Long To boot Poems
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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)
From zero to fresh focus:
No fads or "hocas-pocas,"
Occult tricks, nor superstitions,
Just go to Boot-Camp not institutions.
It's not about me.
It's to take a stand, you see,
A life if convictions;
Real-life risks, no fictions,
In live with Father-God and Jesus,
His Only Son that can free us,
Unaffected by criticisms, just in Love
With other and their dialogues; all the above
Seeing hearts heal brokenness and change
With no pretense, our focus rearrange,
Processing seriously but not redundant
With you in joy abundant!
Unseen injuries make it hard work
The fears lurk!
What is expected or appreciated,
Not just reactions with heart emaciated?
Bring closure and see a prologue
To nearing the goal, remove the "log,"
Rebound in faith, never be a snob,
Nor sarcastic or the Mob.
So keep your focus and the Power
Of the resurrected Christ in your tower.
Self-control is gain
Like waiting, it's a pain!
But keep your focus clear.
Hear God's music in your inner-ear.
Yes, we are all a-work-in-progress.
It's safe and fine to regress.
To vulnerability and keep involved.
Healing doesn't need all problems solved.
There's no natural-born leader.
In time we can also be a feeder.
So conquest the temporal and material.
Move in rebuilding the empire
Let Jesus' Way be your pick.
Don't be a lonely cynic
Give others the benefit of the doubt
Wear a smile, not a pout.
Banish the evil of a derailed life
The enemy tries to bring in strife
Like the striking snake it'll be too slow
For you fly high; it's too low!
So prepare for success.
Diligently sort the mess
All the way to the end.
Sign the Pledge not to bend;
To act, rebound, giving credit and devotion.
Like a sweet perfume or lovely lotion.
In prayer and fasting let negatives go
Study the Bible's fine print and know
That the challenge and the focus brings
Support, Light and salt-quality that sings!
Can you say what you feel?
In sincerity will your friendships seal?
We will find the common ground.
Honor and respect will be found.
If there's no logic nor gentle calm,
Will we feel the Spirit's balm?
Even pillow-fights will irritate,
The time move on with fate.
Surprises will loose their fun
With that Special Someone!
So, brace yourself, focus and move.
Soon your success you will prove
With All glory given to the Lord,
Never more to be bored.
I can never comply with fastidious hygiene
Try as thee most persuasive person might,
he/him, she/her,
they, them... can never wean
yours truly always objected
being told when to bathe/shower
particularly when puberty
found yours truly a tween
and my mother (deceased eighteen
plus years - sess her bowl),
she exerted authority
and told her "take a bath,
or no supper"
analogous to a queen,
strict disciplinarian to boot
who wedded her king
(my late father) at age nineteen
the latter (day saint) quite keen
nevertheless both experienced
love towards each other
and tricked out their progeny
(myself included) with halloween
getup, I vaguely recall Amelie Beth
(their eldest daughter -
older sister of mine)
donned as an angel
lighting up night sky, an empyrean
permanent heavenly fixture
popular through Byzantine
epoch, which blinded
her brother (me),
cuz yours truly, the devil in disguise.
Here I sit scores of decades
now edging closer to the edge of night,
and approaching those twilight years
remembering protesting vehemently
(way past the bewitching hour)
not wanting to wash myself
in the tub (water frigid cold), I write
how mother dearest,
whose presence I wanted to smite
this puny progeny
grappling as a neophyte
whose Lilliputian stature
(when a prepubescent)
a over five feet in height
who when constantly
teased courtesy bullies
ran back to ma mommy
whose son totally affright.
If employed in social services field, why
the above might justifiably
smack of insubordination
hashtagging me as Pigpen thereby
wharf fare prompting me
to cleanse myself diving off a Quai
in an effort for Peanuts gallery
to accept yours truly well nigh
but unfortunately
getting mistakenly captured
as a prisoner of war
forced by Japanese to construct
two parallel bridges spanning
the river Kwai
as part of Burma Railway,
also called the Death Railway,
for the many lives
lost in its construction,
but my daring do,
(and boyish good looks)
found yours truly
whisked away to the island of Hawaii,
where hula dancers
choreographed, entranced, and finessed
their seductive routines
a native lass smitten courtesy
one wily word wizard
whose courage bucked up
after munching powder milk biscuits
taken as mistress
helped beget our daughter,
who became apple of mine eye.
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...
(do enjoy frolicking gently imaginatively)
County seat, of Mason County,
Washington, United States
westernmost city on Puget Sound
above ground sans tectonic plates
population 9,834 per 2010 census
end result from biological mates
maintains commission form
of government drafted by mandates.
Shelton served by small steamboats
comprising Puget Sound Mosquito Fleet
Old Settler, Irene, Willie, City of Shelton,
Marian, Clara Brown, & S.G. Simpson
logging, farming, dairying, ranching
& oyster cultivation for populace to eat
Simpson Timber Company mill
on Puget Sound's Oakland Bay over yon
dominates landscape of the down
town area as essential heart beat
Shelton identifies the "Christmas
Tree Capital" sold by the ton.
47°12'49?N 123°6'22?W (47.213702,
-123.106088) coordinate bench mark
total area of 5.9 square miles (15 km2),
of which 5.6 square miles (15 km2) land
0.3 square miles (0.78 km2) (5.60%)
water laps with an occasional errant shark
in a pinch captured, processed and canned
a delicacy that fin de siecle bony
illegal booty fined by the oceanic narc.
well nigh two and a half decades in the past
this poet trekked across America
beginning in a place called Gap
Pennsylvania - where stockpile
of Amish goodies barely did last
and vanished in a gingerly snap
of fingers, which necessitated
sustenance when van fueled i.e. gassed
up while myself or the other
driver stole a short nap
seduced to sleep by syncopated tires
as highway miles passed
inching closer to youngest sister
via this linear transcontinental lap
destination Seattle Washington
indigenous iconic statue cast.
Ronald Strickland a fine companion
(posted bulletin for traveling fine companion
at Hostelling International - Chamounix Falls Mansion
West Fairmount Park),
and boone story teller to boot
about my age (now five decades plus nine)
then trying to rake in some loot
by writing about his travels,
yet unpretentious and not able
to square an Apple pi circle
nor, calculate square a root
perhaps one day, I will surprise him
with a call and give him a toot.
I didn’t know George was an amorous lad,
causing chat on the bush telegraph.
I’d never heard George had done nothing bad,
‘cept splitting one marriage in half.
George never delved into breaking the law,
so there’s never a day spent in court.
Not being wed, he’s a dull bedroom bore,
well, that’s what one husband had thought.
George is a bachelor to his bootstraps,
so alas he had slipped through the net,
but now eighty years old he had a relapse,
through a spinster with similar regret.
It was only by chance near a bench in a park,
where I toiled in an arbour plantation.
Behind two old spinsters I raked up some bark,
eavesdropping on their conversation.
Dot and Edna - their names, spoke really loud,
‘bout George and the antics of him.
It seems Edna asked Dot, who fervently vowed
her attraction is based on a whim.
“That lovely George Johnson; exceptional man,
Dot, has asked me out on a date,
now I want to ask you has George got a plan,
that might inhibit my virginal state.”
Then Dot replied with an answer to boot,
about George and the night that they had.
Dot mentioned, “He dressed in an excellent suit,”
adding flowers that made her heart glad.
“Then George took me outside to a luxury car,
to a dinner of lobster, wine and dessert,
then off to a show with an absolute star,
but alas - George turned into a pervert.”
Then Dot said to Edna as I raked up the bark,
“In the quiet of the house when alone,
George turned into a beast, erotic and dark.”
And I listened quite baffled and prone.
Continued, said Dot, “That man was insane,
he went crazy with lust and desire.
I fought for my vanity but all in vane,
from this man who could only inspire.”
“George took to my body with lustful intent,
once tearing my new dress off me.
The bodice was torn; and the pleated content,
like the sleeves were tattered completely.”
Edna replied with a voice that was low,
and which sounded more like a lament,
“Are you telling me, that I should say no?”
but Dot answered, “That’s not what I meant!”
“You go out with George” Dot gave a wry grin,
and unbending Dot said, “Edna, say yes.
You’ll love the dinner, the show and the sin …
but for God’s sake just wear an old dress.”
We went to the concert, my cousin and
I
While we tried to find parking, a man in a yellow beetle hit an Acura, thought that no one was
looking and quickly looked for another space. My cousin didn't notice, but I saw his
face.
Interlude 21min
Later on, when we were actually in the auditorium but before the concert, I saw the beetle
driver and his girlfriend four rows closer to the stage than my cousin and I, and dead-center
to boot.
An evil idea bit me in the tit.
I got up and signaled my cousin to follow me, and when he asked what I was up to I just
chuckled and told him to act tough and follow my lead.
We walked towards beetle-man.
When at last we reached the hit-and runner, I tapped him on the
shoulder.
He turned around, eyes shining like a doe's within the halogens.
And who could blame him?
he was looking at me and my cousin, two six-foot tall men with broad shoulders and angry
looks.
"Hey! You're that idiot who just hit my Acura in the parking lot and drove off!" I barked out
as loud as I
could.
He turned dead white, the poor guy.
I barely succeeded in not bursting into
laughter.
"Well now you've dunnit buddy-boy, you done gone too far and you're gonna die!" I emoted
in trailer-court-elizebethan as I lunged at him.
He was wiry thin though, and a fast little thing.
Before I could blink he was running up the aisle towards the doors so fast he didn't even see
that my lunge was fake.
his girlfriend trailed him only by seconds.
I sat down in my new third row, center stage seat and laughed, motioning for my cousin to
join me.
He did, but shook his head dissapprovingly at me as he did.
"What in the sam-hill was that all about, cuz? Do I have to remind you that you don't own an
Acura?" He asked heatedly.
"No. I know I don't own an Acura. But for a while at least,
A. I own these seats
B.That poor kid we scared off will never, ever hit-and-run anyone again.
And
C. I proved a very important point to you."
"What exactly is that, oh great and wise Geofferini, king of the mouth-breathers?" he
questioned sardonically.
"I proved that you're a dillhole." I socked him on the shoulder.
Hard.
"But I love you anyway, cuz."
lids black out and allow me to write
while eyes shut tight
bring back four legged friends sprite
and though many years passed quite
I can remember those precious creatures
who barked at night
howling at inaudible sound or invisible light
casting silhouettes that fight
punctured the air with verbal byte
and now I list long gone
smart pets in alphabetical order – alright?
Baron – substantially German Sheppard
met his demise chasing a car on level road
the advantage overtaken
per vehicle with greater lode
which accidental death
found him buried in an unmarked grave
i.e. underground abode.
Georgie – a combination Boxer and Dalmatian
(with his cropped tail to boot
grew up as my canine brother
an essentially gave up the ghost
from organ failure of one or another.
Lady – this fur certain white German Sheppard
uncertain how, when or what
led to her body to collapse
perhaps while listening to snoop doggy dog raps
found on base near first stair
when rigor mortis set deathly traps.
Ruff – he and his litter mate Teddy
(listed below), an alpha beast o man’s and
woman’s best friend with moments of rage
as applicable to a dog, and seemed
to evince an intelligence like a sage.
Schultz – he apparently vanished in thin air
without a trace, not e’en
a filament of fur like hair
hopefully taken in by another pet lover,
but who knows where.
Shadow – pride of eldest sister,
he succumbed after becoming thermally ill
though diminutive for a black lab,
his absence left a void quite large to fill.
Socrates - dealt with harsh mistreatment
and distemper than tossed out
like trash, mine to sisters,
who nursed him with tender loving care
from his faux paws to a keen snout
which maintained his longevity no doubt.
Teddy – another throw away pet
found at Jacobsburg –
near Easton, Pennsylvania.
one lame leg (damaged
during his puppy hood)
lived til olde age.
my younger sister ( Shari)
brought him and Ruff home,
where their entire life he did stay
inherently evincing intelligence
that happiness found that chance
provided a doting owner this way.
Sometimes I think
My computer is plotting against me
And only me!
Trying deliberately to drive me mad.
My computer knows
When I am busy,
Then it throws a hissy fit.
Constantly Crashing
It often refuses to boot up,
And crashes constantly.
It loses data it had the day before.
Or five minutes before.
Or refuses to save the data.
Just messing with me.
As it loves toying with me
Making me yell and scream
On my computer screen.
Can’t Open Files
Often when trying to open
A document in Word,
The Word open file button
Fails to respond
Sometimes you have to wait
Five minutes for it to respond.
Or when trying to open a file
The computer opens a random file
Instead.
Or when trying to open a document
It kicks you out
Often several times
Random Blue Screen of Death
Cursing up a blue stream of blue curses
As the blue screen of death
Marches across the dark blue screen
Smiling at me.
Years ago my computer
converted everything
to the number 6 endlessly scrolling
down the blue screen of death.
Endless Non-Response Spinning blue wheels
Copy and Paste Wiping out document text
Or when doing a simple copy-and-paste function
The computer defaults to the last command
Making you have to do it again and again
Up to five times sometimes
And on a random basis
The copy and paste function
Wipes out all data
In the document
And to add insult to injury
Deletes all previously saved version
Sending the data
Into computer limbo land
Never to be found again
All without warning
Just zip it's gone!
Frozen Num Lock
Another thing
My computer loves doing
Is on a random basis,
Turn the numbs lock on
Without warning
Turning text into numbers.
Requiring you to manually
Turn off the number lock.
Defaulting to Foreign Languages
A very annoying feature
Is that when you log in from overseas
Everything defaults to a foreign language
Usually without the ability to change
It back to English
Mission Accomplished
And all the other gobbledygook messages
That pops up every five minutes, it seems
As the computer slowly drives me mad.
Flashing the final insult
User-driven mad
Mission accomplished.
I could smell the ballpark in my glove
Lose myself in the crooked sky above
Hear the roar of the crowd in my bat
Oblivious to your epitaph called stats
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
So you bought a curse named Ruth
Not to mention 26 Octobers to boot
Did you do it to spite this game
Integrity sold for the price of fame
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
You built a cathedral from which to boast
Helped the Babe exorcise Gehrig’s ghost
Buried Maris beneath a Mantle of shame
Sleeping with a bottle and two dames
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
Joltin Joe swinging that Marilyn clout
The mighty Casey you struck out
Too old for a springtime affair
Welcome Jeffrey Maier
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
Three times a charm in the Bronx zoo
Reggie’s knockin them out, Billy too
Who needs a bookie if you have a boss
You can bet you’re fired after a loss
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
Beware the seduction of pinstripe sin
Immortalized by Jeter’s cocky grin
Four more pennants in five years time
Selling out is winning’s soul crime
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
So tell me George, when will it end
Is 200 million a salary cap or a trend
If it’s a general manager you seek
I hear the Devil comes real cheap
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I pray
Damned Yankees
I could smell the ballpark in my glove
Lose myself in the crooked sky above
Hear the roar of the crowd in my bat
Oblivious to your epitaph called stats
Dreaming a dream, called baseball