Best Distillery Poems
An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair
That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking
joints of bickering
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance,
wriggling, through chiseled
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait
like death, slow,
their breath
turning to steam
until they could abduct
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged.
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them,
as the old men drifted up in
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.
hi I'm Baxter Belknap Mandible IV
the Ninth Earl of Burneydick
I'll be heading your inner assault team
would you like the wine list
we have a nice Retaliation 666
somewhere over the rainbow
where every two-bit overheard whisper is an omen
and other vile statistical deceptions
where the big wheel spins like a drawbridge ratchet
but it never stops too many numbers
and the future continues to remain hypothetical
in degrees depending on the reading
an experiment in capitulation and submission
it was the War of the Parasites
but when has it been otherwise
this is a mathematical demonstration
bold as a distillery padlock
that insanity is the flip side
of merely more insanity
that would be Mandible IV driving
his dream hearse down memory lane
smoke from burning bodies
badly needing a wick adjustment
apparently fogged his lens
the horrors of the world are entertainment
weather permitting we'll visit the ruins
and insist upon representation
in the government Pilgrim Travel Advisory
you see the difficulty
serenity having been proven
a monstrous violation of reality
pause
every idea is a unit of measure
another pause
the pixels swirled and another
unholy vision drifted past in the tide
riveted to my screen
and it's trauma etched engrams
picked up on my middle finger antenna
in the last act you find out why
good bad and maybe mostly maybe
just trying to be more numerological
be certain of your conclusions
or call them something else
sure people's faces can be read
most are possessed by a mad hunger
or acts of cosmetic genius
proving it's more than brain chemistry
they told me that self-creation has its dangers
lots of mockery out there in hammer land
but there's no mocking your best efforts
kept them off my back for a while
set free for the propaganda value
and still always curious
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
It doesn't matter where we go
as long as we're together.
Surrounded by kids and grandkids
Laptop replaced by the kids.
Going to the land of the Maple trees
To refresh and revive the earlier visits
Of Niagara, the Antiope of Canada
To see the migrating birds in Pelee island
Humming with cicadas in the summer.
To have the birds’ eye view from CN Tower
The 2nd highest observation deck in the world
A treat to see the mist across Lake Ontario
From the renowned Niagara Falls.
Watching men navigate their way
Across the glass floor and on nice days
When the roof is open on the Rogers center
Watching League Ball game hundreds of meters below.
And never to be missed Toronto’s Royal Ontario Museum
A major point of architectural interest in the city,
One of the largest museums in North America.
And how one can miss The Eaton center
The massive Mall, a home to over 200 stores
As the evening draws by, a-must for a visitor
The Distillery District, center for the city’s theatre
The area boasting many performance venues
And the official home of many theatre companies.
One can wander freely through pedestrian-only streets
Exploring the art studios and gallery spaces
Till the late hours of the night, before going to sleep.
Travelling for me is not just seeing the new
But the places you can see anytime shutting your eyes.
Dr. Ram Mehta
====================================
7th place win
Contest: It’s Time For a Vacation sponsored by Carol Brown
It was a moment in time
a fate of inspiration gifted
I believe I was lifted a destiny in writing
I would vibrantly pursue .
Renting a cottage once in Monterey Bay
this cottage special in some way
The very minute moving.. I felt a presence
giving me no serenity , no rest
feeling I were a quest ~
After desiring this home so
telling the Realtor ~ I made a mistake
She told me be calm ~
many have said this before you
~ this haunt was not a new
For once lived a Writer ~well respected Gent
His cottage a distillery during the time of prohibition.
Many Gents and Ladies came to this cottage
unlawfully gamble & drink through the night
Who would think , Doc Ricketts in Cane & Hat
it was a party by moon light ~
In the back a distillery hidden in a old shed
many Alcoholics were fed ~
The ghost popular quite the Ladies man ~
I was honored while feeling displaced
For those who have not read my poems
~ and this may be new.
This really happened ~
The ghost of John Steinbach rented me his home True
Yvette & The ghost of John Steinbach's , Teamwork 9/14/2013
The Jameson distillery
had its first official tour in 1780
when pirates broke in and drank all the whiskey.
Can I really call the above work my own?
It's almost word for word for an ad that I saw,
but I don't think the ad was intended to be a poem.
Ad - My distillery had its first official tour in 1780 when pirates broke in and drank all my
whiskey - Jameson Whiskey.
Massil with Carn Mor Dearg
you rear up in massive bulk
Devonia volcano with collapsed dome
proud you stand against darkening skies
Many to your summit climb
wary of your cloud chambers
us mortals tremble at your storms
forked lightening flashing deadly bolts
Venomous mountain your Gaelic name
at your summit a series of ring dikes
your slope longest and steepest in this Isle
wide open your vast plateau, nay shelter here
Dropping to Glen Bennis Nibheis as you descend
be sure to visit the Glen's distillery for a dram
savour Usige Beatha" a taste of heaven for sure
Look up and wonder at the beauty of Beinn Nibheis
originally written 03/09/2013
As most of you will know Beinn Nibheis is Ben Nevis which in Gaelic meaning venomous
or malicious mountain, in a 5 year period responsible for 13 deaths. Usige Beatha means
water of life in Gaelic Massil means twinned with
. Mouser.
The distillery cat was flat on his back
He’d had too much to drink.
The silly moggy his mind was foggy
He could hardly think.
It was thee day he was on his way
His time was really up.
The rules require he must retire
So he had drunk from the goodbye cup!
Those little mice they didn’t think twice
they quickly ran amok
And in no time felt quite sublime
Could not believe their luck!
Tails in the air, Mouser so unaware
Their party had began.
For life’s a must, much was discussed
Like an employee ownership plan.
“Imagine if, Mouser was a stiff
And we all ruled this place,
By and large we’d be in charge
Something we could all embrace.”
But just at that appeared a Rat,
You know what they all say.
You’re never more than through a door
Away from their decay.
“Well gee whiz, so what is this
We have an open house.”
He said with grin, “I’ll just move in
And go and get my spouse.”
The mice felt down and wore a frown
And thought we can’t have this,
Awake that cat from off his mat
Get him out his drunken bliss.
So it was to great applause
He had ended up quite upset,
They’d got the hose and gave a dose
Of water cold and wet!
Mouser howled then he scowled
Jumped up and cried aloud,
“I’ll get those mice they are my vice
They will end up in a shroud.”
The mice did flee with so much glee
The Rat it disappeared.
Mousers head felt like stale bread
His paws they went real weird.
And so it was, like an arbitration clause
Came in the Big Bad Boss.
“What’s all this noise I don’t enjoys,
I prefer a hearing loss!”
So Mouser stayed, a big blockade
And the mice he tipped a wink,
The big brown Rat, he don’t like a cat
That’s had too much to drink!
Now drink can make you think
It can feel good alright.
Whiskey can make you frisky
But it can also make you fight!
For a Scottish cat enjoys combat
As much as a Father loves his daughter,
Although there is a cure,
maybe it is obscure,
We could of course add water!
Sweet morning sunshine --
Damn you how I
despise this labor
that lies ahead.
The cousin of Grizzly Adams’
patiently waits with the
ancient white pickup truck
he ran me over with while I slept.
Off we go with the toolbox
dancing in the bed and it’s a band
of pots and pans, the opening act for
our weapons of mass construction.
Murph says he’s a team player,
although I don’t recall a sport
consisted of getting wasted
and having shameful sex.
He grumbles and curses about
the day ahead hung-over with
his perfume from the distillery and
gum he must’ve marinated in an ashtray.
We better do some stretching
before the circus begins—
watch me as I carry an elephant
up the twenty year old ladder.
From two stories above I witness
the war forming between
old rusty nails and the tiny,
soft green blades that stand no match.
The ground has become a grave
of tetanus but the old umbrellas
we toss down from the house
cover up the battlefield.
(To Be Continued)...
'Midst towering fells and tumbling streams
A building stands, not all it seems.
The River Derwent passes near –
So bright and bubbling, cool and clear.
In Sprinkling Tarn it has its birth
Then frolics down for all its worth.
So come with me to Bassenthwaite
To model farm, through wrought iron gate.
Victorian buildings, built to last,
Now house a process from the past.
They're making gin (and vodka, too) –
Let's go inside and see them brew.
Prepared from three ingredients,
A gin of striking elegance
Is manufactured here by Cumbri
With purest water, yeast and barley.
Distilled two times in copper still,
Handmade by craftsman with good will.
And flavoured with botanicals,
Hand-gathered from the vales and hills –
Juniper, heather, bilberry
Brought home to the distillery.
So let your taste-buds have a thrill
And take a bottle to the till !
The Mystery of Hillary
The humility, oh Hillary…
What are thou good for?
As you rub shoulders with the rich, in victory,
And stomp your feet on the poor…
The conspiracy, oh Hillary…
You still want to be President!
The first lady in the White House Distillery,
Where all of our monies will be spent…
The witchery, oh Hillary…
You’ve lived all your life in politics,
Receiving many gifts from your auxiliary
And all you gave us was your bag of tricks…
The misery, oh Hillary…
The hidden world of you and Podesta,
With pizzas on special delivery,
And the authorities ready to arrest-ya…
The contradictory, oh Hillary…
What’s the deal with you and Trump?
Do you stand for all liberty?
Or do you stand up to grump?
This verse is intended for entertainment purposes ONLY! No politicians or children were harmed in the making of this poem…No names were changed to protect the guilty…If I disappear within the next two weeks…Well hopefully, you'll know who to contact...(All in good clean fun kids)
April.08.2019
A Realistic Hillary Clinton Poem
Sponsored by: Michael Wegman
Placed 5'th...Thank You
Standing there
Arms outstretched
The haggard pasty washed up
Kewpie doll
Of a soon to be ex
Awaited his oxytocin fix
As the dutiful wench
Swallowed the stench
Of his distillery fermented fat
She thought
This puts the retch in wretched
And that was that
A good sense of humour
Is only embraced so far
5.31.2020
This colorless liquor originated in Russia
The numbers of drinks it can make are a plethora.
It is distilled from potato mash, or from wheat or rye.
Its popularity is something no one can deny.
The name comes from “little water” in the Russian language
This charcoal-filtered spirit is paid global homage.
This has been consumed by many in each century.
It is produced worldwide at any distillery.
This liquor is one that has great versatility.
It’s served neat, or mixed with a variety of juices.
This distilled beverage has a host of great uses.
Vodka is found in common drinks like a Bloody Mary,
or found in some wild concoctions that seem quite contrary.
It comes in proof strength of eighty or one hundred.
For many connoisseurs, it’s a spirit that’s beloved.
Hillary and Her Kitchen
What if you were to show me some sign
That what you now had never was mine
Next thing you knew you were creator
Of a program called, "The Hillianator."
An alligator up desires likes to gobble
So never again will we have .to hobble
Along but be free and become active
Member of America where we all live.
We may have started out foreign-born
In America will never receive any scorn
Even when youth may have been a scout
And always enjoy helping others out.
Had others in mind and their each need
Helping out as well as wanting to feed
Them many subjects and food for everyone
And of their handicaps do not make fun.
So by now what you have started to see
Is not again will there ever be a Hillary
And at distillery after named a great drink
Dirty Dishes are not in my kitchen sink.
Hillary's kitchen is always completely clean
Thanks to the creation of a Clinton Machine
With it nothing has been know to dissolve
With machine all problems are able to solve.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Robert Burns - P is for Poet.
Intro- Rabbie Burns stated on his deathbed on 27th July 1796 that he did not want the Awkward Squad i.e. Scots Military firing a tribute to him at his graveside.Burns wish was not granted and he died with full military honours with thousands lining the streets of Dumfries, Scotland.
At the graveside the Scots Military fired three volleys as the dirt was shoveled into his grave.
P is for Poet
Peasantry pulled by independent thoughts
Posthumous plaudits, academics besot
Penury not privilege, to which you were born
Poor ploughman's son, sowed our new poetic dawn
Prescriptions for passion and artistic artillery
Paradoxical pilgrim in heaven's distillery
Poetic pied piper, peat-fuelled injected ink
P is for poet, from your chalice we'll drink
Persecuted profile, diagnosis was death
Painful, your passing, blood in your last breath
Pistols point skywards, as Awkward Squad fire!
Pageantry and pomp as dying wish expires.
RIP ROBERT BURNS.
I am the bleary eyed bemoaner
of self made misery
my body's not a temple
its more of a distillery
drinking doesnt numb the pain
but it numbs my awareness of it
sat talking to myself in the corner
like a sodden surly hobbit
the main reason your gone
is 'cus my drinking went on
and on, and on
i am the president of the broken soul society
yet im not even tempted by sobriety
wondering why i cant ever seem to keep my
perpetual misery in check
as i pour another glass of liquid depression
down my grateful neck