Best Irish Whiskey Poems
Whiskey Lips So Sublime
Whiskey Lips step now over the line of true fire-water,
As a warm-burning brings forward one glowing sign.
The golden mead of sweet mountain dew appears now,
As each golden drop sighs it moment of escape and as
The alcohol signals and sparks the wildest of spirits in
One’s own true self!
This moment of sublime ecstasy excites and sparks your
Deepest inner-spirit and you begin to slur and sing loudly,
As your mind begins to reel from the drunken delight of
Your very own intoxicating breaths—noble, yet stupid,
As you become drunken forever under each psychic sip
You taketh from the deepest pool in the very depths of
Your eternal soul!
Your very eyes now glaze over a breathless message
You have found in the cheapest of whiskey bottles.
Saying a divine prayer to Almighty God Himself,
You open the bottle cork now and take notice that a
Little genie pops out of nowhere and begins to take all
Three of your mythic wishes granted together into one!
With that, this little genie shall begin dancing and singing
An ancient Irish whiskey song in your presence into the
Wee hours of the morning until you both pass out and fall
Into a drunken stupor with your whiskey lips so sublime!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – July 23, 2018
(Free Verse)
I found myself
a good wee bottle
of 10 year old Irish whiskey
under my wee Irish down pillow
that must have been placed there
by the wee good leprechaun
tooth fairy
I could not bring myself
to hurt her wee feelings
so I opened it up
and drunk my wee Italian self
down to sleep
counting 40 pink plaid
wee Irish sheep
Drinking and Playing
Drinking and drinking Irish whiskey and red wine
They all thought they saw a spotted giraffe recline
Statistics say play
Oh ya, come what may
then they started playing with a fat porcupine.
Written: 4/14/15
Theresa Marie
One dark dreary night while happily drinkin’ up a big big storm,
I beheld a tiny green man in my bottle, oh!—not the norm.
He’s my tiny green man in my Irish whiskey bottle.
He’s my Leprechaun with whom I’d like to drink a pottle.
He’s the man with a certain quaint eye twinkle and attitude,
And he has all the fine alcoholic credentials and certitude,
Of one who’s done much, seen much, drunk much much,
And has great insight, insatiable charm, and a very deft touch.
My friend the Leprechaun tells me of his present living situation:
“Medrinks, Methinks, Mesleeps, Medrinks, ah!—My salvation!”
I tell him my ancestry is “Half-Irish” which makes me Celtic,
And he says, “Me good friend Gary, no shame, Me too Celtic!”
My Leprechaun asked me of my present situation with poetry,
And I says—“Medrinks, Methinks, Mewrites, Meloves poetry.”
Over time I found I was mimicking more and more my little elf friend,
And he says, “Me brother Gary, no worry, we both be Irish my friend.”
I told my Leprechaun that he does indeed have quite an alcoholic ego,
And my little elf quipped, “When we both drink Gary, I’m your alter ego!”
And so, my Leprechaun in my bottle is my good friend—my adviser,
And, I find that as we both drink together my poetry flows all the wiser.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (September 9, 2014)
(Rhymed Couplet)
Accept, the chastity and understanding of the spirit
A life in strict celibacy, ignore their sexual feelings
Frivolity, a path that leads straight to hell
Has God given them everything for nothing?
Disobedient nuns at the bar ... Irish Whiskey, thanks
26/08/2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
~ Five Lines- Poetry Contest ~
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
7th place in the contest
IRISH WIDOW
It's a dreary kind of story, but a story young and old,
in a way already finished, in a way it's never told,
you can hear it when it's raining, but it's never meant to hear,
it's a love not meant for seeing, but will never disappear.
From the Poconos it's singing through the Pennsylvania trees,
and a lot like Irish whiskey, it's a little bit of tease,
if a summer rain is falling, it will be a little right,
if a cold wind is ablowing, it will bring a little blight.
It's a love a girl was living for a boy who changed her name,
but an empty kind of feeling, for the way he played the game,
so she killed him in the morning, and she buried him alone,
while the buttonwoods were crying, her poor heart was turned to stone.
You can hear them in the morning, you can hear them late at night,
it's a dreary kind of story, but it's how they always fight.
She will hit him with a hammer, he will stab her with his knife,
but you know before the evening, he'll be buried by his wife.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
With alcohol coursing through my veins,
I sense and feel the best of my pains.
