"bess" poems
Here are the names of my lovers,
The women I sleep with, whom
I use, like they use me.
Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs
Satiated, they climb aboard another man.
What they do not know,
Is that in my mind, in my ears,
everywhere,
I did not let them, or you go,
We are still romping,
For I
Take them as needed.
I need them all,
For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart,
Addictive, endless.
If your is name is here, I do not
Apologize.
Pink
Adele
Lilly Allen
Anna Nalick
Bess Rogers
Beyonce
Brandi Carlisle
Cat Power
Colbie Callait
Duffy
Eva Cassidy
Evanescence
Alison Sudol
Fiona Apple
Florence Welch
Grace Potter
Ingrid Michaelson
You
Joni Mitchell
K.D. Lang
Kate Nash
Kate Voegele
Leona Lewis
Lizz Wright
Madeline Peyroux
Marie Digby
Mary Wells
Norah Jones
Regina Spektor
Sara Bareilles
You
Sara Haze
Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman
Tristan Prettyman
Vanessa Carlton
So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces,
Which can't be googled.
Use them hard, use them often, more than daily.
Bluntly, I tell you
Your name is on my list,
Even if I do not disclose it.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men:
The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me, believe me,
The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me.
He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black een,
And vow’d for my love he was diein;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein,
The Lord forgie me for liein!
A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I ken’d it, or car’d,
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what *** ye think? in a fortnight or less,
(The deil tak his taste to *** near her!)
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
But a’ the niest week I fretted wi’ care,
I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there,
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock.
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.
But owre my left shoulder I *** him a blink,
Lest neibors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie.
I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover’d her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet—
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin.
He begg’d, for gudesake, I *** be his wife,
Or else I *** **** him wi’ sorrow:
So e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.
3k
Yesterday, all things were dark
Like burning candles in the dusk.
Hibiscus, pear, and witches brew
And dragon's blood caught in the musk
Notions now, seemed **** then
And stealing out into the dark
I dreamt I was the highway man
After my Bess's fickle heart.
The moon above; cycloptic eye
Watched reverently as I crept
Across the mud and bracken path
Where willow trees once stooped and wept.
The musician crickets, with violin legs
Stroked their notes under the sky
And chirping peepers, peeking out
Sang louder in their sweet reply.
A long forgotten hidden grove
That bore the markers of the dead
Was where, for peace, I stopped to roam
Over the grass, to clear my head.
And there- amongst the silent mass,
Who find repose under the land-
I listened to their noiseless words
The silence, which I understand.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
_the mythic Esther notwithstanding_;
the only Jewish Miss America was
Bess Myerson; Miss New York, &
exemplar of classic beauty c.1945
studying German philosophy
living on the upper east side;
surrounded by rich Park Avenue
Jews - spewing Nietzschean
Nihilism causing them to _shudder_
at the thought of relatives dragged
from homes never to be seen
again; they don't want to hear
that **** - my buddy Mingus Jr.
bringing mechanical bebop to
his constructed paintings;
on
the other hand, I'm going on & on
about Heidegger & Schopenhauer,
Brian Eno, David Bowie, Hegel,
****** Goebbels & Riefenstahl;
my paintings are violent; as if
Jack the Ripper & James Whistler
were the same guy; all women are
beautiful by nature, but I would've
done it different - put the snooch
on top, the udders on the bottom,
*** in front, arms & legs splayed
out to the sides; yes, that's better,
Diane Arbus, Ann Frank, Hannah
Arendt, Dori Bernstein, Alison
Linefsky & Eva Hesse are more
beautiful than Lilith & Eve mixed;
I hate being called a antisemitic;
it's a painful reminder that at the
moment I don't have a Jewish gf
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
travelin north on rumblin boxcar trains
soft iron rails confess syncopated pains
slow rhythmic rush of spinning paddlewheels
full immersion baptism in Big Muddy swales
feint clip clop thoughts of ol Bess fade fast
hum a hue of delta blues to hard times past
I lift a quiet prayer to my Lord’s willowy ear
to quell the ugly whispers of yonder city fears
Jacob Lawrence
Panel 23
Migration Series
Duke Ellington:
Daybreak Express
Orlando
9/24/17
jbm
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
Smokey Edge, Georgia.
