"betsy" poems
I was fairly drunk when it
began and I took out my bottle and used it
along the way. I was reading a week or two after
Kandel and I did not look quite as
pretty but
I brought it off and we
ended up at the Webbs, 6, 8, 10 of
us, and I drank scotch, wine, beer, tequila
and noticed a nice one sitting next to me -
one tooth missing when she smiled,
lovely, and I put my arm around her
and began loading her with ********
when I awakened at 10 a.m. the next morning
I was in a strange house
in bed with this
woman. she was asleep but looked
familiar.
I got up and here was one kid running around in a
crib and another one running around the floor in
pajamas. I picked up a letter addressed to one
"Betsy R.", so I went back and said,
"hey, Betsy, there are kids running around all over
this place."
"oh Hank, **** it, I'm sick. I want to sleep, not
rap."
"but look, the ..."
"make yourself some
coffee."
I put the *** on and the little boy ran up in his
pajamas. I found a shirt and some pants and some
shoes and
dressed him.
then I cleaned a bottle with hot water, filled it
with milk and gave it to the kid in the
crib. he went for
it.
then I went in and squeezed her
hand. "I've got to go. are you all
right ?"
"yes, a little sick. but please don't feel
bad."
I called a yellow cab and we went back across
town.
is this what happened to
D. Thomas ? I thought.
if a man didn't think too much he could be proud of his little
conquests -
except that the women were better than we - asking nothing
as we squirted our poetry
our ******** our
***** to
them.
we were sick poets sick
people.
across town I knocked on the door of my host and
hostess.
"what happened ?" they
asked.
"nothing. got
lost."
they sat a beer in front of me
and I drank it as if I were
wordly:
a piece-of-ass
any-night
anywhere
type.
"somebody got a
cigarette ?" I asked.
"sure, sure."
I lit up and asked,
"heard from Creely
lately ?"
not giving a **** whether they had or
not.
4.3k
The envelope was red, white and blue just like the flag
Betsy Ross spent days with bleeding fingers over so many
years ago. It was addressed to me from an unknown sender.
I was giggly, jumpy. Who would write to me? I wasn’t important.
Just a seventh grade nobody stuck in a sparkly purple wheelchair.
Mom said I could join. She secretly wanted her outcast
of a daughter to have a sense of normalcy during her
last fading moments of childhood. I just wanted to have
fun. I wasn’t ready to accept that I was different. I knew
that I was. The stares told me so but I didn’t want to be.
The letter said that I could represent my fine country
as America’s National Teenager. Me? All I had to do was show
my ability by competing in a scholarship pageant. You know,
a beauty pageant except it wasn’t being called so because adults
are trying to be sensitive to teenager’s feelings because we’re
more likely to be sensitive, emotional and prone to disruptive
and potentially harmful outbursts. The perks of being a wallflower.
Teenagers, we know this. We’re also not stupid. I and every
other girl who would participate knew this pageant
was nothing more than a beauty pageant; a popularity
contest. That didn’t keep us from dreaming of becoming
rich and famous, stop the crying fits, hormones from raging
or acting like drama wasn’t our life’s goal and college major.
Four days in Southern Idaho and an eight-hour drive
to and from gave me plenty of time to practice my talent,
an essay. Even then, I knew I had no real physical attributes.
Instead, I shoved my fears aside and wrote, rewrote and polished
my essay on America until my parents, teachers, and friends
repeatedly had to tell me “that’s enough already. You’ll do great.”
I made friends, told stories, laughed until snot came out my nose
and answered the ever cautious “What happened to make you look
that way?” I had the time of my life. I knew I wasn’t going to win
because let’s face it, I’m not pretty enough. And just as predicted,
I left with “Most Inspirational” and cried ugly tears when I
didn’t come home as America’s National Teenager. Looking back,
I was a real American teenager. I don't need a pageant to tell me so.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
‘Tis the eyes of the Lobster: all beady and black
Little black pearls; but luster they lack
They stare and stare with nary a blink.
And heavens to Betsy if you know what they think!
With pinchers and crushers and blood of blue
I’m not so sure I’d want one in my stew!
The new year dawns and here am I
Writing of lobsters and I’m not sure why!
Oh, but I jest and of course I do!
‘Twas a bet! I lost! And now pay my due.
Sincere apologies to those who read.
I know it’s rough. I must complete this deed.