With double resolve to amend my aims,
I can’t believe I really want to.
Oh Alcohol! Oh Alcohol! Oh Alcohol!
you are the balm and bane
to my existence;
and yet, if I must choose,
I choose the balm to my existence.
As I tear through the shadows of my life,
I know that thou art with me,
every time I pour a glass of fine red wine,
or a stout shot glass Irish whiskey,
I marvel at the sound and tenor of this fine alcohol
as it moves in waves and slaps the inside of the glass of choice.
The sound it makes is indeed notable and quite pleasant.
As they say in the German:
“das macht ein gutes Geräusch.”
-or-
“das macht eine klangvolle Wonne.”
With alcohol coursing through my veins,
melancholy is never one of my pains.
This emotion is not allowed
nor will I ever be cowed,
and depressed—as some suggest:
to slump, to sulk, and to sit in the corner
crying over what might have been.
When drinking and thinking and being, and—
with alcohol coursing through my veins,
I do indeed savor the sound of fine alcohol being poured
to quite rightly ensure that I will never be bored.
As they say in the German:
“das macht ein gutes Geräusch.”
-or-
“das macht eine klangvolle Wonne.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany
(August 24, 2014)
I want to go across the sea to Dublin.
Immediately is when my journey must begin.
There is a pretty Irish lass waiting for me there.
She has cool blue eyes and lovely red hair.
Here in the states, I miss her all the while.
The lady waits for my return to the Emerald Isle.
My woman is really a great beauty to see.
She gets me higher than a shot of Irish whiskey.
I want to book my Aer Lingus flight.
Over the ocean is where I will fly overnight.
I will arrive at Dublin’s airport before sunrise.
I cannot wait to gaze into those blue eyes.
I want to hug and kiss her, and take her by the hand.
Big 747, I am in a hurry to get to Ireland.
one fine sunny morning dazzling golden sunrise
dancing with rays of magical sunshine
dewdrops on silver webs glistening drops
he began whistling and dancing
picking wild mushrooms on the forest floor
to make magic wonder and happenings occur
he begins building and stoking the fire
throwing turf on until red hot
sticks the pot over the flicking flames
stirring emotions inside bubble and steam
throws in a mountain of carrots, peas, herbs
with lots of other sorts of raw veggies
adding a rare drop of mountain spirits . . .
next freeing a soul adding an alchemic fuel so rare
making himself a most magical and delicious stew
as he cooked he began devouring the stew more and more
then slowly he felt himself floating high so high
in a bubble so wonderful and dear and so clear
picked up by a pocket of air and floating even more
when . . .
a lovely fairy princess appears gossamer wings your light
and then appearing again under a radiant rainbow bridge
and with one cherished and most special romantic kiss
he began waltzing with her to a melody so haunting yet pretty
and while lost in this mystical trancelike moment of splendor
the fairy princess stole his heart that was pure gold
and when he came around alone—so alone
an icy cold shiver then ran down his very spine
it was just a silly old leprechaun dream and all he thought
as I see her magic sparkling potions cast on someone else too
the big ethereal and mystical bubble of fairy elves just burst
wide open for him and all others to see while the elves
laughed raucously so hard with little warm tears running down
their little rosy cheeks . . .
the leprechaun pondered—next time Me thinks Me be more
careful with them mushrooms Me happily picks on the forest floor—
and stick to drinkin’ the old mountain forest dew with some
lovely luscious shots of the oldest Irish whiskey with a stout nip o’ gin . . . .
Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, Copyright ©
All Rights Reserved (December 3, 2014) (Free Verse poetic format)
Ain't nothin' like a steamin' cup o' coffee to greet the early morn.
It'll calm yer nerves and git you goin' just as sure as you wuz born!
With mixin's added to suit yer taste, it must be scaldin' hot,
Decaf, regular, chicory-strong or mild, it really matters not!
Some folks prefer a styrofoam cup, others a massive mug,
But those proffer an indelicate way to down a gulpin' slug.
Others, a dainty cup and saucer, pinkie sedately bent,
Sippin' delicately so social faux pas one is sure to prevent!
I hear it ain't acceptable to dunk a donut in yer mug o' java,
Or pour coffee in a saucer to cool, tho' it's hot as flowin' lava.
But I ain't concerned about it bein' a great big social blunder,
As folks disdainfully stare at me as if I wuz some alien wonder!
Docs debate the merits of caffeine, whether it's healthy or not.
Let 'em bicker, I'll decide what to percolate in my coffee pot!
My dear old Dad had his daily caffeine fix, livin' 'til ninety-four.
I've done the same fer years and I'm approachin' nigh four-score!
Nowadays, fancy concoctions are brewed for the discernin' taste;
Expresso, mocha, cappuccino, even Irish whiskey laced!
Such exotic ambrosia to others I'll graciously defer.
I'll keep on slurpin' an ordinary cop 'o joe, which I much prefer!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
ESTHER ARBUTHNOT--1875 From Her Ancient Photograph
While the rain is falling gently on the roof it makes the sound,
of a time that's long forgotten, though it seems to hang around,
I can hear you breathing lightly from an Irish dream I've known,
it has come to Pennsylvania where you've found me here alone.
All the way from County Down, you were a dream I had to find,
though so long you were forgotten, you were always on my mind.
In your photograph your eyes are reaching out, perhaps for me,
I can feel you when I see you, but I never really see.
It's made me wonder if your dream
had ever made your heart to scream?
In your Book of Shadows, reading is another person's sin,
but you open it to anyone who's wanting to come in.
There's a candle always burning in my window late at night,
and I'd love you in a moment, but that wouldn't make it right.
It's made your photograph sureal
in warming only I can feel.
Can you hear the raindrops falling? County Down's so far away,
or perhaps it's just forgotten, like a dreary Irish day,
I can feel it when you're smiling, in the Heaven of your eyes,
love is gone and you've been dying, and it's then I realize,
you have found it all in Heaven, and it's such a part of you,
all the sadness you've been living in this life will have to do.
it's an Irish kind of feeling, to be dying when you're dead,
and a lot of Irish whiskey only lightens up my head.
It's made me think I need your tears
that have to flow for years and years.
© ron wilson aka Ron Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Form:
Cian careen into Quigley's Pub
for a little Irish whiskey and sub
before long dancing
an Irish jig romancing
the wee fawning lassies lap club
lassies hooting and flapping being bold
with blarney about his pot of gold
money he was countin
while lassies were mountin
full of craic, pole dancing, and few handholds
much Irish brew a sot Cian became
I'm takin my money you can't blame
when he got to his lair
pot did he held bare
shame he did claim but himself to blame
3/26/2017
An old Irishman was on his deathbed
He was nearly at the end.
He had one final wish to be granted
so he motioned to Patty, his friend.
"Patty, I need one last favor".
"Just ask me", was Patty's reply.
"Find me bottle of the best Irish whiskey",
he said with a tear in his eye.
"When I'm gone, please pour it over me grave,
just in case I have me a thirst"!
Patty agreed, then sheepishly asked,
"Could I run it through me kidneys first"?
Apple pucker gets things started.
Bacardi Limon, with Sprite of course.
Cactus Juice, on the rocks.
Dirty mother, one of my Kahlua faves.
Eggnog, now even more so my Christmas fave.
French Connection, takes me to France for next to nothing.
Gin and tonic, just to try it.
Hypnotiq, I'm hooked on it.
Incredible Hulk, he'll tear you up.
Jack Daniels, my new best friend.
Kahlua, add it to coffee...mmmm mmmm good.
Long Island Iced Tea, one is not enough for me.
Malibu and Coke for an island escape.
Nuttini, the only martini that I will touch.
Ouzo, Greeks can keep this for themselves, I wouldn't mind one bit.
Pina coladas, problems soon forgotten.
Quince liqueur, if I have the time.
Rusty Nail, the kind I don't mind if I encounter.
Sex on the beach, now that's always fun.
Tequila one, tequila two, tequila three, tequila floor.
U-238, the only bomb I wanna be blown away by.
Velvet Hammer, can pound on me anytime.
Whiskey, Irish whiskey, preferably...goes down smooth, doesn't burn.
***, the Molson that will wreak havoc with my head.
York Peppermint Patty shot when my breath needs refreshing.
Zima, for something to break the ice.
your head of greed
be cut off by the sword of justice -
I'm sipping Jameson*
------
* Irish Whiskey