I Wait in the diner. Not long ago Whites Only.
Now filled with black folks.
Mom would say “persons of color,”
that would include the two Hispanic truckers
and the Chinese cook.
Mom said “don’t go, no need to”.
She’s never been.
Gives me the silent treatment
while murdering Chopin on tortured keys.
Cousin Ed slides into the booth.
Across from me he glistens sweat,
wipes his forehead, grins, squeezes my hand.
“Hi cousin Citygirl, “ and adds “Chocolate au lait”!
Mocking, or teasing, I don’t care.
“Ok, double espresso” I say.
Red on white No Trespassing sign rusts in the grass.
Vine assaulted shack is all what’s left of it,
the Juke Joint where grandpa played
banjo with a bottleneck slide,
making it screech and sing.
Where the women Bess sang and danced.
The one he talked about incessantly,
when he had forgotten who we were.
How he pressed into her, ****** her behind the joint,
how she smelled and laughed and rocked the blues,
how she put her lips to the glass of bathtub gin, just so.
Short crepuscule gives way to night. Mosquitos come thick.
“Listen up Citygirl, hear the sounds, ghost drums and strings.”
I hear grandpa’s banjo, the slide’s screech, Bess sings.
I smell the funk, the sweat, ripe heat, the Blues.
I put my arm around his waist, grind into him
I want him hard, in me, lick his sweat.
He pushes me away, “hear up Citygirl,
I‘m not grandpa and you aint no Bess.”
Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth March 2012
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
Someone left a black leather briefcase
at the bus station sometime earlier this week.
They called in a bomb squad
from over in Springfield
after the thing sat there for hours
emitting an aura of chilled sweat;
it took them just as long to get their
from what I've been hearing.
They blew the thing up.
Right there in the bus station,
they blew that ****** briefcase
to Hell and back after an X-ray
found wires and a circuitry board.
This is not a big city,
it's not a small town either,
but here we have a place
that I arrive at twice daily
getting pseudo-bombed
and I can hardly scrape up
the dollar for bus fare at times.
A warehouse over on Jasper street
caught on fire a few days later;
an inferno in close quarters,
so they knocked the old Bess over
so the flames didn't spread.
There is still a giant pile of rubble
at the site; bricks with masonry companies
imprint on the sides, rusty bars that were either
too heavy, or too stuck for scrapping fiends,
and a hell of a lot of odorous char.
This is a winter of fire in Decatur,
but the bones still chill.
The starter is going out
in the 91' Cutlass
that sits in my driveway
braving the winds.
I can hear that grinding noise;
the expensive one.
The one that says,
"Your savings is low!"
every time you think
you're going to have
a stable ride to work.
The bus is reliable,
the route is what will drive
a sane man off the edge.
You start to get sick
of seeing the same ****** places,
the same ****** turns,
the same ****** bumps, and
the same ****** passengers.
Plus, the radio makes Monday
just a little more tolerable
when you get the option
of stopping for breakfast.
I like that car.
Friday seems like a back brace right now,
and I've had just enough caffeine
to where I don't think I can stand a nap.
I'm just glad to have my shoes off, and
the reassuring calm of an uncashed check.
I'm starving.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
Wutsa matter wit you?
Whirr you frumm?
You from summ furren country?
Cain’t you tawk better den at?
Murruhkunz doan tawk Inglush lie cat.
We talk good Inglush. We tawk da bess Inglush.
Ain’t nobody tawk better den us.
Irregardless of whut kine uh furriner you are
You could not tawk so ignernt.
It’s a insult tah good Murrukuhns tawkin lie cat.
You should be imburrst to tawk ataway in public.
Should be ashaymt uh yerself.
Yenno, peepo c’n perject thur ignernce
’N thur lack intelluhgunce so easy.
They jess open up thur mouths
’N let the dumbness fall out
’N thur it is, fer alll to see.
Yude thank they’d realize what dumshits they are
’N not let thur mouths write checks
Thur butts cain’t cover.