I hope this ditty; whatever it be
Fits the bill and you’re more than pleased, --!*
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 9:40 AM UTC
Cabin in the woods.
There is a cabin in the woods.
All are broken down from stormy weather.
Holes in the roof so birds can fly in and out.
No door to shut the air out.
Broken windows from days gone by and a few stones from those that know.
Floors all ***** and boards all torn.
Who own this cabin in the woods.
See if it is a hunter or a slave or maybe even old Abe.
The cabin in the woods may hide stories of Jessie James.
Or it could bring the tail of Betsy Ross making the flag for good old George.
All we know is this cabin sits here in the woods.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
Until tonight they were separate specialties,
different stories, the best of their own worst.
Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy's
laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first
story. Someday, I promised her, I'll be someone
going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum
school for proper girls. The next April the plane
bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned
and fear blew down my throat, that last profane
gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned
to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor,
sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure.
Maybe Rose, there is always another story,
better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory.
Half a mile down the lights of the in-between cities
turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy's
story, the April night of the civilian air crash
and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper,
the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash
ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her.
This was the rude **** of her; two planes cracking
in mid-air over Washington, like blind birds.
And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking
bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards
to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature
photograph left, too long now for fear to remember.
Special tonight because I made her into a story
that I grew to know and savor.
A reason to worry,
Rose, when you fix an old death like that,
and outliving the impact, to find you've pretended.
We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat.
I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.
2.1k
Interactive poetry: This poem to be read in a stereo-typical Tennessean female drawl
Why Elvis, let me tell you Elvis just loves Cadillac automobiles
And Elvis he is passionate for his sixguns
Why Elvis is simply devoted to his Mama
And don't you know Elvis he idolizes The Colonel
Now Elvis is wild about Harley- Davidson motorcycles
Truth is Elvis worships his fans
Oh Elvis he's quite mad for The Beatles, all four of them!
And naturally Elvis adores animals
I can't begin to tell you how much Elvis dotes over Lisa-Marie
and Elvis just adores animals...Oh heavens to Betsy didn't I just say that already
Oh my oh my Elvis is a peacock for fancy stage wear
Elvis Aaron Presley praises The good Lord Jesus
Oh The President, Elvis truly admires The President
And Elvis reveres The Stars and Stripes
Oh did I mention Elvis is crazy for cheeseburgers
Why Elvis he just loves drugs
Why Elvis just...
Why... Oh Elvis why?
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
Our prez is now Donald J Trump
Who has promised to clean out the sump
Well he's certainly no wussy
When groping a *****
What more to expect from a gump?
In charge of the Vice, Michael Pence
Said some things that embrace little sense,
"Global warming's a myth"
But's now taking the fifth
In attempting to straddle the fence
We all recall general Flynn
Put in charge of security spin
A trained atomiser
No more Trump's advisor -
His deal with the devil's his sin
The billionaire Betsy Devos
Making plans for a school albatross
Hating free education
Backs private castration
And kids will be bearing her Cross.
The Congress approved Jeff B. Sessions
Ignoring his racist obsessions
He seemingly cares
More for foreign affairs
While forgiving Klan's toxic transgressions.
Chief strategist Stephen K. Bannon
Develops the Great Again Canon:
The Goldman Sachs Bankster
Turned yellow rag gangster
Flings crap from the New Order cannon
Says EPA ruler Scott Pruitt
"Instead of dry facts, we intuit..."
(His work as denier
Keeps profits much higher)
"... If everything dies, well, just ***** it"
The war whoops of Mad Doggy Mattis
Awaken the death apparatus
With boundless expense
For a doomsday defence -
Armageddon administered gratis
The magnates no longer need lobby
Or fight regulations thought snobby -
Now set in the saddle
They're herding the cattle
And pulling the strings as a hobby
Now the Don can start wielding the axes
Truncating the tariffs and taxes
The Mafia boss
Is dismissing the dross
And poverty's pain as it waxes
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
WELCOME TO THE MOON
THE COWBOY says as he walks into one more bar before heading further west
He sits down at the bar in the Bronx and laments the sorry state of
LOVE and her love the POET
How small and sickly they've become, he groans
He tips the brim of his hat further downward to spy a couple sipping wine
The MAN and WOMAN
Who finally discover the seriousness they need to chase out all of the monsters and ignorant ghosts that are invisible and chew
THE COWBOY rocks back in the stool to contemplate the unrequited love of a LONELY IMPULSE OF DELIGHT he remembers a womangirl who couldonly see one side of him and so gave him THE RED COAT so he wouldn't forget the importance of child hood to a freeman.
BETSY walks in
and he bids her a
WELCOME TO THE MOON
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
The distance between what we say and what we mean
The difference between what I need you to hear
And what you hear when I speak
Between what you need and what you say
That's the place where it hurts
That's the place where love turns into poison
And weapons
It should be so simple because I'm your little girl and you're my Dad
Who took me for walks on railroad tracks
And let me bring home every rock that I thought was special
You filled your pockets with them, you never told me they were just quartz
You read me stories and had a pickup truck named Betsy
Who couldn't drive past an ice cream shop without stopping because she was special too
You took me camping and swimming and hiking
(I canoe, canoe canoe?)
And played the Grateful Dead
You were so good at being a Dad
I remember you sitting me down and telling me that I'd always be your number one
That you would love me no matter what I did
I was just a kid
And I believed
But I grew up
And you got older and scareder and sadder
Things got a lot harder
I stopped being little, stopped being a piece of you
That must have hurt
Because you forgot your promise
You built a world of expectations and as it grew
So did the distance between you, and the good in you
You can be so mean
And the worst part is that I feel guilty for being mad at you
Because I know that you're just scared
Really really scared
I understand
I do
It's terrifying to love things that are not you
What if they leave?
What if they hurt you?
What if they don't love you enough?
Or the way that you want them to?
It's hard to have faith
Especially if you're not used to faith being had in you
But can't you see how much weight your fears put on me?
I wish you had faith in me
I wish you saw my good intentions
And respected me for my strengths
I wish I could be who I am around you
I am smart and opinionated and unafraid
I think critically and see the best in people
But those are the things in me that you seem to hate
I never thought it could hurt so much to feel disliked
It brings out the worst in me
So I hide
Because it is impossible to take care of both of us at the same time
If I take care of myself, it hurts you
If I take care of you, it hurts me
When we talk you ask me about money
And school
And money
And my future plans
And money
Have I called the dentist?
Done my taxes?
Applied for scholarships?
None of those things have any bearing on me
We haven't talked for months
I'm not going to call you and say that I'm sorry
I'm so sorry, but not for the reasons you think I should be
I'm sorry we can't just talk
I'm sorry it's hard for us to be around each other
I'm sorry we resent each other
I'm sorry that I miss you so much, but am so afraid to talk to you
I don't want to be scared of you
I'm sorry that there is a room in my head that holds memories of you lashing out at me
I just want you to remember that you love me
If you could remember that and let go of everything else
I would call
That's a promise
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
My father's old Cadillac,
"Betsy", was an old champagne color,
With fabric that hung from the roof
As Betsy carried us
From our small East Texas town
To a slightly bigger town that
Actually has a Luby's
Garrison Keillor's "Prairie Home Companion"
Is coming through the dulled speakers,
As it does every Saturday evening.
I lay my head against the cool glass of
My window in the back seat and
Close my eyes and listen to Keillor's
Crooner voice softly and gently take
Me to the shores of Lake Woebegone.
I loved the stories of Lake Woebegone
Before I knew it was not a real place.
Before I even realized the name
Was itself a pun.
I still do,
But back then I would listen
And imagine moving and
Living there one day.
My father eventually
Sold Betsy to the only
Place in town that would
Take her,
A junkyard.
I'm not sure what he saw
In that old Cadillac
But whatever it was
Stuck with him.
Betsy's hood ornament sits
On his mahogany desk in his office and
Overlooks the bay.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
Truly yours today
Were open
Hearts divide
Each-Door Hide/Decide
Pray you don't slip on
The marble floor
Tomorrow_ the greeting
Heart to heart_ rain pour
Lady Madonna there's
the door
Let's pray to the
sparrow
Her pencil skirt
London Bridges tomorrow
Her note Goddess yellow
The narrow streets
The good fellows
"He Kisses" the ground you
pray on to pay the pied piper
Etsy Ms. Betsy wiggly feet
"Forget Me Not"
Today future Estate plot
It pays to have a good
heart to nurture
Her hourglass
Figure to capture
He's the one shot glass
He prays and passes
Faces so still-life she plays
Blinks those eyelashes
Man and Wife deeds
Those worried beads
Beef Jerky London
pubs perky
those, cute labs,
Rub a dub dub
Money and man in the
Cafe-Hub____?
We thought love stays
forever what a
comical gig never
Pay for a hug
To love her today
every day truer
Today the past
tomorrow the sky bluer
What will I borrow?
Today we pray at
the Temple
Big one_ of_ a_ kind
people
Two kinds like twins
From yesterday sins
Just pray look at the
stray just another prey
Payday today is gone
Deal is done
On her I phone
he's gone
The wed day today
How time passed
Its own entire way
Let me know
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 12:02 PM UTC
There once was this girl named Betsy who lived on my block. This ***** was so ugly she looked like a rock. She had two crooked *** ******* and a scar on her thigh. She had a big *** nose and only one eye. She use to mess around with this guy name Drew. And this ************ was ugly too. He wore thick *** glasses and had bad *** breath. He had a body odor that smelled like death. Late one night on November the third. Betsy was in her bathroom disposing of a **** When there was a knock at her door that only she knew. You guessed it right it was that ugly *** Drew. He had a bag of **** and a bunch of crack. All bundled up in a brown paper sack. When she saw what he had she dropped her draws quick. But when Drew smelled her ***** he got really sick. The room got really funky and flies fell to the floor. He tried to make a run for it,
but he couldn't get to the door. When both of their odors hit the air there was a chemical reaction. The coroner said that both of their noses looked like Michael Jackson's. When Betsy and Drew took that breath it was their very last. The moral of this story is you got to wash your *** R. Mendoza
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Oh Betsy
Did you let out a single solitary moo?
In the assembly line of death
that is your life
Did that moo echo out
into the barn yard?
where the grazing cattle raised their heads
as the moo penetrated deep into their soul
Offering them brief realizations
four fences constitute their lives
destined to fall to an unknown reaper
They lower their heads again
content with grazing
as moos begin to fall on deaf ears
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
It filled up the hOuse
It weNt pAssed my Neck
StArted At my kNees
It filled up my chest
All iN the Streets
Like A pOOl tO swim iN
Most swimmers woN't dive iN the pOOL thAt I beeN iN
***** flOOd wAter thAt stretched fOr miLes
They didN't sigN checks Now their pOckets wiLL smiLe
Our hOmes wAshed AwAy And ALL thAt I kNOw
Flights tOOk us tO pLAces with twO feet Of sNOw
The cuLture we hAve mAkes this plAce we cALL hOme
New Orleans LouisianA welcOme tO the terrOr dOme
BeAutifuL hOuses next tO thOse untOuched
SprAyed X's On dOOrs stiLL six yeArs LAter
Did nOt hAve tO be there if he put his nAme On A pAper
New Orleans New Orleans the plAce we cALL hOme
We mAde it thrOugh Betsy sO hOw wOuLd yOu kNOw
Building it bAck with Nothing but LOve
WAit (God = LOve) sO yOu dO the mAth AbOve
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
Old Betsy is my shotgun and she keeps most salesmen away.
But some come on my property but they sure as hell don't stay.
Old Betsy shoots the hats off of their heads and she shatters their windshields.
Because of Old Betsy, they drive away because they think that they'll be killed.
One man took off running and left his car behind.
I don't know who he was but now his car is mine.
One salesman thought that I'm a transvestite because he had heard rumors.
That **** ***** was trying to sell me a dress and a pair of women's bloomers.
I shot the cigar right out of that idiot's mouth.
He jumped in his car and started driving south.
They try to unload junk on me but because of Old Betsy, they fail.
If you ever come on my property, you'd better not be trying to sell.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
I am the lightning genius of Benjamin Franklin
and the gracious hands of Betsy Ross threading
a pattern that will make freedom unfurl.
My voice is an outraged plea for liberty;
my mind, a fireworks of ideas
bursting from the pen of Thomas Jefferson,
and I can sense that these ideas flare and glow,
enlighten and inspire the people.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
Old Betsy is my shotgun and she's the reason why I don't keep my money in a bank.
When people try to steal my money, they learn that Old Betsy isn't filled with blanks.
People break into my house but they end up not leaving.
Because of Old Betsy, the **** thieves stop breathing.
The crooks think they're intelligent, they think they're pretty sharp.
But thanks to Old Betsy, a lot of them wind up playing harps.
A lot of people have tried to steal my money but they failed.
If you try to rob me, you'll get a taste of Old Betsy as well.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Old Betsy is my shotgun and she's something that men end up dreading.
When my daughters get pregnant, Old Betsy is responsible for shotgun weddings.
When men impregnate my daughters, they try to run.
But Old Betsy stops them, she's one hell of a shotgun.
When one man tried to run, Old Betsy put holes in both of his **** cheeks.
He married my daughter and he couldn't sit down for about twelve weeks.
I give the men two choices, marry my daughters or be buried.
When I point Old Betsy at them, they choose to get married.
I make men do right by my daughters because I'm their Pa.
Because of Old Betsy's influence, I now have eight Sons-in-law.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
I’m thinking
Thinking so much
I’m thunk.
Resident Trump?
Justice Kavanaugh?
Ending common law?
EPA to EDA
To protect or destruct?
To serve or to swerve?
Department of interior
Declaring mining superior
Thinks he, Zinke
What is the cost
Of Betsy DeVos
School house lost
Eight years denied
Nyet: destroyed
Great again?
I wish I were drinking
Instead of thinking;
Show me America sober again
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
If I was Abe Lincoln I wouldn't a chopped down no cherry tree n if I woulda I sure wouldnt wrote no Proclaimation about it
Times it's best to jes lay low n shut up like I did after shackin up thet time with that Betsy Ross kid
No tellin what woulda happened if that got out!
Anyways me and Karl Marx gotta go get bin laden for the meetin at George bush's
Place
N ya know how he gets If yer late!
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
Jagged bottles, freshly broken, line the
cobbled pathway leading to the house.
An open window and the heady smell of warm beer
implicate the under-employed and over-stimulated
inhabitants of something.
A frazzled flag, ruined by the wind and disinterest
drizzles limply in the breeze. Broken lines and
pointless stars point to broken lives and
pointless wars that spit on the lithe and measured
stiches of an avant guarde Betsy Ross.
Ancient wooden placards, blue and white and peeling,
shoot up through the hoarfrost of the unkempt yard.
Promising something, though not articulated, they
describe a geometric shape, strangely triangular,
between signs and flag and glass.
A strong confident voice, "Yes we can," wafts
through the open window, and floats above the dismal house.
Then a curse word and a shotgun blast and the
willowing smoke from a TV no longer in need of its
power switch punctuate the scene.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
*I have the very boulder that Sherman stepped over
on his way through Georgia
On my shelf is the stone that Mark Twain laid a ***** boot
upon , walking through Missouri one sunny afternoon
This table holds the rock that blew out the Gainesville town clock in the War of Northern Aggression
In my cupboard sets a brown bottle holding water from the River Jordan
Within the pages of this Bible you will find a leaf from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon , a lock of Lady Godiva's tresses , Betsy Ross's
favorite thimble and a button from the suit of Martin Luther King
himself*
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:42 PM UTC
And the young schmuck said,
How’s about a nice
Pretty photograph,
Girls, something to show
The folks back home, you
In your beautiful
Bathing costumes, so
Young and so well wrapped
Up there? Sure, Betsy
Said, why not, though don’t
Think my daddy’d be
Too pleased about me
In this here costume.
You looked at the schmuck
And tried hard not to
Imagine the dark
Working of his brain,
What images lay
There, what ******
Thoughts swirled around there
Like black oil in a
Sump. Sally looked just
Away from him, looked
Further up the beach
Or maybe the sea
Or sky, anywhere
But the young guy with
The camera, her
Being the quiet
Type and shy. But you
Knew his type, they were
Like haemorrhoids: a
Huge pain in the ****
Always there with the
Words, the wise cracks, with
Their slimy sayings;
But you knew all they
Ever wanted from girls,
Beyond the mouthy
Outpourings, was you
In the bed or some
Secret place and to
Be undressed and to
Copulate with, to
Have their way; but not
With you; you knew the
Goings on, you knew
Which way those kind of
Things ended and you
Knew that even though
Betsy gave him the
Smile and ease, she’d not
Settle for such a
Creep with his false smile,
Wheedling words or
Bright eyed stare. So he
Took his photograph
And you were captured
There on the beach in
New Orleans amongst
The other young folk,
Beneath a sky of
Blue, in your bathing
Costumes, beautiful
And youthful in the
Year of our sweet Lord,
1922.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC