"showboat" poems
She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry.
Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song
til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself,
whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument,
albeit one of a different tone,
as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time
and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered,
only in the right light,
synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion.
Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it.
Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter.
She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut,
that’s message is immediate and jarring
as a conduit running from soul through skin,
or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key.
And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me:
Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope)
that snag and immerse just long enough
to make me feel I’ve had an effect.
I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings
to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same.
Like crying in a mirror:
alarming, but oddly refreshing,
and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own.
Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind
to hear that even the most glamorous hearts,
who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor
and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand,
are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth,
begging curbside at the dime store
for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink.
But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it.
So while she seeks out words that bare the bones,
I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow,
hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place
to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery.
But hell, like I’m any old soul.
I dress nicer than I otherwise would,
turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards,
and ask for a critique.
All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#.
...Now please, could you spare a dime?
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
so we undressed
and I didn't finish
and you felt self-conscious
and refused to read to me
like you did the night before
so I didn't sleep
but you did
and your brow was a shelf
and I wiped it off
like I did the night before
so the morning would feel clean
yet I missed a spot
and you said no one loved like me
and that wasn't a good thing
like a songbird that was more showboat
so I'm sorry lukewarm newspapers
and two wine glasses
and too empty
and you bit my lower lip until blood was drawn
like a misery, like a static radio song
so I bit your lower lip until blood was drawn
but that wasn't an anchor
but that wasn't a tether
but that wasn't criminal
like the soap operas and the 51st shade of grey
so we undressed
and turned on the history channel
and it didn't go anywhere
and you said history was for the historians
like ********** was for lovers
so we dressed
and you were a child in my clothes
and I talked down to you
and you took one last drink of my cologne
like a closing hymn collapsing on a dime
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
A river of lies flows from the White House.
Watch as the river widens each day.
Watch as it gains speed and momentum
And all credibility flows away.
The reasons for firing James Comey,
FBI Director, are scattered:
Because of Comey's treatment of Clinton's
Emails? Really, as if that mattered.
Then it was a DoJ
Suggestion that Trump was acting upon,
Adding another story to the
Great pretense phenomenon.
Next in an interview,
Trump sang another song--
That he had really wanted to fire
James Comey all along.
A man whom Trump had praised in the past
Was simply a "showboat," a "grandstander,"
Who'd lost control of the FBI.
Watch the river of lies meander.
We have heard a different story
Having to do with loyalty--
That Comey was fired because he wouldn't
Bow down before the royalty.
Just mention "Putin," "Russia," "hacking,"
"Collusion," and yes, "investigation,"
And the "You're fired!" president
Acts out of desperation.
Has Trump considered telling the truth?
He and his team should give it a try.
If they are going to make up stories,
At least they ought to stick to one lie.
- by Bob B (5-12-17)
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
For all of my self-proclaimed skill and finesse with the English language,
For every single English and Lit. course I've taken, every last book I've read, and all of the papers I've written,
I come to find that I am left at a loss as to the words to say to you on this subject
Because of me being too bashful, too shy and too nervous, all in a blush when discussing my emotions, and
I cannot be boisterous, I am unable to boast and roast, to showboat, I am incapable of acting my way through this
For fear that you will perceive what I say as false emotions and label my words as untrue,
So, in lieu of that, I will put it straightforward here, without gloss nor glamour nor anymore preamble -
Would you consider dating a guy like me? Could you see yourself dating me? Would you date me and maybe someday be
My girlfriend?
Because I could see myself dating a girl every bit like you,
And I just wish you knew how much
I want to kiss you so
That you might know, and more so, feel
What I feel for you now
Despite all that I cover and hide
With this noisy and verbose facade.
But, even more than that, I
Long to hug you, to hold you in my arms.
Such an embrace as you've
Never felt before and
- if left up to me -
The likes of which from another
You would never need.
I long to hold you in
Such a way that
You feel eternally safe, and
That space between my arms
Will ever be synonymous with
Safety, comfort, and the protection
That you seek out in the good times and
When the wide world grows scary and wild
And those out there try to bring you down.
So there you have it, as simple and plain as I can make it - whether to the good or the bad - it's been said, and
All that I can hope is that you know that I do mean every last word that you have just read.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:00 AM UTC
the pretty maiden wearing a blue chambermaid dress
her placard read "don't abandon me here"
which she carries down the dusty street
everyone stops to stare
as she walks slowly by
they all feel so sorry for her
she was left here by Knights of Columbus back in 1967
her prom date kissed her on lips
and she lived all her life for that moment
for the perfect guy
for that perfect kiss
and she has been wandering these backwater towns since
trying recapture that kiss
nobody can seem to love her like he did
and he got in his showboat convertible and drove off
after the parade that day
left her standing here in the middle of main street
with party favors and streamers at her feet
now she is an icon for all the century's between now and then
and America growing out of its childhood
July fourth isn't about family anymore
its about bigger bang for your buck at the mall
here she comes again
her hollow eyes are staring off to the horizon
where she expects to see
her prom date to come back for her some day
he will be her knight in shining Buick
come to sweep her off her weary feet
on theses dusty backwater streets
in an older and sadder America
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
#Fake news indeed:
Is this a fox in the hen-house or a hoax in the fun-house ?
It’s news to them that it’s views from us. Weaning ourselves tit-for-tat while we wet-nurse the networks net-worth, they pull the wool over their own press-cards, spinning yarns fit to knit a seamless weave of tailored narrative (free alterations post-laundering, free press with dry-cleaning). Ironing out the irony, the ship of state suddenly mixes metaphors: a freak gyre of Greek fire, leak-proof talking points for caulking joints on a sinking vessel, a showboat floating fake liars, gloating, into lakes of fire. Let us light a naked fuse to the faked news until their networks ignite like an information overload. Fake news indeed. News to me…
now watch them form a phalanx as we farm the faux links.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
Mi honestidad es ofensiva
y mi silencio, aburrido.
Estoy aprendiendo a mentir.
Lo que callo es sustantivo
y si lo digo nace un rio.
Estoy aprendiendo a mentir.
Si te lo crees es un alivio
y aunque la duda sea un martirio
Voy a aprender a mentir.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
Walking all over the city streets
that silly buffoon cant stay on his feet
waving his arms like a silly man
drunk as sailor riding in a micro-bus minivan
Wearing his top hat and rugged white dress shirt
with black dress pants and a pair of loafers,
he pleases the ladies to which he flirts.
swinging his Cane in a circular motion
and singing loudly to a starlight commotion
he dances in the quarter with many a men
but the laddies join in only to commend
with the upbeat music so loud and obnoxious
the man lives in a limelight pulsus paradoxus
meaning that the man cant keep a beat
while hes skipping off merely into the street
with no one around to catch his fall
the man slowly pained by a party drain
to live in a limelight he cannot contain.
He falls asleep on the cold sidewalk city walk
to wake up to a new party in the incentive to a loud obnoxious talk
drunk witty and insane the man dressed like the rich
but in his own demise he was only but a frayed stitch
a showboat that the people could see right through
he was only a dreamer and lived in the limelight
to which he never outgrew.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
You are a brilliant poet and writer
And a terrific activist and orator
On the head, do you hit the nail
Every time without fail!
You speak what people do not want to hear
Which makes me grin from ear to ear
Never do you sugarcoat
Nor do you showboat
Supreme, is your clarity of thought
A lot of battles, must you have undoubtedly fought
And when it cometh to your imagination
To the winds, do you throw caution
The way you repeatedly attack our Brahminical patriarchy
Leaves us all under a spell
Because your writing is so fiery
That even the Sun can't hold a candle to it!!
Your English is flawless
So brilliantly do you assess
The problems in our society
Incomparable, is your brutal honesty
Not to mention, your Tamil is a work of art
Very well, have you played your part
In fighting caste and gender inequality
To all of us, do you represent Hope
Especially in these times of adversity
Never do you sit down and mope
When the going gets tough
Rather, do you tell yourself
"Enough is enough!"
And bounce back with a bang
Loud enough to silence your detractors
Unquestionable, is your character!!
To the literary world, are you an invaluable asset
Because, there ain't nothing you can't achieve
Above all, you make us believe
That we can fight the system
And most importantly, WIN!!
Mar 14, 2024
Mar 14, 2024 at 2:19 AM UTC
hot rain,
like chipped edges
of stained glass,
sink into shoulder.
the bluebird croons
a monotone dirge,
and
I snicker at the wind's applause.
god arrives late,
but I give him credit for
showing up.
god arrives late.
I, in the process of
shutting the gate.
god arrives late.
I **** in my gut,
bury my hate.
hot rain,
like my mother's tears,
sink into my skull.
the bluebird clears his throat,
and
I imagine strangling the showboat.
god arrives late,
but it takes courage to come at all.
god arrives late,
but hands me a check to keep quiet.
god arrives late,
asks me what I've been up to,
and I take the bait.
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
Little upstart, young showboat
Lots of bluster full of gloat,
Been there minutes, thinks he knows,
Blind ambition and it shows.
They say he's bright and tough to boot,
Compared to me, now that's a hoot,
What's Yale and Harvard, simply names,
The constant ones he repeatedly proclaims.
As to the Navy, are we to be impressed,
He only served so he'd be thought best dressed;
The lawyer bit, now that brings on a shiver,
The very thought entwines my liver.
Now as to his wife,
I will admit she's rather nice,
But then let's pause to look at mine,
And tell me if she doesn't her outshine.
So there's no doubt whichever way you cut it,
I Trump this kid with character and wit,
He may be smart, but I'm the stable Genius,
Him all hot air, with me my smarts are intravenous.
As I ponder how I should react,
Knowing I’m the very best at tact,
I thought I'd stick to what I do so well,
While he drones on, I'll just my winning vision sell.
America needs me, not some kid wet behind the ears,
Whose monotone delivery brings us all to sleepy tears,
With me you get that vibrant lively spark
The choice quite clear, a Guppy or a Shark?
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 11:50 AM UTC
I want to love you so bad,
but can I?
It’s been so long
and I’m not sure I remember how.
I know you’re tired,
showboat with all your
peddles and organs.
The years between us,
with your crooked smile from before-
when the air felt darker around me,
colored a deep shade
of midnight blue.
You’re so sweet,
sleeping in my passenger seat
and there’s makeup wiped on
my baseball cap
and I’m sore,
in so many ways.
I want peace for you,
every piece of you.
Close your heavy eyes and
peel off your layers.
Take a deep breath,
and take a sip from my
lip gloss-stained coffee cup
or sleep deeply instead
on the way
driving you home.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 7:11 PM UTC