Best Hung Over Poems
I'm near cuckoo
This Monday blue
A day not eas'ly recommended
for making sense
I'm way too tense
And hung-over to comprehend it
My mind's on the bend
my imaginary friends
are threatening to abandon en masse
I was perfectly sane
till they pissed in my brain
negotiations are at an impasse
It pains me to mention
the bone of contention
menacing our peaceful existence
my voices of own creation
went above their station
with mutinous and unfair persistence
Old Mother Hubbard
had sneaked to the cupboard
to steal skeleton bones for her yapper
the skeletons in-wait
welcomed their bait
with little resistance managed to trap her
As to why she'd no clue
their demands were few
and until met they'd keep her as hostage
twixt two skeletons squeezed
the hag was well-pleased
only in dreams she was ever in bondage
The skeletons vacated
on their long-awaited
crusade for their rights to be equal
a sudden scurry in my head
when the voices I have bred
became hushed, which was rather unusual
The spokes-skeleton
passed a colorless wind
voiced their single demand: to remain
"We were made to vanish
to a dark cupboard banished
we demand henceforth to share your domain."
A resounding "No!
You'll stay down below
we're totaling 20, including the yapper
there's hardly space
the din to embrace
and an hour-long queue to the crapper."
"Then the beldam Hubbard
will remain in the cupboard
lore would have it, bare to the bone
the cupboard, that is
not the hag, whose Maltese
diced up raw will be fed to the crone.
We implore you most
kindly engage our host
in negotiations and if necessary plead
we want into his brain
and share your domain
or prepare for a skeleton stampede."
PART 2 TO FOLLOW. THIS MIGHT TAKE A WHILE, AS I'M LOCKED IN HOSTILE NEGOTIATIONS
The east began blushing behind the trees
While the moon hung over the lea
And the velvet of night turned to sapphire hue
Like the blue of a newborn sea.
No breeze cared to move the whispering leaves
But they whispered themselves alone
And the first rays of sun kissed the cool of the morn
Before mounting the aerial throne.
The dew-spangled grass glittered pure and unspoilt
As if hundreds of diamonds were strewn,
Or like dozens of tears had been carefully dropped
From the pearlescent eyes of the moon.
Blue shadows hung shyly beneath the boughs
Of the emerald, sylvan-king;
The ancient pine swayed and held his court
With the swallows on the wing.
With a glorious, final shout of gold
The sun was now enthroned
While the world rejoiced like a sinner saved
That the night's dark was atoned.
Whiskey on the rocks, advised by my doc
combats dementia, so bring on the blocks
no need for a glass; I'll have me the bottle
with a big bowl of ice this baby I'll throttle
The whiskey's gone, now a brandy'd be fine
my inside's on fire, there's a hoop up my spine
swigging from the bot comes at a price
I'll temper the fire with whole blocks of ice
The flames have been doused; rum, if you please?
my head's in a clamp; ice will loosen the squeeze
now, be a sport and pile on the ice
two bowls or more I think should suffice
Three bottlesh down, all on the rocksh
my tootshiesh are shtarting to curl in my shocksh
my shmile is chemented, my lipsh glued together
my fashe the feel and texture of leather
Twishe left, thrishe right my head ish shwinging
short, long, short, long my earsh are zinging
either I'm crosh-eyed or my brainsh have been fried
elsh why are my legsh by three multiplied?
I'm freefalling on shixh feet firmly earthed
alternating twixht lower and then upper berth
vocal chordsh tangled, shizhably crimped
I'm walking with a lishp and talking with a limp
I'm teetering-tottering or tettering-tortering
I've no clue which ish which and given up wondering
the world ish a blur; I musht be plarshtered
the liquor went down well; ishe warsh the barshtard
On all foursh – nay, twelve, I reach the bed
now I'm pondering and shcratching my head:
am I waking up or about to retire?
I shimply topple over, my whole being on fire
In the Land of Nod I'm harnessed by tether
in comely dreams of cowboys and leather
when plagued by a swishy feel in my bladder
swelling as fast as a pregnant puffadder
Abruptly awakened when a stream emanated
unable to move, still intoxicated
stuck to my bed and severely drenched
nausea ensued in the encompassing stench
How my stomach reacted I'd best not relate
suffice to say it was a full freight
soiled and hung-over, a word of advice:
liquor's fantastic but steer clear of ice
She swayed with her head hung over
The buggy that clanked down the street
And I wondered...the will that drove her
As she walked without lifting her feet
Pushing...her tattered life in a kart
Her eyes fixed...in a frozen stare
Was she the beat of a broken heart
Soul lost...but she didn't know where
Somehow...she looked familiar to me
Yes!..vaguely like someone’s mother
A hint...of what she used to be
Or the sister of someone’s brother
Surely...she once belonged to someone
And I couldn’t help ask myself why
Her life had become completely undone
As despair... spilled out of her eyes
February 15, 2020]
Author: Elaine Cecelia George of Canada
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.
A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
is on his way to find ’em.
The pack rejoins with weary loins -
perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
for, yes, he’s still the rover.
When snow enshrines the timberlines
and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
float, hanging in the air.
Their path is black (they can’t look back
for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
display the night’s devotion.
The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.
...... Continued in part 2 ......
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Moon is hung over
the same scene she lit last night
washed out at sunrise
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
...... Part 3 ......
The old wolf creeps, the old wolf leaps
on prey he’s been a’ trackin’ –
a deer adorned with branchin’ horns
is torn by beasts attackin’.
The morning quakes, a shadow shakes,
tined antlers left a’ lyin’,
and spattered spots and scarlet clots
repaint the point o’ dyin’.
A magpie flies with frightened eyes
(on ebon wings a’ wavin’),
spies wolfin’ jaws and sated maws
of wolves no longer cravin’.
The snowdrift clears, a cool wind veers,
a dying breath, moreover –
a wraith appears, with shaggy ears,
(one droopin’ down, hung over).
Dawn’s sunbeams crowd, ignite a cloud,
its threaded strands a’ weavin’.
The pack awakes and twists and shakes,
for soon it’s time for leavin’;
it’s bleak, it chills on shallow hills,
as she-wolfs come a’ nuzzlin’,
but north winds scold, the wolf lies cold,
the pack stands back a’ puzzlin’.
On crimson snows neath perchin’ crows,
the pack abides a’ guardin’;
while nights are tight with Harpy kites,
the she-wolves wait an’ harden,
until a groanin’ blizzard stones
the barren forest stowin’
his shaggy ears beneath the weirs,
with icy hails ’a blowin’.
The storm abates and terminates,
the glacial wind’s subsidin’;
the past is past or passin’ fast
and life goes on abidin’.
The herds, today, roam far away,
not thinkin’ of the dyin’;
the pack’ll stray from day to day,
’a stalkin’ hard and tryin’.
As spring sneaks forth upon the north,
they’re lean without their leader.
A she-wolf (bound with belly round)
strains neath a budding cedar.
Upon the morn a whelp is born
(the future forest drover)
in new frontiers, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over).
......End......
A Christmas Story
He looks at the cards hung over the fire
Suspended in air by the finest of wire
One from his wife, his children and friends
Christmas he loves and he’s sad when it ends
Ceilings are decked with the seasonal trim
The tree is all set, baubled to the brim
Presents are wrapped, all ready to give
It’s that time of year he loves to relive
He sits by the tree and a fire lit ball
The image reflects of the babe in the stall
A donkey is there, the parents look on
Surrounded by shepherds and kings in a throng
He see’s the whole story, slowly unfold
As each in their turn, gives baby a hold
And the great star above shines brightly and new
And the world is at peace for a moment or two
He then see’s the past when his children were young
The house full of laughter and carols were sung
When visitors called for a glass of best sherry
Good cheer was abroad and everyone merry
Now the children have grown and live far away
No more with new toys will he see them play
His wife had passed on, a long time before
Each year that passes, he misses her more
Then the ball on the tree shows him all alone
In the house that was once his family’s home
Rolls a tear from his eye, drips from his chin
Does somebody, somewhere, still think of him?
He leans back in his chair and his eye catches sight
Of the cards he hangs there each Christmas night
Suspended in air by the finest of wire
He looks at the old cards hung over the fire
A knock at the door brings him back to life
He answers and finds it’s the ghost of his wife
“They’re not coming to you, so we’ll go to them”
It’s our turn to travel to Bethlehem”
From my place on the tree, the room I survey
Though he’s still sitting there, he’s on his way
To watch over those he loves above all
But, he’ll never forget what he saw in this ball.
maudlin
maudlin Monday's mostly mud
halts the weekend with woeful thud
laughs and sillies
get the willies
on maudlin Monday, what a dud
tintinnabulous
tintinnabulous Tuesday
is the second paying-dues day
we head uphill
but it’s no thrill
'cause we’re not there, but we’re on our way
wadd'lin
wadd'lin Wednesday straddles the hump
wiggles and shakes like a wide-angle rump
it’s a little too slow
with way too much show
wadd’lin Wednesday makes us “harumph”
thoracic
thoracic Thursday we’d like to send west
we want to get Thursday off of our chest
we’re not so sure
we can endure
thoracic Thursday'd be a good day to rest
finally
finally Friday, when it gets here
makes one take a look in the mirror
to practice a smile
to reclaim a style
time to get ready for giggles and beer!
sleep in
sleep-in Saturday comes with the blues
has way too many of those chore-ing to-do’s
so get outta bed
with hung-over head
and put off whatever you choose
shuff'lin
shuff'lin Sunday saunters along
changing tempo, just like a song
pretty soon then
it’s time again
for Monday and that is just wrong!
elusive
elusive, the eighth day hides from the rest
we like to think we’d like it the best
but we’d probably waste it
and then we’d lambast it.
an eight day week the Beatles addressed
A canopy of innocence, invisible to me
hung over playful joy shielding all that would come to be.
The world was mud and grass and trees, oh, puddles,swings and bikes
shrieking, shouting, rampant running anywhere we liked.
A watchful eye as we ran by from neighbours way back when
our life we weaved in make-believe, way back when I was ten.
Fights and tears did not last long if anyone fell out
back to being friends next day, the rift forgot about.
We romped and larked, new friendships sparked wherever we would hang
our open door to rich and poor within our merry gang.
No hatred spite or bigotry existed in us then
for that was what the grown-ups did, way back when I was ten.
I'd often wander by myself for hours through the fields
and check the schoolhouse orchard, help myself to what it yields.
Blindly unafraid, there were no barriers to me
'till twilight fell, exploring everything that I could see.
No warnings from our elders about talking to strange men
the world seemed a much safer place way back when I was ten.
Just like my photo album, everything seemed black and white,
a mother's touch could heal the world, make everything alright.
Dad put food on table, Mum made sure our stomach's full
safe in our family unit we all felt invincible.
Sometimes I look around and think how nice to go again
back to that summer bubble where I lived when I was ten.
For contest 'Way back when I was ten', sponsor Kelly Deschler
Death of My Ink
After a masterpiece that I was proud to write
no poetic words flowed from my pen out right
I could not ink the description of a desert dry
and worse yet had no mindset to try
thought I had to be conflicted enough
to use words to scream out in pain
I had no arsenal to name the sea a quilt of blue
Writing had come to a screeching halt
and not penning poetry was like food without salt
But just as a cloud hung over a little boat
a storm raged over my drink ink moat.
My ink did not have bicycle wheels
nor did it chase me wearing high heels
I had no idea if ink could have a revival
it was dead I assumed no survival.
Drunk and hung over
I began making this awkward ride
I began to make conversation and joke
About how drunk I was the past night
But a smile was not present
Nor a little grin on that side
I suddenly began to wonder
If everything was alright
So we continued
Continued this awkward drive
My attention began to turn
From the car, too the outside
The outside was very dark
Clouds surrounded the sky
It seemed everything had stopped
It seemed everything had died
But at the end of our drive
My grandmothers we would arrive
To see with my own eyes
My whole family standing outside
As we get out of the car
I put on a disguised smile
For I was still hung over
Got out and said “Hi”
My three uncles walked up to me
With a tear in each one’s eye
They put there arms all around me
And stuttered “Lee died last night”
So I pushed and I shoved
Uncontrollably began to cry
The only thing I could think of
Was the one to blame was I
I began to look for my father
To make sure he was alright
I noticed him by the old Sycamore tree
Staring up into the sky
As I started walking toward him
I noticed a car parked that was white
My mother jumped out and ran toward me
into my arms she cried" Why!!!"
The only thing I could do was hold her
With my arms I held so tight
She said "why did this happen"
"It just doesn’t seem right"
As I broke away from my mother
And walked over to my dad
There he stood crying
With a look on his face that was sad
It looked as if something had left him
Like a little piece of his heart
Now every time I see him
My crying begins to start
I said “Dad remember the good times"
“Remember he's still your son”
He said" yea I know Cody Bo
But the good they die young
The good die young son"
There was a cloud hung over him
a presence, an impending doom.
He seemed one lightning strike away
from enlightenment - or entombment.
Haunted by the stigma of divine dissatisfaction
a wanderer in a spiritual maelstrom
questioning the questions of the questioners,
thinking on the thoughts of the thinkers,
worshiping at the edges of heresy,
praying for the efficacy of his prayers.
Hidden in the silence of life’s tomb
innocence interred beneath this “cloud”.
The sun never shone, the rain never fell,
on the unrighteousness of the righteous.
4/10/2016
//This turned into a "Free Verse Sonnet". Hope it works.//
submitted to – Sun shines on the righteous – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Seren Roberts
The sunflower stretched
With its stalk and its neck
As far to the sky
As it could – reaching high,
Pushing its golden face
With clumsy, awkward grace
Trying, with all its might
To reach the highest height
That it could ever muster
So it could be like Custer
Or like a grand ole redwood
(I think it thought it could)
It reached into the atmosphere
Inhaled the biting air
Looked about in wonderment
High above the firmament
But slender was its frame
It did not have the strength
To stand as so unaided –
It weakened, and degraded
It towered, then bent over,
It leaned a little lower
And found the earth up close
Had just as much to boast
As did the open sky
It wondered at up high –
And thereto did it stay
Forever and a day
A little bit hung over
As if it lost its lover
Or better yet, had found
Upon the hallowed ground
Some cosmic explanation
About its situation
Which held it in its thrall
High above it all
And made its hanging there
That much easier to bear –
Im trying to piece the puzzle of my mind together but theres missing pieces and all the remaining ones are covered in black stained memories close to shattering like glass always living in the shadows unable to live in the light I am a puppet controlled by life being hung over a pit waiting to be dropped with thin unstable threads being humiliated by pain, prolonged distortion. The audience laugh as i fall down fall down breakdown breakdown
Mannequin puppet is me. I died and now my corpse is a puppet of amusement, a tool a mere discardable item with nothing to it. Empty caress again, nothing nothing nothing nothing.
How much more suffering do i have to go through for someone to help me.
Today feels like it never happened.
I'll be there when your dying, smiliiiing.