But, no. They’s flappin’ thur yaps an babblin’
‘Bout nothin’ at all, ’n actin’ the pure fool
Lack thur mamas din teach them nuthin.
Well, nuthin’ good, at lease.
Me, muhseff, I thank sumbuddy
Shoulda kicked thur butts
From here ta Sundee.
But, thass jess me.
I know thurs a buncha bleedin’ heart libralls out thur
That wanna let peepo get by with crap jess ‘cause
Sumbuddy is a Niger er ‘cause they’s Messcun
Er sum kinda ******* heathen er ‘sump’n,
But I thank thass jess wrong.
Peepo gotta talk good jess to respeck the flag
’N God n’ country. Or go home.
Yeah, go on back to whatever Godless place
You ’n your race ’n yer ideas is okay.
We rilly doan need ‘em here.
We’s good, God fearing’ peepo and hard working too.
So, if that ain’t you, *** on yer camel ’n ride
Back tah whurever you cumm frumm
Till you c’n tawk good Iinglush lack decent fokes.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
A lover to a sailor’s mast,
She’s leaving me,
…moving; fast.
Cris-crossed with linen,
Set to sail,
A relation-ship…
…I had failed.
Low-hanging moon,
Way out yonder, -there,
Glint off her spar,
So far now,
I don’t care.
Frothy seas of waves impress,
Is it a lonely beach?
Shore, sure;
I guess.
A bottle drained,
In some sadness, yes,
Fill a glass; to my Bess.
If I told you, you could have it all?
Soar the heavens, never fall.
Said my man she’d never leave,
A life of love a life achieved.
There’s your lover,
You’re manning a sailor’s mast,
Wind is blowing oh-so-fast,
Low-hanging moon,
A relationship -steeled,
Wounded heart of hers…
It had been healed.
Steady waves, a gentle rock,
Endless days since you’d had that talk.
On a course together all through life,
The happiness and the spice of nights,
Frothy seas, gentle waves, and nights they fold right into days...
If I told you,
You could have it all?
Soar the heavens,
And never fall?
Lonely empty bottle...
Rolling in the froth,
Goodbye my Bess,
my love; I’ve lost.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
Everything was all
Lit candles and dusk
Hibiscus and pear
Unfurling out in smokey dragon tongues
Across my navy blanket.
Things seemed...
Sexier then
On a twin bed, surrounded by miles of
Forest.
Some nights,
Like a Highwayman
I stole away through the parting branches
The moon's cycloptic eye a beacon
Through the dead tree sea
And run to my Bess for kisses
Sweet, not-so-innocent touches
In the courtyard that overlooked
The Cemetery.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
there stood the queen
in her dressing gown
upon her face she wore
a very long frown
for she had lost
her diamond and ruby crown
she hoped it would be found
before sundown
she called Scotland Yard
to search every locale
as without her crown
she'd be an unadorned gal
inspector Jones arrived
in his ex-army jeep
telling the queen
that he'd catch the thieving creep
he thoroughly combed
every inch of England
he even looked under
the white Dover sands
a lady in central Manchester
gave him an address
saying that a felon in Soho
had the crown of queen Bess
high and low in the streets
of Soho he did look
to find this most
cunning and stealthiest of crooks
by a measure of luck
he found him sitting on a park bench
he was talking to
a criminal associate named Roger Dench
the inspector seized the felon
and cuffed his hands
saying pilfering won't be tolerated
in any part of England
at Scotland he grilled
him for information
about the queen's crown
which he pinch without hesitation
some three days later
he fronted an Old Bailey judge
who sentenced him
to sixteen years of jail drudge
overjoyed was the queen
to have her crown back
she could now wear it
to The Ascot Race Track
the inspector was knighted
by good queen Bess
as he was a fine man
at the detection profess
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
If all I am's the landlord's daughter
High up in my room
Then you're the lonely Highwayman
That rides beneath the moon
Though, unlike Bess, the little death
I sought did not bring end
Not to our lives, but to our dreams
That rose so to descend.
My sacrifice was not my life
Lost somewhere in the dark
My method then of saving you
Was severing us apart.
For one to live a fuller life
The other must endure
A subdued sadness veiled beneath
Another’s cruel censure.
