Best Inebriate Poems
Alone, beneath the skies of sunset wine,
infuse me with your golden minutes’ keep -
break the cloudy mantle’s mood so dreary,
subdue the winds to flutes of airy sweep
imbibing rays of crimson-orange hues,
inebriate to liberate dull senses seized -
fly away! those murky flocks of gray no longer moody
a consequence of sweet relief received.
Susan Ashley
September 29, 2020
(December 21, 2019)
I know the land where the lemon trees flower
Where the sun paints a panorama by the hour
While its light caresses each curve of the land
Dispersing golden rays on sea and sand
I know the land with intoxicating blooms
Where love and romance forever looms
While breezes migrate perfumes and birds
Over miles of castles and luscious orchards
I know the land where sunsets glow
More spectacular than any rainbow
With colors only akin to the divine
Notorious to inebriate a lot like wine
I know the land when it rings midnight
The infinite sky fills with stars so bright
And the goddess moon makes her ascent
Blessing each and all under the firmament
Read on air by invitation ~ February 27, 2022 'POETS HARBOUR'
AP: Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on August 2, 2018 for contest EARLY AUGUST 2018 PREMIERE sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 7TH
and July 10, 2018 for contest PRETTY POEM PLEASE sponsored by JULIA WARD
Villanelle: Dare you stain the portals of your deity’s sacrosanct citadel
Dare you stain the portals of your deity’s sacrosanct citadel
Which mortal mammal’s primal address the rapists desecrate
Be not taken aback the yoni passage leads astray linga infidel
Seeds of life ever come tumbling from out the sacred temple
There to greet in meiosis and in secret reverence gestate
Dare you stain the portals of your deity’s sacrosanct citadel
Do heathen women toiling in the dark draw the blinds on hell
And Gorgon heads of demons deep in them shudder vibrate
Be not taken aback the yoni passage leads astray linga infidel
Yet deafening tunnel shrieks of the human species’ s carousel
Re-winds obsessive tinnitus ear-pounding thuds to celebrate
Dare you stain the portals of your deity’s sacrosanct citadel
Who keeps the sanctum sanctorum well-cleansed spiritual
But the defiant procreator linga tireless distending inebriate
Be not taken aback the yoni passage leads astray linga infidel
He who bestial disembowels the temple in a frenzied spell
His own mother disowns and hysteric squats on life’s dictates
Dare you stain the portals of your deity’s sacrosanct citadel
Be not taken aback the yoni passage leads astray linga infidel
© T. Wignesan – Pars, 2014
(A Salute to Emily Dickinson)
I taste a liquor never brewed
In structured vats of men
Not all the tankards ever filled
Could reign this nectar in
Inebriate of Christ am I
His words I’m sipping from
Of life, of love, of power
Drunken worlds to overcome
When clergy slips and cannot rise
When churches close their door
I shall not move toward recant
I shall but drink the more
Till angels lay aside their song
Till saints the rainbows shun
This fervent tippler ever stays
to lean against the Son!
©cfa 7/4/2016
For quite a while we were cursing our almost ice age days and nights
Though we got our dear Santa, merry Christmas and fluid delight
Tasty chocolate before the fireplace and the warmth nestling in nightshirt
Still we were waiting when the sun would tilt to us and hug, - in fresh love
Gradually there is green affection playing along with rustling wind
Green is playground bubbly with the children in their green of breath
A mildly inebriate ease we fill in from the nips of breezy pines
A breath of life, ah, in your green hug amidst the vigorous birch and oak
Over the distant blue and green hills, scarlet tanagers at play with clouds
Cows and lambs graze soft grass sitting in hill side fields of sprawling green
Rising from the dewy greenery rapture at play on your chin
Scented air from the lilacs call us to an unknown dance
In silent steps, in a dim blue light, comes up full moon over the hill
In moonlit night all are wild in denial about their disease and death
The wild animals have come out too in order to be into each other's heat
Spring in life is as transient as a water bubble on a lotus leaf __________________________________________________________________
March 20, 2016
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 55
What the human mind can conceive calculate
See beyond sight recall aeons lost in time
Yet we believe grandma tales spun inebriate
How the human brain can even brains create
Short-circuit evolution collapsing time
What the human mind can conceive calculate
Pack thunder and lightning in capsules of hate
Harness hidden quark energies for a rhyme
Yet we believe grandma tales spun inebriate
Earth’s environs run in quantum leaps of late
Take pulsar quasar pulse long dead in lost clime
What the human mind can conceive calculate
Sound the molten hard heart of globe inchoate
Find untrodden paths along arcs of space-time
Yet we believe grandma tales spun inebriate
Let some men through cunning minds subjugate
For country conscience caprice incite to crime
What the human mind can conceive calculate
Yet we believe grandma tales spun inebriate
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
When a fetus or baby, I then could have been:
Born to mother who died, or with father unknown
Into poverty born in a nation not free
With impairments or problems I've never outgrown
Or by parents aborted if she, not a he.
I was lucky
When a child and teenager, I could have been:
A delinquent or orphan or war refugee
Or abandoned or crippled, for child labor used
Without friends, joy, or future or dead from OD
Or unschooled or deprived or unloved or abused.
I was lucky
When full-grown in my prime, I could also have been:
An inebriate, parasite, vagrant, or jailed
Or been killed in a war or had not met my wife
Unemployed or an entrepreneur who had failed
Or severely depressed or had taken my life.
I was lucky
And I could in the decades that followed have been:
Unexpectedly fired, into bankruptcy forced
By an accident maimed, watching children go bad
Or a victim of crime or been sued or divorced
Or betrayed by a friend, or gone stark, raving mad.
I was lucky
With retirement approaching, I then could have been:
From my children estranged, mourning death of my wife
Or investing unwisely or homeless or broke
Having manic disorders or bored with my life
Or in hospital bed with a cancer or stroke.
I was lucky
Over eighty, like many my age I could be:
With no pension or savings or family left
Or dependent on charity, begging, or theft
In a nursing home languishing, sad and confined
All alone and an invalid, witless, or blind.
I am lucky (or blessed)
I LOVE THE RAIN (C) 2018
BY KWEEN YAKINI
I love the rain
Let it rain
Let it rain
I can feel it coming down
Just keep dripping on me until I drown
I love the rain
Let it rain
Let it rain
Trickling upon the curves my frame
Only you have the power wash away my pain
Come on sweet rain
You inebriate me your champagne
I’ll drink a cup of you everyday
Lay me under the Goddess Moon
Prick me with April showers in early June
Let the tip of my tongue be your spoon
Oh, how I love getting wet
Let me get soaked in it
Let you penetrate my soul
With every delicious inch
Yes, I love the rain
So, let it rain
Let it rain…
This is my love letter to our lovely planet oasis
Alas taken for granted and abused on a daily basis
Through the years she’s provided me with much joy and wonder
She’s filled my heart with awesome scenes up above and down under
It chagrins me to think I’ve seen both my last rainbow and sunrise
Never again to be amazed by a sunset bearing radiant surprise
The feel of tree bark and rustling leaves on branches in the breeze
Intoxicating perfumes of lilacs, roses and gardenia that appease
The songs of birds large and small, the flow of rivers’ lifeblood
The exquisite purety of waterlilies that are rooted in mud
The smells of each season that inebriate all my senses
The feel of snowflakes on my skin and all those odd coincidences
No more nights looking up at a starry sky and the moon in all its phases
Pondering our insignificance within this grandeur and vastness that amazes
AP: 1st place 2020, Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on June 28, 2018 for contest MY MUSE, MORTAL sponsored by GREGORY R BARDEN
Scathing these miscoloured orbs of sight, with incised rocks carved beneath
Concretionaries jagged edges of contagiums....
Painted upon the predominating canvas of perceptions dank, pasteled times!
So what has changed, this mosaic of histories collective collage?
As one way or another many, infused, inebriate their thoughts to inertia
Binding and bound; within these thicker links of connotations chains....
While they bury their bleeding nails into walls; immersed within darker days
Wherein few lives withdraw completely these claws, of concourses contaminating
Which extends itself polymorphously, deeper....
This unknowing muted muse amongst, everbearings, everyway?!
Unto the very core within, bleaksomes mangled maze, of, adapted art....
This abstract and blurried shadow of vagues, prolific presentations
How to pound the hearts into tears, of burnings coffins, set ablaze
Amid the dawning of insanities decrying of decrepits, decores, so displayed....
Within these assylums waiting for their fills
Beyond, the ghostly bars of Baals, notes, now played
By this 'Phantom of The Operas' corpse; deceivings decay, exhumed....
These flaming embers of ashes; fortiums pins of pain!
The crows casting within corners; like shackles upon most; the guiles, of guildeds shame?
This sifting of flour to find the implosion of caverns
Crashing, upon themselves to the suffocating truths, of, their often buried alive....
Subsisting encased within the cages like creatures, placed on exhibit?
An example, of the modern day creations, lifted from the poisoned palettes, of Palladians ways
Swirling within these inversions; smoke upon the rise....
Black splashings, atop the pavement of profounds
Sculptors, with their crucifying knives!
More concise within their uncompromising; binding the bound, within these thicker links of
chains
While they bury their bleeding touch, into the walls of this darklings darkest haze
Wherein few souls escape such palindromic brushings
These, emdedded pigments, of the palinodes days of daze....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Contemporary Art!?
The Day is Coming
By Franklin Price
3/29/2015
The day is coming, April one
The day for fools to have some fun
Much fooling time already spent
By those who run for president
Make fools of us with what they say
We're fools to listen anyway
Best ear plug our auditory
Than to hear those fools in all their glory
And what about those Super Packs?
Who support those fools and have their backs
Unlimited funds for them to sway
Those who vote to poll their way
What selfish fools Pack people are
Funds better spent on open bar
Then fools they could inebriate
To vote their foolish candidate
The internet changed everything
Allowed the Packs to do their thing
Would have us fools believe it all
The tales they tell are very tall
Let's show those Packs on voting day
That we the people have a say
Fend for yourself and vote your choice
Show those fools, we fools, still have a voice
A Self-Tutoring Translation of RIMBAUD's " The Vowels " in Contemporary Terms
(" The Vowels " in the Paul Verlaine (first version) copy in RIMBAUD Œuvres complètes. Ed. by Pierre Brunel. Paris : Livres de Poche/La Pochethèque, 1999, pp. 279-280. Please see notes following the translation. T. Wignesan)
A, black ; E, white ; I, red ; U, green ; O, blue ; vowels,
I'll invoke true to day how your latent forms take shape
A, velvety black corset shiny bluebottles armour-plate ape
Pullule hovering over putrefying carrion stench gruels
By leeway gulfs. E, shimmering of vapours and tents,
Icy surges prideful, white grapes*, fluttering parasols umbellate,
I, purple, spat-out blood, laughter from Synchrotron** lips ondulate
Through anger or from inebriate benumbing of penitents.
U, cycles, the divine vibrations of emerald-green seas
Peaceful grazing grounds teeming with animals, reposeful furrowed pleats
Some alchemically concocted hand imprints on great foreheads studious ;
O ! stentorian Bugle ! the laden strident shriek deranges,
The calmness pierced by disrupting Worlds and Angels…
--- O ! the ultimate Omega, the violet tincture of her eyes !
Notes
* " rais blanc " (" raisin blanc " ?, hence : " raisiné " : blood, claret) ;
** " belles " (" beautiful " is hackneyed and meaningless ; by contrast, the CERN Synchrotron is the most daring, infinitesimally elegant and awe-inspiring human creation) ;
© T. Wignesan - Paris, March 21, 2019
What can I do? I’m helpless
Witches are stuffing my brain with straw
Pernicious thoughts raining spurious angels-
Sons of bloodsheds, their beautiful faces
Wait for a cab sailing to perdition.
My organs are atrophied as head swells
Like a big bug, spreading its wings and ejecting
Bad fumes on the inebriate city malls, and
Levitates between yes and no
Sorry, from today, on principle, I’m your foe
Sorry, I must kill you, my chips dictate so.
I ‘m duped by Macbeth’s witches, I have
Killed Banquo on a barren heath to fulfill their
Prophesies; strange delusions release their
Sperms in my innards to fructify evil plan
To stop the future coming on the earth-face
To stop the riverflow, to stop the human grace.
I am barren, nothing restricts me to kill
Grenades command me, bullets demand dues
Missiles fall like crackers at the wedding
I have sinned, nukes cry wolf, battalions move
I have sinned, birds lose nest, babies mother
I have to shoot the first shadow of my father
I have sinned; I have to blast my twin brother.
What can I do? I’m helpless
Girls are ravaged by squiggling worms
Widowed Cats are seeking hearth
I have sinned, world waits a second birth.
Love is like a green leaf
innocent, delicate and soft
tenderness of which brings
a sensation of pleasure to mind
Love is like a rainbow
cheerful, playful and elegant
with its seven colors
nature gets fascinated
Love is the first rays of the sun
unique, energetic and fresh
that illuminate the whole world
by its weird glow
Love is a gust of wind
inebriate, guileless and dynamic
with its unique freshness
makes the environment gleeful
Love is like a blue Sky
curious, independent and open-minded
under which all creatures
feel safe and protected
Love is like a deep blue sea
Cool, modest and prudent
That possesses hidden treasury of
Precious pearls and gems within it
Love is like the earth
Kindhearted, forgiving and loving
That croons a sweet lullaby
For its children
(By Kishan Negi)
Who would have known,
your roots were hidden, deep,
beyond the shadows that would keep you,
dancin'in the street?
Being just a bum when it all began,
when you were very young.
And who knew the circumstances...
of your own poverty?
From a mother
who couldn't cope,
and left you all alone...
and abandoned?
And you found yourself,
sleeping...
on those park benches
in Kennington.
But then, you met the organ man,
there in East Street,
where you tapped into the lightness...
of your own dance.
Creating that special place
in your imagination,
and you would escape...
and become the vaudeville man.
Living with a plan,
that would bring you fame and fortune!
With cane and hat, strutting your stuff,
along some promenade.
Yet being so afraid,inside,
you couldn't hide that sadness...
on your sleeve.
But it would all appear in your dress,
what a mess!
And there, along some tavern street,
you would meet and greet the ladies,
and find yourself again,
tapping into your own ballet...
With a glimmer in your eye.
and driven to succeed,
who knew the suffering you would face...
from your loneliness melancholy ways?
On stage,
you were on...
never ceasing
to play a part.
But off stage,
was a tale of a whole different guy,
being lonely and shy, and rather
reserved.
And you became the comedian in your time,
when mine struck the ultimate chord for your success,
and you imitated...
the inebriate!