Best Malt Poems
Buried here is the weather man J. P. Blithing
Forgot his brolly and got struck by lightning
In this vault is the flat coffin of J.J. Stowler
Fell into the path of a runaway steam roller
In this grave lies the ashes of Jim Fortescue
Got drunk and passed out on a barbecue
Buried below in two halves is Arthur. P. Law
Slipped in his workshop onto a circular saw
Interred a hundred feet below in a lead lined coffin
Are the glowing remains of an accident prone boffin
Lying in this vault is the body of a tiger
Inside its body is the hunter J. Stiger
Buried below in a jar are the pickled remains of P. Stringer
Who stumbled and drowned into a large vat of malt vinegar
Written 23 September 2021
Categories:
malt, death, humor,
Form:
Epitaph
MALT SHOP
I’d been in the place -
The usual booths lots of them
And a soda fountain –
But not right after school
Not that I’m such a flaming intellectual
But the bookish didn’t hang out there
And then
Some of us had jobs
No It was the personality boys and girls
For whom school was a prelude to the malt shop
Here you could be seen and heard
Heard over the noise you were part of
The nerd need not show up at the malt shop
The booths were both confessional and
possessional
With room for four two boys two girls
Nerdy had no girl no room for him
I suppose every school has a no touch clan
Four or five royalty who really know how to
play
They will not inhabit the malt shop
It’s too common for them
So where did I fit in?
I didn’t
Didn’t go to dances
Didn’t know how to smile just right
Did I want to go to the malt shop
Smile laugh
Flirt with the girls?
Of course I did!
Dave Austin
Categories:
malt, youth,
Form:
Free verse
THE MALT SHOP
I would wager every school has a no-touch clan -
Four or five debs who really know how to play
And they share company only with those coolest
studs of the day
Money, looks and politics are basic to the royal
suiting up
One must look just so, act just so and appear only
at just so places
Well? do they appear at the malt shop?
Oh, no – none will see those faces
It’s just so too common for them to show
So? Where did I fit in?
I didn’t – to dances didn’t go
Didn’t know how to smile just so
Didn’t kiss VIP bottoms, you know
I used to pass the noisy place and shake my head –
Such a waste of time, such decadence, values dead
And did I, mister well read, want to go
to the malt shop,
Smile, laugh, flirt with the girls?
Damn right I did!
Dave Austin
Categories:
malt, abuse,
Form:
Free verse
Good poetry is like an Old Master
Crafted with expert skill imbued with soul
No abstracted throwaway disaster
Or a bland undistinguished casserole
Of poor ingredients cooked up faster
And deposited in the toilet bowl
No, it should stimulate the appetite
And explode in the mind like dynamite
Good poetry should stand the test of time
Like great art it should make your spirit soar
Made memorable by structure and by rhyme
Utilizing simile, metaphor
Allegory and precise words that chime
Never should its contents the reader bore
Linking thoughts and ideas that one can quote
More than just a run-of-mill anecdote
Good poetry conveys thoughts in a way
That prose cannot - however full of wit
As a good photo brilliant in its way
Rarely reveals the person who took it
But a crafted poem - like a Monet
Should bear its creator’s mark and transmit
A recognition of the poet’s style
Whether it’s limited or versatile
Good poetry is like a single malt
Aged in a golden sherry cask of oak
With which a connoisseur can find no fault
Redolent of heather and peaty smoke
So, any poets worthy of their salt
Should let thoughts marinate, mature and soak
And distil them once, twice or even thrice
Before serving neat sans water or ice
Categories:
malt, image, imagery, poems, poetry,
Form:
Ottava rima
The ground rumbles, ominously, I'm on the steep side of a Mississippi River Bluff, mid-August, gathering bursting crimson red trophies of Staghorn Sumac for my favorite sumac-ade, a spright, invigorating tonic I enjoy this time of year. The smell in the air, forest-sage beginning to dry and ripen, the bitter tang of scattered paper-birch bark chimneys...must keep alert for the origins of the earthly rumble.
The unsettled earth, sweet and bitter smells...mix with my age and I sit down as if in a trance and drift asleep...harkening back to my training as a young man in a Manhattan Bagel Deli, assembling prep-stations for the customer onslaught about to descend. Proofed bagel dough, seeded and rotating in the elevator slate-shelved oven after a frothy malt-bath in the bubbling giant kettle, delectable aromas of fairly vibrating paper-sliced spiced meats and piquant aged cheeses, briny sheets of smoked lox, pots of sweetly acidic capers and luminous heirloom tomatoes...
But I'm much older now, my mind remembers, but my body can't function like it once did, I can't perform the once-easy configurations effortlessly like before.
The rumbling, just my imagination...
I awaken, gather my bunch of fluorescent sumac, which I am still able to concoct, mindful of God's Grace in my spiritual and physical evolution...He
Has Blessed me with.
8-13-20
6:03 am
Categories:
malt, age,
Form:
Narrative
The opposition calls like intuition,
from down the halls to the master's kitchen.
Her knees are rocking cheddar cheese blocks,
and when she walks you hear Pop Rocks.
Her eyes are made of ribeye steaks.
Her lips are whipped cream topped chocolate cakes.
Her cheeks are stuffing with a gravy blush.
