"billiards" poems
Into a place far away but too familiar,
I push open the rusty purple gates,
Inhale a lungful of the province air,
Kick away blue pebbles on the dusty ground,
And then
Mano my lolo, my tito
Beso my lola, my tita
And give my cousins a nudge on the arm,
A pinch on the cheeks.
I squeeze between four people
In a rickety wooden bench and
Pass around plate after heavy plate.
I fill my banana leaf
With spaghetti too soft too sweet,
Almost like pudding,
With crispy chicken dripping with oil.
I wash it off with a cool glass of gulaman,
Chewy beads and gems in sugary water.
Fathers talk about basketball, boxing, billiards;
Mothers browse through photo albums and magazines;
While we children argue about Superman or Batman.
Our laughter fills the humid air
And goes up, up, up to the ears of the neighbors.
In celebration of the time we have together
And a nice sunny day
We devour our meals
And go ahead and
Climb trees and
Get our faces sticky with sweet fruits,
Lick chocolate ice popsicles,
Chase each other in the weedy playground,
Bike around town,
Pick colorful flowers,
Wrestle with each other,
Play badminton on a windy day,
Scare around chickens and guinea pigs,
And play patintero under the dull orange street lamps.
We nervously creep inside the back door,
All sweaty, bearing bruises and scratches
But still with wide smiles on our faces.
All is futile though.
An angry grandmother awaits,
Scolding us for
Coming home past sunset.
More and more stars glitter the sky
As the night gets deeper and deeper.
The gentle evening breeze whistles a note
As it enters through the window.
The karaoke blasts grating voices
Interrupted by hearty laughter.
Playing cards and corn chips litter the table.
We children exchange jokes and ghost stories.
And then,
We bid our goodbyes,
Sharing hugs and kisses
Stained with discontent and sadness.
Our hearts about to burst
In excitement for the next
Reunion.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
As the café fills
with youthful chatter
and screechy laughter
I wonder
what it’d be like to have a friend.
At the billiards
hip teens lovingly roast each other—
their style and form
bring warmth to my lonely day.
Would I ever play billiards
or is that game
reserved for people who have friends?
I sip my strawberry tea
and imagine
having a good friend
To unwind with storytelling and gossip
We'd drink pink martinis
and be so chic in black.
And we'd be loud and open.
I'd be so happy
That I'd never have to write poetry again.
As the fantasy fades
I smile into my strawberry tea
Not too pink, but plenty of sweet.
This is alright. This cold drink is a friend.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
There goes Lady Fate,
donned in solar sparks
and her lace corset
whose overt promiscuity
catches the attention of
one unsuspecting astronaut–
his helm fogs as he exhales,
his breath crude and lascivious.
Even Neptune’s eyes themselves
glitter wetly with passion
as she struts towards Polaris in
her pinprick stilettos.
She adjusts her stance accordingly:
I. Purse lips into a smoulder
(might as well look
pretty while ya get the job done.)
II. Aim for the desired target
(that there’s the bull’s eye.)
III. Wreak havoc
just as any Fate is meant to do.
(But, of course.)
She picks up her staff and fires.
The universe tremors
in an unbridled spiral
of colour and chaos
as the planets
d a r t
about like billiards, * * *
colliding/|\with/|\ the/|\ stars
who, in the midst of the madness,
d i v e r g e and c* r* o* s s
for fear of being vanquished.
A cluster of mismatched constellations
and forsaken cosmic particles
settle into a state of
mutual negligence and destruction.
And, together, they liquefy into
a festering pool of molten silver.
Lady Fate grins–
yes, she has the stars right
where she wants them now–
and, in a final act of defiance,
she strikes against the earth
and watches with satisfaction as
it hurtles towards the silver
and sinks down into the molten
like an eight ball.
(And everyone knows it’s
Game Over
once you’ve sunk the eight ball).
From where she stands–
bent over Polaris
in seductive pretentiousness —
she relishes
in the screams
of some wretched lover–
the first to ever be
betrayed by the stars.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
globe lanterns
christmas lights
Shakespeare Andy Wharhol
billiards to the brim
tinsel
sandwich boards
microwaves
dust-covered couches
empty trash cans
lonely children
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
We used to play billiards
and fight all the fire.
We'd drink tea
from cheap mugs,
read The Economist
or newspaper,
chat about boyfriends,
girlfriends,
what was and wasn't a rumour?
The printer munched on paper,
lounge about on scratchy chairs.
50% revision, 50% laughter.
Psychology was me
with a group of girls.
How many people, where, when,
and what was it Freud said again?
Spanish was the same,
me, L, C and E.
Picasso's view of war, a bull and a flower,
grammar overload in the afternoon.
And then there was English.
Can you hear me Fitzgerald?
On a row of females (not just one),
roses, four stories and a single trumpet.
On the garish bus
to see the Manor or the specialists,
to walk up and down aisles in Asda,
talking music with baguettes and meatballs.
Two years came, two years went.
Exams, goodbyes, brown envelopes arrived.
After tapas and a holiday
came sly September.
Here I was with fresh men,
different faces from different places.
So I walked up the steps
into the next avenue.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
The wingless angels of demonic races
Are watching from the wings
With blood-stained faces
Like a wide open road spread out
Between a million trees
I see them kissing with their masks on
A glass of scotch in hand
And I can't trust anything so far
From this century
So far from light in these
Disassociated states
Thought goodness was a solid
But their halos fade by day
And your scales have turned into paper mache
As we fight for the reins on this
Sleigh ride into obscurity
Poor by way of three
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:20 PM UTC
Through the nature that i've travelled
There's so much to unravel
And the sea's that i've swum
Whether fishes are dumb
And the skies that are blue
Do they wear lace shoes?
Those dinosaurs which were ugly
Did they shave their legs regularly?
Do flying fishes even fly
Or its just a rumor spread by cats
So that it can eat every time a human has its catch
Did apes develop into humans
Or totally vice-versa
Before we know it we'll go extinct
And apes on trees will have sips of *****
Do kangaroos have pockets from birth
Or did they buy from Denims
Before i know it dogs will purr
And rocks will have feelings
Do owls sleep or act their way through the day
It will not be Meryl Streep but them, catching the oscar and walking away!
Do snakes hiss by nature or just be angry due to their body folds
Before i know it others will wear Jimmychoo's and all they'll do is catch a cold!
DO lions have smelling ability or they just put a tracking device
Playing billiards in 'Catsino' and using cell phones made of mice?!
Do eagles, the pilots of the sky have pretty air hostesses attend to
Or locate and make a buffet out of the, that's exactly what i'm referring to!
Its this jungle or paradise, or what a new age city?
Casino's of lions, oscars for owls, that's my LIFE'S EXPECTANCY !
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
competition.
the art of discrimination.
its product, the
inferior,
whether by speed, smarts, billiards or darts.
(a race to the end-all 'i am victorious')
a winner and a loser,
for a stalemate cannot be met with ease
when such players practice with expertise.
rebellion, revolution.
two words that can stand alone
when we all stand together.
i feel an uprising of the subordinate few,
growing and brewing beneath our very shoes.
who had a clue? maybe i, but you?
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
His remains were borne away to the cemetery
And were interred in a "G" marked grave finally,
Having led he a life of wine, women and
Song. He was therefore committed to the land
Of no returning more, who on this shore was
The philanderers' prince, using his john thomas
To make lucre off ladies libido--a ******
For he knew how to set their body whole aglow
And ensured their ****** playing the field as
A merchant of amour in the Sin City of Las
Vegas and had a great liking for cards--
When easing up his muscles--and for billiards.
He's a 6'4 and broad-chested feller; chunky
Enough for that **** business. A bloke beefy!
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 2:24 AM UTC
Covered in rust from pig iron girders, and dust from the nicks in old bricks that time cracks
I cannot relax and wish
I could just blow up those buildings and stack them in mounds on the ground,which I realise is no different to what they are now.
Fred Dibnah would know how
he would have taught me,teached me
he was a preacher man
and could demolish with polish as easy as pie, all those monstrosities that laugh as they scrape at the sky (they should bow)
It should be back to the drawing board for those clowns in the towers of the towns where the ring roads depress us.compress us until we're back in the mould.
and the old men in whitehall who still play billiards with no ***** should heed what we say,
we don't want it this way.
We want works, we want perks,we want more out of this living that you are not giving and we're sick,
do you hear?
we are sick to the pits which no longer exist except in the memories of miners and women who scrabbled through dirt and put scraps of coal in their skirts and then carried them home.
Poverty is the bone upon which poor people chew
but be careful down there
one day it may be you
that's being eaten
being beaten
by us.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
Ordinary people
carry action figures
on their dashboard
and stop in still traffic
on their way to work
to stare at the circus billboard
wishing they could be
the incredible flying man
who soars above the Ferris wheel
and disappears beyond the horizon.
The human cannonball lives
with his mother
in a musty basement
filled with old baseball cards,
beer can memorabilia,
an ash stained billiards table,
Chicago Bulls jerseys,
and pictures of Goldie Hawn
and Evil Knievel.
The human cannonball has
high blood pressure,
frequent anxiety,
a wheat allergy,
a jaw that pops
when opened too wide,
a crick in his neck,
a bruised shoulder
from falling
into the net
over and over.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
Pool's Prince Charming
by Michael R. Burch
this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool,
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis,
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler,
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic,
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld. Keywords/Tags: pool, shark, billiards, nine ball, Saint Louie Roberts, gambler, hustler
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 4:48 AM UTC
A rush so alphabetical droplets clotting in the vacuum created in the heart strings. Come here. You've been there across the bar catching eyes with sepia toned faces.
Thrice denied. This time is the charm and some loser looking at himeslf in the bar mirror waiting like a vulture for last call.
I belong here in the feast of loneliness bumping against one another and a white hand on my thigh. Wake up you look like a corpse leaned here against a Budweiser poster. Billiards tap tap along with your blink. Eyelashes so curled. A neck of porcelain. Delicate in presentation. A neck of porcelain I could shatter with a single grasp. Somebody came through and a call was made. We flew with windows down Indian River Drive and the city lights are hidden. How about my goodnight kiss? How about Driving off the road and into the river. Don't look for me. I will be seaweed. I will sleep on the sandy bottom and I will watch the sunlight dance on the surface
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:10 AM UTC
Simon “Hurricane” Hudson prowls the snooker table
Like any good mixed metaphor would.
A modern day Pythagoras
He triangulates his shots.
Meanwhile his rival, lion-heart "Rocket" Richard,
Not to be confused with Lionel Richie,
Is on his mobile Googling
How to play the perfect “snooker”.
And the two Perfect Pauls
Discuss the latest football,
While “Whirlwind” Wendy sits in judgement,
Knitting the night away.
At long last Simon plays a stroke!!!
And rattles those unrelenting jaws
Of that elusive pocket yet again.
The game rolls on.
But where the hell is Simon?
The clock on the electricity is running down
But where is Simon?
Where is he?
He’s at the bar
Telling barman Nick how Rochdale
Will win The Cup one day.
Hurray, he’s back to play again.
Cascading planets collide into new orbits
As they did in the Primeval Solar System.
We play on,
Safely keeping those precious *****
Away from those black holes
They call the “pockets”.
We try to pick our shots
(At those pockets lol)
But all we keep potting
Is that white one.
Maybe we should switch to Billiards,
Or *** some plants instead.
Paul Butters
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
HEY.!!!Yes
Do.you think I really give a ****
Do you think so.
Press the valve stem please.
Your head has gone all twisted.
Much more to life than Napoleon's cocked hat,and pocket billiards.
Little curl mid forehead.
You are nanite's sigh below expired. Really ?.
Take it in.stride my friend. See Naysayer for hire in the funny papers.
Place him behind you to the right
To keep away.the vapours
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
In December of '64,
40 years ago,
I was sitting in the Hacienda bar
on the South Side
of things
and here comes this cocker
spaniel looking
************ named
Roosevelt.
This man-man slides
in, slaps Sam Cooke on the juker,
then claps my clock with
a ************* billiards ball.
On the floor ****
tasting tooth..
It was my 33rd birthday,
but as God had-had it,
it was also Roosevelt's.
And that motherfucker-man
had been drinking
bumpy face
and smoking jazz cigarettes
since 10 o'clock
in the morning.
Let's pause. Now. Now.
Now.
Now-you may be asking
yourself what a man like me
did to deserve this disrespect-
(Grins. Sips his drink.)
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
Prom night
She stood there all alone
Tapping her foot to the beat
In the back left corner pocket
The cue ball decided it was time to end the game of billiards
He spotted the eight ball all alone
Nodding his head to the music
And the cue ball called the shot
Into the back left corner pocket
He rolled forward
Steps calculated
Swagger restrained
Sights set on the back left corner pocket
He conversed with the eight ball
Talking to him
Coaxing him to move
Toward the back left corner pocket
The cue ball watched from a distance
Having already imparted all its momentum
As the eight ball headed
For the back left corner pocket
The eight ball was unsure
Dressed in a black button up shirt
With matching dress pants
But he continued to roll
To the back left corner pocket
He motioned for the girl to follow
And hand in hand
They left for the dance floor together
They left the back left corner pocket
The cue ball sat back and admired his work
The other billiards player left
Having lost to the usual call
The winner always sank that last shot
Into the back left corner pocket
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
status binds us and we are
cutting off limbs with
flat head screwdrivers.
do you hide under the covers like i do?
does the Vicodin block the heat like your air
conditioner?
billiards and midnight jogs do
not swim like professionals do,
but they keep my memory from defaulting
to all the chairs you placed jeans or
leggings
or a hope for a swift removal of pain
inside of a safe with
fingertips stronger than narcotics.
a pass code for purpose is a pig in flight;
we have maps but we will not ever understand how to read them.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
oh, the sun is burning hot
as the waves rise up off of the black top
forming the familiar distortion
distinctly laced with humidity.
the young man marches, toes exposed
with flip-flops smacking down
and on the verge of melting
to the grand avenue sidewalk.
fuzzy memories like warped records
spin their sharps and flats in awkward places
and bring scent trails of teenage years:
bonfires, exhaust, lingering birdcages.
kreckel's still serves the same lemon ice cream,
but the billiards out back have been closed for a time.
quarters spent on raiden fighters rust in time
as the men muttering in the background play bumper pool.
the heat still feels the same in present summer,
and some of the same faces stay on the card.
routine and commitments are starting to build,
blurring the expressions of familiarity into fog.
the young man marches, face exposed
to the blistering light of day
as lines start to form where charm has twinkled
in the schoolyard and stagnant hallways.
years spent in sleep are pulsating
as the lull between cicadas
seems to stretch the summers south
to the screeching of metallic showcases.
he's buckled to the cracks in the concrete
that bulge upward and trip drunks after last call.
unshackled only to ride shotgun with the few
that still remember their seventh grade summers.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
Willow body when she sleeps
Eats and reads Dastardly Seeds
Branbury Bush billiards and beer
Office chairs with thinning venire
Vacancy sign flickering Lost
Shadows passport pictures unknown
Untitled vagabond day dreams
A home away from a revolver weighing down your coat
Waiting dormant mr mud toad
Vacant house with eviction notice
Bradly bound up rail bonds/ gold fillings just before his wits got to him
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings
A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?
Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners
I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs
Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes
I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth
I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...
His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.
If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off
And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"
**** chicken heads again?
Same ole same old dope...
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
They ring in ears for years to come
As chords of stunning hurt they strum
And resonate on mental strings:
All those spoken, hurtful things.
Those who spoke the hurtful words
Which roll like ***** of billiards
Inside our heads eternally
Care not of damage they don’t see
But all the pain, their words have caused
Which plagued us every time we paused
To create doubt and there revolve
Have built instead our strong resolve.
And of those words we can’t forget
No longer do we care or fret
For there are higher planes we see
Of justified ascendency
To those who spoke: We've moved on,
We know your words won't be withdrawn.
Forgiveness we may one day let, but …
Your hurtful words we won’t forget.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
Tall and white, The Stanley stands atop a hill with might.
A place of beauty and grandeur, a place of mystery and wonder.
Spirits haunt and roam these halls, the whispers of old heard through the walls.
There's Mrs. Wilson sweet and polite, but watch out unmarried couples, she'll give you a fright!
Lord Dunraven with his skivvy ways; the children love to laugh and play.
Mr. Stanley is seen among the billiards; he's still here checking in on his famous figures.
Mrs. Stanley's here too, still playing her piano. She loves it here, her own private Americana.
This place is so much more than "The Shining Hotel."
It's a home for those entities not ready to say farewell.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
“Who let you in?” jokes Henry the Doorman,
Waving the signing-in book
Like a wanton dervish,
With a glint in his eye.
But in you go,
Into a dimly lit room,
Filled with smoke in yesteryears.
Men in huddles
Hatching plots
Or just playing cards
Or Dominoes.
In the corner those darts are flying,
While blokes stand chatting
At the bar.
Next door you find The Snooker Room,
Where all is silent
As “World League Championships” are underway.
Snooker and billiards to be precise.
Men so serious
Some sitting sternly
Worrying about their match.
The odd breakout of conversation
Over some dispute or debate.
Back at the bar
All is well.
No need to be PC here.
You can say whatever you want.
We drink and drink,
Until the bar closes
At whatever time.
The chat gets louder
As the ***** loosens our tongues.
Then home we roll together.
Every Club.
A place I love.
Paul Butters
© PB 15\11\2017.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 5:09 AM UTC