rascal, a scoundrel and a womanizer to boot.
I have never seen a dishwasher who can move like you
he said holding out his hands.
The oven, his furious ex, reddened her burners and threw out some pots and pans.
We laughed and we swirled and we boogied and we dipped.
She threw out ovenware but The frig and I ducked every one.
I shut his door, so we could dance up a storm.
Refrigerator boogie was so exciting and fun!
Dishwashers are reputed to be the best dancers around,
And I was confident as we twirled, we were breaking brand new ground
The ovens burners were blood red now, the kitchen was like a Sauna.
I blew him a kiss and whirled away giving him back to his ex, so sound.
As they trotted through the the kitchen, laughing, their sensors lit,
I danced around them with a loud dishwasher's whoop Dee Dee
Now whenever the three of us decide to liven the kitchen a bit,
We dance cheek to cheek, and throw sauce pans, the wild three!
YES, IT’S A DOG’S LIFE
Out at last and oh boy am I gonna enjoy some fun -
Leg-up, ahhhhhhhhhh, the poodle next door will envy that one.
He‘ll be calling for me pretty soon, to cross the road (as if I can’t do it
alone and get a in a bit of car-chasing to boot) with him, the dimwit.
So, gotta get to the corner and sniff who’s been and how long ago was that.
But whoa! What’s that scent I feel on the breeze? A cat?
Excellent ! - a chase with one of those furry mouse-snatchers -
Just to show ‘em who owns this street…Ok…ready you dog watchers?….
Excuse me for a mo….woof, woof, snarl, woof, woof:
Just a bit of theatrical dog-voice there. Mmm . . . I love cat-on-the-hoof.
Oh yeah, I figured, now he’s gonna put on the leash
As a statement that “he owns this stretch of street” - it’s his niche.
Ok, it’s on now, but he’s gonna have to pay: his muscles will tire
Cos I am pulling the wrong way all the time, and pressure gets higher
On the leash, I’m a-gonna want to be ahead of him whichever way he goes:
Were talking arm-out-of-socket after half an hour, I suppose.
Another corner, stop for a good sniff, make him wait with patience deep:
On his “tight leash” he’s gonna have to stand near the crap heap.
Ok, quick leg-up, no liquid but just gotta do it for show
Demo of who-owns-what-corner around here, you know.
Now it’s the neighbour’s poodle, “Oh hi, how are you?
Let me sniff your rear-end a good bit, mmmmm.. . . .ooooo!”
Then I’ll lick his hand he’ll have to wash that hand when we’re home.
Just showing him who owns the butt-sniffing rights around here where I roam.
Ok, so it’s the newspaper shop ritual, gotta show a little obedience here.
Why can’t he buy it at a shop that’s near?
How’d you like a roll of paper in your mouth for fifteen minutes?
And no drools on it or else he’ll have a seizure or fits.
And with the roll in my mouth as I pass all the guys laugh. . .
I tell you, man, it’s a dog’s life.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written 13 June 2012
Entered in Tanya Harrington's Contest Dog Gone Tales
Memories mottle my butterfly’s wings
Shimmering and cute they are from my past
And a new song the bard in me now sings
On two sweet ones from the database vast.
“ Chitra Salabh” is the word in my tongue
For this insect so loved by old and young
But “Chitra” is our star female playback
Those days, my son was learning his speak
TV was on.. and” Chitra” , mentions some one
Hearing the word, jumps up for joy, my son
And exults, “ I saw chitra”..Too young then
To know ’ Chit’, ’ Butterfly’ was what he meant
Some years on, a lovely lady I met
Leela Naidu, wife of poet Dom Moraes
“A double grandma, I am now” , she said,
“ But are those butterflies still there in your place?”
“Those black and white ones I saw in my youth”.
I knew not then she was Miss India once
And a sizzling Bollywood beauty, to boot
All that I learnt a little late, by chance.
For P.D’s ‘Old butterfly poem”
S.Jagathsimhan Nair, 09 Oct 2011
The girl of my dreams has long flowing hair
Straight from her armpits hanging down with flair
Crossed eyes to boot
Big bum, whatta hoot
A divine creature with flaws here and there
How do I start retirement? With grandsons galore, cooking and cleaning, barrel of fun, and a runway to the twin cities. What’s next, you ask, on this escape from my library duty? Well let’s say it arrived by mail. A timed gift for the week I return. A night out? A rolex chuckle? The grand surprise? A two month jaunt downtown. I will have a seat to listen to arghhhhhh grand jury court. One day I just might begin my life. For now, I do my civic duty and for others with an arthritic limp to boot, and fireworks.
ups and downs, stairwells
leading every which way —
life’s possible house
6/22/2021
I knew one day
you'd spread your wings
you'd take my heart
when you cut
our strings
through the years
Id daydream alot,
worried about that day
then I'd think to myself
"She's a well rounded girl
with brains to boot,
eh she'll be okay"
Now it's all changed
as that day is here
the anxiety of a loss
is what i fear
With tears in our eyes
you tell me "don't cry,
I've groomed my feathers
so I'll fly really
high
As i watch her wings
spread far and wide
the metaphoric example
of a future so bright
I swallow the knot
that is in my throat
as i watch her take off
and i feel life
broke
True to you
my beautiful daughter
my smile came back
within the hour
I picked up the phone
to hear your voice
as you go on and on
with your girlie stories
These silly moments
i've come to cherrish
no matter your age
you will always be
mom's baby
In New York and so many places,
Chocolate shops abound,
Where milk and dark and white, with nuts
Or not, can all be found.
Yet here in Sweden, there's a store,
If you want something sweet,
Which carries only licorice,
A Nordic candy treat.
Varieties are plentiful,
Including those with salt,
Which you may want to spit right out;
If so, it's not your fault.
For licorice, the jet black kind,
You either love or hate.
I love it but when made with salt,
I simply can't relate.
Yet other combinations,
Like with chocolate or fruit,
Taste delicious and they come in
Different styles and shapes, to boot.
Today, my last in Sweden,
I stocked up to take back home,
So I'm leaving with sweet mem'ries
And the topic for a poem!