To keep you safe, I’ll bow my head
And watch on past your form
Knock on another’s doleful Inn
This Bess won’t cause you harm.
Ride on, my precious Highwayman
There’s nothing here for you
Your treasure lies beyond this Inn
A path you must see through.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
There once was a woman named Mrs Bess
Who couldn't find her own address
She got slightly confused on the way there
And ended up at a village this side of Mayfair
Not being able to find her address stressed Mrs Bess
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
bess was her name,
she had soft pale skin,
scarlet red lips,
blushed pinky cheeks,
her hair long and silky,
her smile as if the sun had just ripened a mango,
well it used to be,
she no longer smiled for nothing seemed to make her happy,
from the largest mansions to the smallest flowers,
but none of it pleased her,
she no longer had friends,
after all no one wants to be with a miserable person,
she did have one secret that she was forever forbidden to tell,
No one knows to this day,
where bess is,
or her strange secret,
but just one person knows,
the mindkeeper knows,
but the mindkeeper is too hidden,
in the place not a living soul dares to go,
in a place with more and more filling the place every time.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
We'd run in mornings
With breath crisper than limestone.
Now her legs are stiff.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
So they said, that we cannot be together,
And you said your goodbyes ,
So they ruled, that we will be apart forever,
But I think that they are all lies.
Because you and me, me and you,
We are not supposed to part,
Even if the storm arises, out of the blue,
You will always be the beat of my heart.
So they said, that you don't deserve my affection,
And you hesitantly agreed,
So they declared, that false is , for each other, our passion,
But I say, our love is a book, they can't read.
Because you and me, me and you,
We are not supposed to part,
Even if the storm arises, out of the blue,
You will always be the beat of my heart.
For them , I am their honoured Queen,
And you, a mere Rank,
So, loving you , with all my heart and soul, is a sin,
But, guess what, without you, my life would become a blank.
I don't care what they think about us,
Whether loving you is right,
For the ones who judge us, I am their Bess,
And a Bess , never gives up on a fight.
Because you and me, me and you,
We are not supposed to part,
Even if the storm arises, out of the blue,
You will always be the beat of my heart.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
well im the funky hocus pocus
emcees loose focus
cuz they know when i step to a show i blow
harder than Gillespie
aint none stoppin me droppin' me
uh true southern playalisticadicallic music
ya cant abuse it
ya thiught we was dead but resurrected injected
ya brain with a high funk overdose no syringe no pretend
our flows leave ya bent
competition just blowin'in the wind
my flow stings like misquito
enticin' west nile virus sound the chorus
dirtu ***** is what im about
we fight neva pout the gun in to snout
one shot no shout we all about
dollaz n cents i see you instense
but naw playa dont hate me
hate the suspense
as my money gettin' thicker
and thicker
richer and richer
and ya know foes try to roll.with ya uh
yosef don't play no games
when it comes to fame
I say **** the fame
n the shame
I love black people
but hate ****** mane
detrimentAl for out mental
tv's paint a tainted reality no positivity
in the black community
they told me
if I wanna be a star performing artist
I gotta sellout
Naw never that I like raider hats and baseballs bats to gats
quick to watch ya blood splat
**** the records execs
cuz I'm a threat poetic terrorist
this ain't the summertime
but I'll show ya porgy and Bess blessed from the sessed
so I can manifest
this beautiful lyrics
so foggy you couldn't clear it
I'm on ya conscious like bad nerves
twitchin forever lynching
mind of those who ain't listening
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
just thought of really deliciously ridiculous mean stuff to do
Rayne fed me an onion and I almost spat it back in his face
And then he fed me a bite of his dessert on a spoon and left the spoon in my mouth
And I almost spat it on the floor
And then he was breathing out and I really wanted to burp in his face
young tongue gone dumb
from bunned girls harsh sling
delirious
here: clear he is
Romare Bearden
Forrest Bess
I’ll becoming through
The truth will soon be-coming through me
Hmmmmm. What's that? sniff sniff Smell yummy. Hmmmm. Oh! Oh! Hot! Hot hot hot hot!! blows blows hmmmm Yummy!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Night was falling fast
touches were being lite
up to the hut of Bess Brown
who was deemed to be a witch
They pulled her spitefully from her bed
sticks in hand they beat around the head
tying her slender hands behind her back
they cruelly dragged her back to town
A witch finder had been called
because of all the gossip told
that Bess Brown talks to her black cat
and feeds him blood from on her lap
This I knew to be not true
it was all lies from a hateful few
throwing her down on muddy ground by the town clock
some small children started kicking her to the stocks
How normal folk change in to wild beast
screaming for her blood and death
so they tied her to a pole, burnt her to the ground
that was the trial of poor Bess Brown
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
Nothing like a love song.
One with smooth love lyrics like composer Smokey Robinson that touches your heart.
Describing her in ways you thinking of in your mind.
Nothing as beautiful than listening to Curtis Maybe spelling out the best of a gorgeous woman.
Especially one with soul.
And pointing out looks is in the eyes of the beholder.
Males understand the focus of an attracted lady.
And how to craft ways to touch her within.
William Hart and Thom Bess are others writers that left their mark with smooth love lyrics.
And this goes for Eddie Holland and Norman Whitfield.
Of course there are others just as good writing smooth love lyrics.
Words, are written and songs are born.
Some coming from just a simple love poem.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
Veiled from the world the Queen did keep
A 'bastard' girl who cost her sleep
Though tethered down and kept from sight
Still she shone forth as purest light
A brazen heart (to match her hair)
Beat in the breast of 'maiden fair'
She fuelled her lusts for life with love
Of country, and of God above
She sought no spouse to guide, for she
Was wise enough for her country
As fire and ferver burned within
Ne'er a fool charmed his way in
Her sister, on her ravaged throne
Felt only fire for her betrothed
Yet failed to birth a princely son
And ruled and died in fear, undone
And thus, Bess ruled as Princes do
Absolute, and mightily too
And whether truth, or rumour stark
Purity did become her mark
For she who held her own did learn
By passion, one could easily burn
And thus she led, her heart beholden
To England; and their reign was golden
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 4:52 PM UTC
Aye! Foreign Eye; tooth for a truth! you gnome eyne sane? Troot I owe ewe nah, youths dunno, you fin nah Noll. *** eye us fin nah per se, foe Theo Theo, ewe know O you no, enter ups shun, wot in the hex dies... jest say? Dis' awe beast anaconda sate shun bout Intrusion. O Why? O Why? O Eye, ice bins scratch in at Maya -Maya, day yum eye, forests rail lea bane it she laid lea. Wear Aye, yum Aye, yum Ah! Yea, *** eyes us sane, isis slow ands dims sum. Bess beefs be indy, indy, India, India, Far test fum yore deaf viand as understanding! O My! you oft de deep and of diem, diem... dim niche holes. couldst I ask I such without such plea? Pulleys! Pull East! Scaly wax inner interim oh, honor too, ides doe no, disease?
Lo! Land ** Too old geese sirs seize dearth closure mead wits mine ***** eye; and Naughty Wit Stan Ding disown. Yet fervor from mine arenose ol' hail home, I hath ne'er be -admit I to I; and plead to thee, wizened dis' Beseecher's breeching beach! Shea jest dis' a-greased wit who sow error to dew sew... ***** nil eat.
And therefore store my old hat lore, as I cast in twos that sea... Aye! thee, Foreign Eye! Truth for a truth, if truth it be, truth tell I, true to thee do I e'er be nah; e'er be I, true to thee from noun on; in air go, did jest *** you ditz dun to me, but now a blind eye a-see a freed bird!
- I caste you one lass time in due thus see. Cuss you beast an false eye, my you still dunce see, still blind you be, be dissin' in my sir name an airy way, and mode in air gone come.. a-seaward.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
When I walk in the park,
I hear the bees whispering their secrets in my ears.
They tell me all of the juicy gossip from the winds that blow their way.
They are telling me about your beauty,
They talk about your green eyes that stand out in the murky fogs of San Francisco,
They tell takes of the wars scars you wear on your arms with pride.
Sure these Bess were telling me these stories until I meet you.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC