"bets" poems
A is for Alpha
B is for Barbie
C is for Couple
D is for Destiny
E is for Engagement
F is for Fancy
G is for Gullible
H is for Happy
I is for Illusion
J is for Jealous
K is for Kingdom
L is for Lonely
M is for Mistress
N is for Nagging
O is for Often
P is for Pregnant
Q is for Question
R is for Rejecting
S is for Suicide
T is for Traumatize
U is for Understand
V is for Vaguely
W is for Whisky
X is for Xanax
Y is for Yesterday
Z is for Zombie.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 3:07 AM UTC
And I will make sure that if anything were to happen,
It would do little to affect you.
It's not everyday
You find a goose that lays eggs
With speckled jewels and golden flakes
The world is full of incongruity
And there's no doubt about the certainty
That something bad may happen,
And we don't want that, do we?
So listen carefully.
The world is a giant carboniferous spicule
Hanging in a nest of hydroxic gas and particulae
Spinning within the gaps of a blackened dome
Of limitless space and out of control
There is no telling what way it will go
There is no prediction that has fortold
Any number of moments in this tumbling slumber
Between the darkest hell and the further horizon
I so deftly advise you with all certification
To please place your bets and fly by echolocation
Your eyes will mislead, your ears will displease
And there is no way we can refund divine warranties
This machinery
has a half life of quarks
And energies that vibrate into other orbits
Trajectories
Retaining the spin and informative piece
Of that golden goose let loose amongst the canopy
Of dark,
off into neverland, straight on
Till new morning,
Beyond the stars
So please good sir don't migrate away from me
I have so much to give and such pain I have seen
Those that fatten their goose with **** till it quacks,
Those ravenous souls who ate their gift for a snack,
And when life finally cuts them down to their last,
They will howl and yowl and pray that goose back.
This is a game,
Have a good little laugh
Don't waste your time or your money
On a daffy Aflack
Policy that keeps you policed to the earth,
No way to fly,
Stuck in the dirt.
That is no way to live in the dream,
That is no way to let death trickle in
So please, pretty please, make sure you have coverages
And a couple extra dollars in the pocket of those jeans
Wander freely, you great big atomic bomb, you.
Do catastrophic damages and I'll pay your dues.
Ride the road coast to coast,
Fly a bird 'round the world,
Take a truck till you're home,
Find a love you can trust.
Find a place where your egg
And your legs seek nowhere else
Lay down those roots,
It's Eden or bust.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
Bunga Bunga everywhere,
a powerful man with silly hair
seduced a girl too young and scared,
was married too but didn’t care.
Corrupt and feared!
Bunga Bunga sounds like fun,
a swimming pool and saucy sun,
an Egyptian that was on the run
Or, under-aged Morocun
Who ****** the boss!
Bunga Bunga ***** and *****
coffles of women to choose
and buy and grab and ride and use,
with confidence
and so much to lose,
but why didn’t he lose?
Why didn’t he lose when it was on the news
and hundreds of thousands of people accused
him of scandal and incompetence?
He never revealed his conscience
or any remorse for play boy antics
so far removed from his pedantic
stereotype as a political leader,
more like a ****** wheeler dealer,
pervy old ***** geezer,
over cologned,
greasy,
heavy breather;
machinating falsifier;
misogynistic **********
He prized a Ruby above the rest.
Bunga bunga, what a pest...
she leaked his private fetish fest;
poor Silvio, he tried his best
to hide the bribes and bets
and ****** and drugs and threats
but never could care
what was right and
what was fair.
Could only care
about the colour of his
**** hair.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
I remember you
from your beautiful smile
your cinnamon scented hair
your contagious laughter
your nail-biting addiction
your pointless insecurities
to our silly inside jokes
our dumb little fights
our peculiar bets
our goofy text messages
through tears and smiles
you were the only one who understood
my unspoken words
my concealed pain
my unexpressed happiness
my puzzled feelings
counting your days
we recalled our mischievous memories
when we danced in the rain
when we rang doorbells and ran away
when we pranked the gullible ones
when we stole Ikea pencils
when we fangirled over stunning guys
when we were together
everything turn into excitements
moments with you
I remember them all, Grace
it was a week before December twenty-fifth
when the monstrous cells stopped your heart
a glimpse of smile
appeared upon your face
as you're being taken
far away from us
skin turned pale
body stiffened
tears flooded my sight
there were wailing across the room
time flies like a bullet train without you
it's a rainy day today
you've always loved rainy days
sinking my knees in the dew-wet grass
raindrops whisper in my ears
as I brush off the gray snow from your stone
I still remember you, Grace
I still do
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
HEAR YE HEAR YE:
It's a wedding bell for bedding well cause' we're crushin' the illusion of Russian collusion! CNN wets on Russian bedding but Trump bets on Russian wedding, and you're invited to the bridal shower. Punking the monkery, dig the debunkery; from Rasputin to Putin it's time for some straight shootin'. Hillary looks old and glowers at Donald's rumored golden showers. Our media owes US an explanation for streams of steaming urination, but we are willing to forgive and use their wet diapers as debt wipers. My poem's appeal may take a toll, but let its little peal now roll:
****** ****** rings the bell
A Fake News warning; time to spell
out what was wet with Moscow girls.
Putin's putas ? Wisdom's pearls
were pried from Truth's reluctant shell,
banishing Hillary straight to hell.
None. It's what we want left over
from this hag. We now discover
beds were dry; it all amounted
(all those golden tricks recounted)
to less than a tepid bowl of kasha. . .
Russia laughed from her summer dacha.
InfoWars was on it first
while Dems spun lies from false to worst,
awarding cash for faked dossiers
embellished with the CIA's
well-trained performing circus-seal.
The FBI endorsed the deal
as RINOS horned in on the action:
Washingtonian distraction;
a democrat-concocted fuss—
. . . but we ALL paid Hillary to **** on us.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 4:47 PM UTC
It’s been said that I couldn’t do it,
Go without a nut till the end of December.
The whispers growing louder as
The bets are growing higher,
Cause no one trust the line that
Timur has given up the nut,
Ah, let me check... yes
From the mid of November.
Am I crazy to play this game?
Cause I’m as weak as any other man.
And what can be better then a nut on
A cold morning in mid of December?
And oh my god there’s so many nuts,
Of every shape, size and color
But ****** I’m a man and I can
Give up a nut till the end of December.
But you better believe it
That the day after The Cold Sad December,
Your boy is going crazy to celebrate
The End Of No Nut December.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
i am not one for making bets
but i bet your heart skipped too
when my soul recognized you
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
(To my sisters and brother)
I will always miss …
Our sunset ending quarrels
Our never-ending teases
Christmas’ shared carols
Warm hugs
Through sweet gazes
The sarcastic smiling faces
The growing-up races
Revenge taking chases
Greed over goodies to be hidden
In unpredictable places
And I will always miss …
Competitions and crazy bets
Singing hilarious duets
Of made-up songs in the shower
This innocence
Of our childish humor
Screamed from a room to another
That art of tricking eachother
To cleverly stay in control
Or wrestling over the remote control
And I will always miss …
Decades of shared history
Amplified joy and divided misery
Bursts of laughter on old tapes
Creatively imagined games
Of whirlpools in drapes
And goalkeeper leaps
Random costume parties
Daily role-play stories
Sega sagas from dusk to dawn
Alliances and conspiracies
Sisters, my lovely sisters
Wise, you have become
Loving wives, caring mothers
Soon, you will become
Make sure your kids relive
What we used to live
Their uncle will make you proud
Just like you fill him with pride
Brother, dear brother
I secretly looked up to you
As I grew older
I kept resembling you
It doesn’t matter
If you’re a little far
Brotherhood’s a matter
Of unbreakable bond
And I will always admire, respect, love and cherish …
Every single one of you
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Hey kid, you've been dead a few weeks and I'd just like to say hello. The ground has its first December coat of fragile snow over your dead body and I know you can't feel the cold but I'll tell you right now, I can see my frozen toes, just barely move them, breathe up into the sky, Id be lying if I said I still cry every day. But, I'm lying to myself if I said that I'm not trying to take back your pain every day in a way that won't make your heart start beating again.
I wonder if those butterflies ever drank up the nectar from your blood, probed their soft tongues into the velvet of your cuts, those razor blade ribbons, oh holy romantic, how you bleed like Mozart and bleed like ballads of classic rock stars, how they whip your face with sour sweat and drugs and drugs and drugs until you find yourself half asleep, brain swept under the rug.
Did you know only 1.5% of drug overdose related suicide attempts are successful? Beautiful blonde martyr for an ugly catholic high school in an ugly state in the ugliest of its hearts, how does it feel to be 1 in 100? How does it feel to be a rarity, carbon pressed into diamond? How does it feel to be cry for a week, left in the grass to roll like waves, buried without a name and a face and a grave?
In the latest of solemn sleep deprived nights I press my ear to the chest of the 100th depressed boy I come across and don't feel Vicodin climbing up his arteries, don't feel Klonopin, OxyContin, Ibuprofen. I can't seem to find the one, who knows, maybe you were it and all my efforts really were wasted. All those nights I've stayed up late did nothing. All those knives I stole, all that blood I wiped away with t-shirt sleeves, all the blankets I've put around stupid shaking shoulders, all the bittersweet will this be the last time your skin is this warm hugs, God did they mean nothing at all?
I lock my jaw into a permanent silence, buy back time by putting my money where your knife is. I take bets on when someone will die next. I read the label on every bottle of Xanax. I roll over in my bed again and again, and try to put you to rest again.
Amen.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
My addiction is starving
My demons are arguing
The classic threats
Their classic bets
On for wich one of them I will fall
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
In the short story, "The Rocking-Horse Winner" written by D.H. Lawrence, the young boy, Paul, associates luck with wealth and bets large amounts of money on the soon-to-be winning horses. His family is extremely wealthy but can barely afford to keep up to their title. What is one thing that society does not know yet the children do about the mother? They know that their mother does not love her own children. She gives them everything they need and want except for one thing. And that one thing they do need is love. One knows love by the look in their eyes. It is much more difficult to lie with eyes than with words and actions. She is materialistic and adores money and extravagance. I think we all agree that the mother is oblivious to her situation. How are we not like the mother? The truth is, we are exactly like the mother. She doesn't realize that love is not a number, money or products but that love is looking into one's eyes and showing true affection. We are in complete illusion that wealth leads to happiness. We think the same thoughts when the more we have, the more successful we may be however in reality, it is false. A perfect example is Black Friday. Companies, businesses and customers all decided to cut the Thanksgiving holiday to purchase more "stuff" to make them "happy". They decided to cut the time to spend with family, friends and relatives to spend for themselves and others. Who is the villain in the story? Most believe villains are a something or a someone who prevents the "good guy" from achieving their goal, also known as an antagonist, however the villain in this story cannot be seen, touched, smelled or even tasted. It can only be spoken and heard of. It is an imaginative villain. It is merely the manipulation of the mind of the misconception that luck is associated with wealth. This begins the entire issue with obsession and materialism. I'm sure we all agree that luck is something that happens to you without you possibly deserving or expecting it. But what is luck when others are given it? For example, if a random stranger gives your friend $100, another $1,000, but gave you only $20. Would you still feel lucky? Well, in all honesty it all depends on our circumstances, which then determine our values. Shouldn't it be reversed where our values determine our circumstances?
In the end, over the many years of bets and deference, Paul has been riding his rocking horse to find the true winner and to find luck.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
In my hour of childhood
I was simple-hearted and free.
The notion of existence
Intricately confounded me.
The true nature of my essence
Was not of my discerning.
To be—right here and now
I did not find such concerning,
If existence is a concept
Then I am the spawn of chaos.
Truly, those of lack of truth
Cannot bear what is definitively best
Existence is brief, and life is a flower
Prepossessing and free, but gone in an hour.
This was my cognition set
In a world consumed with children's life bets
There is nothing in my trials,
Nought in my sentimental thought
Nothing in my possession, not at all within pure dreams
That has the strength to restore my blessed, beloved simplicity...
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
determination?
all i have are half-hearted
bets i always lose
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Crave the entire world.
Hedging bets is a disuse.
Leave nothing to chance.
Throw everything at the moon.
Burn among the fallen stars.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Walking along on the shingle spit
At Keyhaven near to Milford on Sea
You can almost touch the Isle of Wight
Less than a mile away o'er the lea.
Crab-fishing next at Mudeford Quay
With Lizzie and Sam on the nets
When off flies my hat which then lands in the sea
Chase is given but I’m taking no bets.
Later, me new-hatted, we sit by a pub
Enjoying our lunch and a chat
And we laugh at the turn of events in the day
Particularly at the flight of my hat.
Wearily later to our lodgings we go
Chicken Cacciatore for dinner, by me
We then all collapse and nod off to sleep
This just always will happen by the sea.
©Joe Wilson – A Windy Day by the Sea…2014
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
Let the Dealer take to his Gambles spend
Such that his Boots would limit to arcade
Which two-fold bets cast odds on top descend
And his Service strikes without much delay
I meant the Italian you happened to wear
And strip for Happy Golgotha delight
You wanted Admirers in Cheerful bear
Then their Smiles came true for their ****** Sight
After all, Talk Show's a Norm-for-the-Woos
Which indeed supplements the Popular
Which you desired; And asked you turn loose
To be one of those Studs Spectacular.
Happy for you. Since your own Flesh at stake
As you are now Ripe; Your Best Rind you make.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
Plead on naysayer
Like the pride of a mouth breather
Calloused like the fringe of a broken guard rail
You're sharp, and your halfwit isn't enough to keep a light lit
But you're clever and you're under my skin with your blood *****
Have you gotten close enough to check my pulse yet?
Tell me what it says, I'm sure it's morse code for something
Because It's been speaking to me in languages I've never heard of, but based on the hurt I've taken bets
Risky guesses better then what the wind lets
If I let go it'd take me back to limbo
Where the rats and the people scurry all the same, it'd take me somewhere, I don't know
I've let you pull me apart to climb inside to take a tour of my heart
To let you punch me so hard, something on the other side would come out as a show of art
Like a line of blow to the nose, the rows of the pews awe align
To make a sound so hurtful, not even your father would turn to give an eye
Embarrassed I let you tear me apart, just because I wanted to know what was inside
I can't say a word, but two, and all they are is good bye
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
When will we learn that
we cannot hide.
From fears and doubt,
time to cast away our pride.
No time for foolish thoughts,
or for regrets.
Let's try to forgive, and in love,
let's place our bets.
The time is ticking
on the clock.
No time to waste, or in
each other mock.
Cheating lying, gossip...
"oh this has to stop!
Does it really matter,
who is on top?
There is room for all of us
to play.
In this world, as we go to work,
and teach the kids to pray.
No time for bullying
or calling names.
No need to ridicule,
as some people like to blame.
Let's pull together to take
a stand.
To help each other and
lend a helping hand.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 6:11 AM UTC
There's a tiny park a short walk from here
where no one ever goes.
Though it's always abandoned,
I like to walk there when it snows
'cuz it seems like
a relative.
Don't complain to me, my friend
if your face is feeling raw;
It gets cold here in Montana,
and December nights get long.
and they have not
failed me yet.
So salt your frigid frown
and lay down bets on warmer times
in five more months, the thaw will come
and we just might quit rolling snake eyes.
Icy air is not your enemy
and neither are this small city
or I.
The same park, it has a baseball field,
leaf-covered, looking old
the dugout's still in good repair,
but the basepaths overgrown
remind me of,
A New Year's alone
Remember one warm night when we thought
we were in the mood
to walk to the convenience store
for some box wine and some food?
we played cards,
locked in my room...
Now we're crying California tears
from laughing all night long.
And you don't really hate Montana,
you're just doing Winter wrong.
So lay your anger down
and hedge your bets 'til nicer days
don't stay inside, 'cuz you don't have to.
Graft my smile over your grimace,
this dull white-out's not the end for us
and neither is the bitter cold
outside.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
Beneath that loved and celebrated breast,
silent, bored really blindly veined,
grieves, maybe lives and lets
live, passes bets,
something moving but invisibly,
and with what clamor why restrained
I cannot fathom even a ripple.
(See the thin flying of nine black hairs
four around one five the other ******
flying almost intolerably on your own breath.)
Equivocal, but what we have in common's bound to be there,
whatever we must own equivalents for,
something that maybe I could bargain with
and make a separate peace beneath
within if never with.
3k
This is a formal complaint to one Cupid
on behalf of the population of earth.
We find that you've become somewhat,
how can we put it mildly....
unsavory
ever since you started drinking. We've
found that you have not been taking
your job seriously at all since that time
We were understanding at first. Your
job? It's not an easy one. It tolerates
almost no failure, and requires both
physical and mental capacity that is
beyond what most of us can spare.
However...we feel that the alcohol is
affecting your judgement and character
in a way that we can no longer accept.
Below, we've listed the particularly
heinous abuses of your power
1. Taking bets on what you can make people fall in love with. John is now smitten with a cactus while Jenny can't stay away from the inflatable Santa Claus on the Morgans' lawn.
2. Having very attractive women fall in love for your...erm...personal pleasure. That's just offensive
3. Having members of the same family fall in love. The vulgarity of it all is just appalling! It's an ****** epidemic!
4. Shooting your arrows at Rhinoceroses and then laughing as they charge a poor unsuspecting person is not funny.
5. Likewise, shooting an unsuspecting person and having them fall in love with a Rhinoceros who doesn't reciprocate is equally unfunny
6. Last, but not least...Please fix the Republican Candidates. Mitt Romney and Rick ******** are trying to get married next week. While I'm happy that they are now "for" gay marriage, this cannot be tolerated.
So? Do you have anything to say for
yourself? Is that alcohol I smell on your
breath? You don't even care, do you?
Well...we have no choice but to revok---OW!
Oh dear.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
The stately oak stands solemn and quiet
Alongside the bucolic covered bridge
Its branches hanging downward as if tired
Leaves falling slowly into the current
Of the rain swollen Watauga River
The shadow of the tree clinging starkly
Onto the weathered century-old planks
Speaking of a time not so far removed
When bridge and tree was the gathering place
For a day's respite from a hard week's toil
Farmers, merchants, wives and children gathered
With picnic baskets filled with fried chicken
The women chatting in their new bonnets
The children wearing last year's Sunday best
While the men make bets like Roman soldiers
The low mound where the tree's roots are anchored
Bare earth beneath the lowest hanging limb
A crude stool of newly cut pine upright
While waiting for the next unwilling guest
Courthouse clock chimes the hour of Golgotha
r 14Jan14
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Watching men defeat each other,
Like it's our own little Colosseum.
People pay to be up close,
To be with the winning team as they boast.
The women stand at the side,
Cheering for front line tide.
They will crash with the other team's wave,
Split the difference bets are made.
Body on body they battle each other,
Do they even know one and another?
Or do they just follow the coach's words,
"Push forward boys, make them hurl."
Game after game,
They do the same thing.
Win or lose,
They still get paid.
Paid the big bucks to put on a show,
Commercials roll on before you know.
Get you to buy, get you to watch,
Buy this ****** like Miss March.
Forty-Sixth battle same as all before.
Crowds will still cheer, the cheerleaders are all ******
Losers will ***** and the Referee always *****
These mindless men get paid the big bucks.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 6:12 PM UTC
Under alcohol umbrellas
We'll seek shelter from the snow
This street is icing over
Sliding sleet beneath our toes.
This place keeps getting colder,
They predicted our bad luck
But the globe is growing warmer
Choke me down, I'll get choked up.
It's like Wharton is your neighbor
And McCarthy shares her bed--
We've got plenty Pretty Horses
But no Room, here, for Old Men
Tickers spit out headlines
Half of us can't even read.
But the other half's no better,
We're cannibals eating dreams.
So you'll keep your smoke and mirrors.
And, reflecting, stifle coughs.
Operate under assumptions:
Overrated's good enough.
But I'm taking bets, suggestions,
And donations, West to East.
So, from minor indiscretions,
I might try to beg release.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC