"boater" poems
History repeats on us,
One life holding the gown
Of the next,
Waiting for its turn;
Just look at how the future greets us,
With a capful of
Utter unconcern.
I want to be of use to you,
But my memories
Are not admired by most –
They involve love and only love,
Or desire described as love
And floating
In the sky of a castle
with a hatful of flowers boasting ‘now’.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
He holds the tiller
of the boat with
his left hand, white
pants and tee shirt,
boater just so, and
the young dame there
reclining to one side
dressed to the nines,
yakking away, hat
plonked on her head,
him thinking of the
one that got away,
his arms stretched
out wide kind of fish,
the other guys so
impressed when he
said, but the dame,
all she yaks of is how
long it for took her
to chose what to wear
and what went with
what, and does my
*** look ok in this?
or she talks of what
one of her next-door
neighbours said or
did or didn’t do or
she yaks of shoes
how she saw this
pair to die for O,
she says, you should
have seen them,
my eyes were oozing
eyes of joy just to see
them, but he, letting
her words drift by,
thinks of the boat he
almost bought, the
one he saw in port
the other day, god
how he loved it, the
size and colour, the
way it was set out in
the water, floating
there, bobbing slowly,
like some beautiful
dame ready for the
off. Sea breeze moves
the boat, wind shifts
the sails, she still sitting
yakking, her lips opening
and closing, fish out of
water kind of thing, he
wonders why he brought
her along, why he didn’t
set sail alone, the whole
horizon of sea and sail,
and not her constant
yak and miserable moan.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
I buzz down Bourbon St.,
bar-hopping to and fro in pursuit of some
sought-after nerve.
I’ll pass street entertainers performing
various tricks and trades
and I’ll envy not their boater hats
filled with cash, but rather the
attention they command from mothers
and fathers alike, on-looking and inebriated.
Maybe father would’ve looked at me
with the same awe, had I donned
a pair of stilts or covered my body in
tinman silver, for his
failure to pay me mind
certainly wasn’t a result of
under-intoxication.
I digress. The thirteen blocks that stretch between
Canal & Esplanade Avenue host
a distinct pattern of storefronts:
Bar, strip club, bar, gift shop,
bar, strip club, bar, gift shop,
and so on.
I’ll stop in nearly every other one,
and the taste in my mouth
will start to remind me of the street’s namesake.
With a scant blouse on and
a batting of my bedroom eyes,
a man will inevitably strike up a
“conversation” with me.
While I unconsciously engage
in repartee, I’ll wonder to myself
what must be wrong with him
that he would hone in on some
despondent fool like me.
He’ll continue to ply me with drinks
until a taxi cab takes me away,
and through a backseat window
cracked open, I’ll hear
New Orleans sing
while I sigh.
W.M.S.
2017
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:36 PM UTC
And the waiter said
Puis-je vous aider?
You looked at Sonya
who said in fine French
two coffees
and croissants please.
Oui madame
the waiter said.
You watched her features
how she sat
her blonde hair
long and loose
from bands or ribbons.
I love the Renoir print
in the cafe
we went into last night
she said.
You listened
but did not reply.
I could see you
in the man
she added.
Which man?
You said.
The young man
sitting at the table
looking at the girl
and her dog
the man with
the fine moustache
she said.
The one with
the boater hat?
You asked.
Yes that's the one
she said.
And you remember thinking
as you looked at the painting
why put a dog on the table
with food and wine and glasses?
The waiter came
with coffees
and croissants and went off.
Sonya sipped her coffee
you nibbled the croissant
she talked about art
and Renoir.
But you were
only half listening
you were recalling
how beautiful she looked
in bed the night before
her hair spread out
on the pillow
as was she spread
on the double springy
ancient bed.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 3:44 AM UTC
Survival
Of the fittest
I'm the most winningest
Compared to none bar none
****** can't hang with don
Dada devils wear red
Prada I gotta lotta
Ways I could improvise
Dialect open ya eyes time flys
By as I impair ya third eye
Braille from the lyrics that sell
Flowing from my.tongue
Increasing adrenaline surpass
The speed of light
Suckas try end up taking a bite
In the dust trust I bust
Hit ya before ya see it coming
Got ya body hummin'
As the spirit of death is summonin'
Lyrical abuiser over doer
This is the take over
Show boater as I rip more
**** than tornado
Infused with a boa constrictor
Inflict ya leaving a mental blister
No hipster lil ripsta
South side hister call me Mr
To the y o s e to the f mos def
Chasing mathematics
Flippin' through hos like an acrobatic
Aristocratic
Never dramatic burn static
Lyrical scholar
waxin' opponents
For the dolla check the rims on my impala
Dubs times two minus two
Back the dub holy as a cherub
Grub at the most exquisite
Places you couldn't visit
Back to reality of my prodigy
****** don't know me
Because they never even heard of me
But listen to my demo primo
If ya can't comprehend rewind
In slow mo
Be on the bolo I roll solo
Gun so I'm drama infested
Suckas become thermogenic
So i freeze em with cold flows
They turn hypothermia
hurting like a hernia
What's that swarmin' ya ?
As I sting 'em
With the rhythm
That's injects like a million bees
Plead no insanity
Ya plead insanity
Ya panickin' got ya stiff as a mannequin
This freestyle is the illest realest
Its a concrete jungle
Survival of the fittest ....i
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC