"bally" poems
done turned like the radio dial -
zig zag in its artsy ness on
the afghan blankets, on the
bench seat old tahoe. never have
i ever ****** the gym owner in my
over achiever bally sports bra / or
i lie all the time.
and, like,
you could be the pink alien in tassled chaps
or the singer/poet.
dialed the pizza place and hung up,
dialed the congressman and hung up,
embarrassed -
without a trick to pull out of your
ultracool spacesuit.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
At two this midnight the little dark one
Became a poem, her all-knowing smile
The first stanza and her baby bird- glance
Became the next one as she pranced there
On the floor up and down like pendulum
Swinging in the free air, a full fall of force,
A pout of sarcasm from tiny baby lips.
I at midnight wanted to round it off
With a cool third stanza, of epigram
A last line well said, to the deep night.
But she wouldn’t let me, the little one
That squirmed in my hands like a worm
Full of bones that pushed against mine
In my withered palms and finger bones.
It is life which pushed against my death.
As the night creeps I once again go into
My epigrammatic mode of the old poet
With the bally irony thing barely broached.
The curl on my lips that briefly occurred
Vanished without trace in my confusion
As my eye followed her moving in circles.
I thought I had seen the curl on her lips.
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 7:38 PM UTC
Do you know what’s good in this world?
You, you ****** idiot,
expending all your energy
whirling and worrying
about what others think
while your very industry stops them sinking,
you almighty dingus
You bally fool!
Your absence injures
in increments felt by each person
you vex for, who miss you
which add in mounds and scores
and you shaped piles
while they would run for miles
to keep you in their orbit
So,
you massive plum,
let yourself feel it
Mar 25, 2021
Mar 25, 2021 at 2:38 PM UTC
Can you see Hyperborea's sun, shadowless
valleys where you cut word with tooth?
An unfettered wound stutters, blowing null what
timeless utterance it will.
Where does tomorrow sleep, your prospect in
stomach, cramped with fluxing zeros and ones?
As soon as you spoke your abstraction was pardoned.
Your home's abutted geography made its revolving
bally.
Dizzy you, concentric circles closing in, advising their
babe press forth.
Mythopoetically proud as hell of your circuit, a
metaphysical luminary midwifed in an etheric
manger.
Shadows mark their growth about our encampment--
G*d's peripheral nomads etching story.
Shelter bids welcome, unwelcome everywhere...its
doors blow about as the literature of distances.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
The Bally Lumpkin,
laying prostrate to the light.
Living in the Tao,
no need for wrong or right.
Yet untamed by convention,
subtle wisdoms still hold sway.
Love expressed through action,
mother’s milk, father’s play.
Rhythms of the cosmos,
from day to night to day.
This is the way of the Tao,
this is the life of the Bally Lumpkin.
He knows not the reasons,
he cares not the why,
the wind blows all the same.
Living in the moment,
not wondering when he’ll die,
nor how he’ll come to fame.
Intuition now guides his hand,
unfettered by yoke of reason.
But soon the yin gives way to yang,
a cosmic course of seasons.
The yin the yang in harmony,
one gives and takes forever.
This is the way of the Tao,
this is the life of the Bally Lumpkin.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Humanity
Long before my existence
Man has lived in terror and harmony
He has learned to love as well as hate his colony
Humans have learned to fight for one another, and also each other
Human has learned to manage resources and also waste it
To love and hate is now a daily affair
He sometimes forgets his allies and be bally
Humanity is our felony I wonder what we ought to give
What's love without pain
What's religion without faith
And harmony without hate?
What is Humanity without its animosity
Existence without perishing
For we make up humanity
Yet we are vain and evil
Sometimes, too good for the sequel.
May 4, 2023
May 4, 2023 at 3:36 PM UTC
The stakes are high
when words are at stake
It’s an open hand
we give
we take
waging with words
a gamble for me
playing a fine line
with cliche
or corny
no matter the draw
poker face
or story
that rhyme you find
too profound
too bally
I deal this poem
I roll
you read
double or nothing
a hit or miss
is always
guaranteed
Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 1:38 AM UTC
I had an Irish chicken
in France, found her on
the road at Killavullen,
near Mallow close to the
Cognac Brandy family
ancestral home, which
is called Bally Mac Moy.
Had it been a **** I
would have christened
him " Mac Poule ".
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC
I am free to sway from my precarious perch
Outstretch my wings of sullen words
And soak up the shadow light
Of another winter’s night
Morning is nigh and blanketed
By dawns lethargic cotton-bally sky
Melodic chirping and the droning on
Of another winter’s morning
The Sun’s warmth has yet to reach my hollow bones
Motionless and afraid
My indignation is not yet complete, reticent
Of another winter’s afternoon
And the light that once illuminated my soul
Has dimmed on this weary day and
I take flight as the red dusk promises the hope
Of another winter’s evening
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:29 AM UTC
If the Rubik's cube was round I'd roll it in the snow
caress it like a meatball then hide it in the dough
If it had same old shades of white aligned to match
and two knobby handles with a little silver catch
I would turn it slowly, rotate it, find the latch
If the Rubik's cube was spherical like soccer *****
combinatorially correct, without four simple walls
If it was soft in the center instead of hard like rock
I'd squish it into place just like a child of Dr. Spock
put it on a leash and slowly walk it round the block
If the Rubik's cube was a big old Ferris wheel of fun
I'd configure it with motion and solve it on the run
If the Rubik's cube was bally and built like solid O
I'd solve it in a jiffy, match the colors yell Bingo !
I'd wear it like a trophy and put it out for show
If the Rubik's cube was made for geniuses like me,
they'd be far too easy, and given out for free.
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
I rose one mourning
too the sounds
of flailing waters
on the edge
of the water gourged well
Where it declined
down into the Bally's
where no love
sake for money grows
The skies has no laments
The earth no true girt
The rocks pebble down
into Pisces of thoughts
For even they
turn to dust
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 4:38 AM UTC