Long Hustler Poems
Long Hustler Poems. Below are the most popular long Hustler by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hustler poems by poem length and keyword.
Dreamers Dream
by Odin Roark
Tulsa’s hard times made the decision easy.
Shouldering backpacks and bedrolls,
Tin cups tied atop
Ready for campfire and bean feasts
With hopefully a moss covered log as pillow,
They took up positions on their dreary piece of road.
New York bound dreamers these.
He confident,
She ashamed for thumbing a stranger,
Bringing a truck to stop and speed them away
From barren lands and dead-end streets,
Trusting their past of gravel and dust laden roads,
Leafless bushes and trees,
Their limbs and branches from parched roots,
Giving but reminders of it all,
The emptiness of nothing.
But now…
Hitching a ride to where liquid gold flowed,
Where paved roads knew no end,
Where visions were realized,
And shade from castles in the air
Were there for the taking.
She’d wait tables,
He’d sweep floors on Wall Street,
But only ‘til she was a star,
And he earned his hustler of hustlers merit.
They’d buy a shiny car,
Bright red and big as a hearse,
Maybe even drive it back to Tulsa,
Where upon their return to the east,
They'd return the favor of long ago,
Pick up a hitcher heading their way,
Even if they were only driving a clunker,
Finding out the real way,
Dreams don’t always work out.
Still…
Dreamers must keep on dreaming,
Even when things don’t go their way,
Otherwise…
Exactly.
You can smell jazz, if you got hip to the sound, like on “Camera Three” a TV program in the 50s/ a 1956 episode featuring The Gerry Mulligan Quartet in black -N- white/
many jazz clubs come and go dimming their lights in the sunset glow/
fast food joints now line the streets where once stood the mighty jazz clubs of old/West Coast Jazz exploded in your ears/ Like Central Ave, It was the soulful jazz heart of LA’s jazz scene in the 40s, 50s, and 60s, all the jazz great’s/ would be sittin’ in to their fellow jazz musicians gigs after their two sets where over/other jazz clubs to be seen and be booked in up and down in the LA area/ Zardi’s, Tiffany Club, Jazz Cabaret, The Haig, Jazz City, drinks, drugs, sex, where all part of the show while diggin’ Art Pepper, Monty Budwig, Hampton Hawes, Ernestine Anderson, Zoot Sims, Miles Davis, Shelly Manne, and Wardell Gray
In the lost-and-found of memories, there lie Nina Simone LPs, forgotten treasures about love lost, love found, and a revolution in a new voice sound waiting to be spun/
A jazz hustler leans at the door, a whisper of dreams tied to CDs, silent songs, never given the chance to ride the radio waves/
In a cab to your gig, you left your horn in the back seat— a misplaced key in a world full of locks, yet out of the blue, you find your singing voice, the notes rise like steam from the New York streets on a rainy jazz night, each syllable soaked and sung in spoken word passion and pain/
It’s crazy, this love, sometimes feeling like you’re out to lunch, in a world that doesn’t pay to play jazz/
and yet you are hooked on this jazz thing bathed in the glow of the bandstand spotlight, asking, “Why do I love it so much?” Because jazz, my friend, is the heartbeat of the lost, the anthem of the unheard, a melody that sings even when the world goes dark.
No Rest for the Broke
A hustler from Durban did hustle and grind,
But heaven seemed hundreds of hopes far
behind.
He pleade for peace,
Got debts without cease,
And found fate had a fiendish design!
The Chicken Crossed For Wi-Fi
A clucking wee chicken went creaking
one day,
Crossed the craziest crossing for a hotspot,
they say.
But the signal so week,
Now chirps out his challenges in eggs
every day!
The Blesser and his Money
There was once a blesser in Zamdela,
Who spent his mitha on falsetto-
Today he sings for the fame,
but easily forgets his name,
now he hums in tongues incognito
The Jamaican Chef
A chef from out Jamaica,Joy,
Made jerked chicken a jammin' great toy.
Wi' hot habits he had,
He was hardly so had,
His hot hen helped him hire every hoy!
A snatcher named Javas, a silent snake's son,
Snapped phones with such speed, he
shocked everyone.
He'd steal seven a second,
A storm of a fellow, we reckoned,
Sending signals of sorry such soon he was
spooky with snatching so swiftly he'd shoot
past the sun!
I. e., this unfortunate
mere erred reflection,
aye re: zine
(pronounced Syne),
cuz you Matthew Scott Harris
act like an old curmudgeon,
does nothing but whine...
this one dimensional mere silver,
copper film and multi layered shine
of waterproof paint
on back surface doth deign
as merely superficial float glass fine
visualization cannot detach itself
(analogous to a Siamese
twin engine eared ensign)
sullying for all the
world wide web to see mine
capricious, facetious,
and inglorious rotten chine
(vis a vis via,
sexually seedy, Nein
dynamic, salaciously scabrous,
spicily shamelessly pine
ning sultry rhyme
(without reason) attempting
to wax eloquent as nonpareil poetry
by futilely try'n
to make a silk purse out of swine
(actually a sow's ear), meanwhile dine
'n high and mighty trump
petting haughtiness hoping to line
up ducks in a row at mine
(your poor reflection), hmm...wondering
mebbe I can latch unto a stein
way praying for some means
to become divine
very aware that
no mirrored reflection can exist
from a corporeal entity,
who cannot ever hurt or kill me,
but,...yeah go ahead,
and take a fist
also aware nothing can undo
that banal, carnal, and offal dreck,
which materiel could be ideal grist
for erotica such as Hustler,
and/or Penthouse, where prurient
Lady Chatterley's naked lunch evocations
conjured behind wordy myst.
I read to learn
In search of knowledge to educate myself
On what it takes to make the grade
But nothing has touched me thus far
Still numb listless and overcome
By Sight, Sound , Taste and Touch
Nothing new to see here
Disengaged as a Career Choice
A Silent Voice with Black Eyes and Deaf Ears
To Feel with Sunburst Skin
A Street Hustler Soap Seller on a Crossroad Junction
Trying to eek out an Honest Living
Cooking under the Midday Sun
Watching the Godless Prosper
Driving past in Foreign Cars decked out in Bespoke Suits
With my only Rebuke
Karma will be Hell to Pay
As a bookmaker, Sam Rothstein was the best.
The big bosses back home sent him out west.
Because of his amazing sports betting prowess,
they put him in charge of a casino in Las Vegas.
He was joined by his boyhood friend Nicky Santoro.
Nicky was Sam’s strong arm bodyguard wherever he would go.
Sam and Nicky were given such a sweet deal.
However, Sam had an emotional Achilles heel.
Street walking hustler Ginger entered into Sam‘s life.
Shortly after, Ginger became Sam’s wife.
Ginger would soon make Sam’s life a living hell.
As a mob kingpin, Nicky did his job well.
Throughout Vegas, he would cheat, steal, and kill.
Everything went out of control and straight downhill.
Sam and Nicky had a swift fall from glory.
Do you want to know the rest of the story?
That’s all the description you will get from me.
The movie is available on BluRay and DVD.
Based on the 1995 film “Casino”.
There comes the EAST, against the SOUTH
The WEST against the SOUTH
Again the NORTH, all against the SOUTH
Just to use, manipulate and enslave
our minds, One said music is all
I say
The growth of a country
Depends on the knowledge Of the youths
But money makes everything worthwhile
Them songs; Bursting Up the speakers
The knowledge birthed, connections for elevation
My money bossing up, Mi world
They call me
A LAZY GOLD DIGGER NO i am
A POET, I was a once a hustler
Here comes another, they said...
Laughter is everything, It keeps you entertained
I said; Laughter without, happiness and contentment
From within is Forgery, For social connection
Money makes it enduring and complete
Them jokes and movies, all over the NATION
With Global recognition
My people Living La vida loca (the crazy life)
La Bella vida (The beautiful life)
Amidst all hate and denials, they labelled us SCAMMERS
No we are messengers of Love, Oneness was our message.
da vida (life-giving) vida Feliz (happy life)
There came
The other, boosting of their. strengths and powers
I told them
It's not by power, neither myth but
Consistency without resistance
Money makes whole, It adds honor
We all will die one day, but not certain
Now they got
The military With armed forces, ARMY
Forcing, forging lies and flogging us to
Move their ways, my people
Still showing love, amidst the tortures
They call us vultures with cultures
No we are healers and seers
Which they keep seeking, Unknowingly
Silence and discernment was Our weapons
Their perception of us, Was a reflection of them.
All them wishes On us was to be their
Sheep for slaughter
Copycat to navigate the negative poles
Propelling the heroes, Within
The Sleeping LIONS, they awakened
Now My people roar for;
Absolute freedom, greatness comes from it
We SOUTHERNERS also deserve power
We want to own our resources
And Our Fundamental Human Rights
JUSTICE and FREEDOM IS THE SOUND
AS WE ROAR FOR GREATNESS!!
Counting down days to hours,
I give glory to God;
For the crossover from the bondage of 2022;
That came with joy,progressed with sorrow
And ended with ugly scars,
Of the wounds that once were sutured;
Along the way,whose ways I didn't understand.
I'm about to get to the bridge,
That links the old to the new year;
And how I pray it breaks down,
Once I am on the other side,
That all that transpired through this one,
May not follow me to the promised land.
Still,I give glory to God;
For a hustler like me,
Wouldn't stand a chance to the new year,
Yet,helpers came along my way,
Friends stood and prayed for me;
Family cared so much for me;
And church held my hands all the way;
All this was by His grace.
I'm counting down,
Much as I do not know my fate;
For I am not God.
I plan to have a better year,
With more prosperity and productivity,
But I'm not the driver of my missions,
I don't have that key,
Expect my Father who sees the unseen,
The one who lifts my soul in prayer tonight;
I'm counting down into the new year,
And I pray that,
God sees me through it;
And in all I say,
May his will be done.
Pool's Prince Charming
by Michael R. Burch
this is my tribute to the legendary pool shark "Saint Louie" Louie Roberts
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool,
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis,
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler,
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic,
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld.
I leave the Christmas matinee
after five. Clouds sparse and dark
blue, fierce wind kicking up
from the North. Last night I rented
Midnight Cowboy, hoping it wasn’t
a mistake. The first time
I saw it I was spending the night
with my closest friend, who lived
in the dorm. Some guys
trapped me in the men’s toilets,
blocking the door, forcing the air
from my lungs. But how could I
not watch again, with goofy Joe
Buck, cowboy hustler who cares
too much to earn genuine coin
for sex, and Ratso hobbling
(like Amahl or Tiny Tim)
and that inconsolable harmonica
and Nilsson dragging me
to endless aching? How badly
I need Christmas this time
around. Something to keep me
from slugging myself. Ratso
follows me like a cozy shadow,
all crumby and disgusting. If only I
could kiss him on the mouth again
and again, crash the showers
in the men’s dorm and lather him
tenderly. If only I could go back.
If only my buddy had said
something. Just something.