Her neck is a lamb chop, long and lush.
Her chest is dressed with fried chicken strips.
Her hips swivel with potato chips.
Her legs, saturated in maple bacon.
Her stomach, a malt drink, freshly shaken.
Her arms are sausage kabobs, super-sized.
Her ears are cream cookies, finely disguised.
Her hair boasts alfredo soaked spaghetti strands.
She holds a loaded potato with open hands.
She knows your struggles and echoes your taste,
never minding the size of your waist.
You want to break free and finally be thin,
but she follows you sweetly with that whipped topping grin.
Categories:
malt, body, chocolate, desire, food,
Form:
Rhyme
Your love is thin
it has no flesh
its a pretty face
with no consequence,
so I tell myself
go without the water
by summer the malt
will be in order
your love is thin.
Categories:
malt, bird, goodbye, love, lust,
Form:
Light Verse
Leather Jacket
Gym shoes, sipping a malt
Leather jacket, tight jeans.
She fell so helpless with him under the sheets.
His skin..total velvet-sweet.
Ah, those magenta hues~
From the hotel light flashing.
Cable cars bells ringing.
A night to remember, her
soul singing,
Total sexual splendor.
She'll forever remember~
Her....San Francisco.
Pamagiota Romios
2/28/2019
Categories:
malt, boyfriend, feelings, lust, sensual,
Form:
Rhyme
"No, I won't read you, no matter what!"
"Even if you get a POTD, I will keep my heart and pen shut."
Such a terribly, nasty state of affairs.
When they associate only with top poet lairs!
I had enough POTDs to already know who would prefer death! (by name).
Than giving me a soul squeeze,golly, they may run out of breath?
I take it all in,with a big grain of salt.
Better that, than getting totally drunk on malt.
To those who are here, to a relative newbie.
I prefer love to disingenuous snooties!
***************
@And hugs to all, who do read me. M.L Kiser had it
right.
"Are you here to collect comments, or are you here write poetry?"
The answer is clear, my dear.
Thumbs up, M.L... Thank you for saving my poetic life!M!
Hugs...Pangie Romios
Categories:
malt, community, humor, poetry,
Form:
Couplet
She stares into the casket
open, not what he wanted,
but she did, even more now.
“Stiffer than he’s ever been.”
she snickered, silent, unheard.
“O M F G thirty years;
look at you in your blazer
and that idiotic badge;”
she toasted, raising a glass
of cola and single malt
discovered upon finding
the “mislaid” Tantalus key.
“I bet you’ll never guess where
your model steam engine is?”
She whispered into his ear,
“Oh, once more into the breach,”
she laughed and knowingly winked.
“Nothing to say, no repost?”
“Not a cutting, hurtful quip?”
“you’re dead, you say. Can’t answer.”
“I was dead for thirty years!”
Categories:
malt, death,
Form:
Blank verse
My teeth crunch into golden heaven,
savoring fresh cream and salt.
This is my tenth - wait, no - eleventh
cob of corn. Time for a malt.
Corn cob, Mom, Bob,
Can't have another?
We love each other,
so you must.
Cob of corn, my golden heaven,
After you I love to lust.
Categories:
malt, food, humorous, lust, yellow,
Form:
Ode
Hey kids get out in the car !
Dad, are we going very far ?
You don't ask, I won't tell...
We're going crazy, oh well.
Got to get out on the road...
to forget that heavy load !
It winds from Chicago to L.A.
Route 66 is where you should play.
Our '63 Buick is the car we drive...
takes lots of gas to keep it alive.
Has luxury and that ain't all...
its got a 445 that just will not stall !
Dad said look out the window...
see the USA while we go.
Gotta see it before its gone,
look there's a spaceship on that lawn !
You see everything on the Mother Road...
A blue whale and a giant horn toad.
In motor courts and wigwams you sleep,
buy postcard so memories you keep.
Now it's a little out of the way...
but more fun than the toll way.
See how America used to be,
when it was fun to be free !
There's mountains and lots of funny rocks,
sand and a canyon like a box.
Old drive inns and out door movies...
drink a malt and feel so groove.
I'd lay up on the window deck...
wave to trucks till the're a speck.
Love to look at old car and trucks...
saw armadillos, buffalo and bucks.
Had a lot of fun on the way !
We're almost to the coast and L.A.
So get your kicks...
drive on Route 66 !
To the fond memory of car trips when I was a kid.
Categories:
malt, adventure, childhood, dedication, familycar,
Form:
Lyric
Take a second look at me, for beneath this midriff flab
and balding pate and wrinkly skin you'll find a science lab.
And though all may seem quiet, it may come as quite a shock
to find there are experiments going on around the clock.
Take off my shirt where buttons strain and you will plainly see
the man-boobs test which does defy the laws of gravity.
This pinkish skin in standby mode can shift to deathly white
when I've done wrong and run at over twice the speed of light.
The stomach has increased in size, approaching critical mass
fermenting water, malt and hops delivered by the glass.
The bowel is a reactor , shutting down I'm in no hurry,
as testing is ongoing on the half-life of beef curry,
results have shown it could have blown, with lager mixed for fission
but all the same I still get blamed for resulting emissions.
If trapped inside a lift with me you wouldn't stand a prayer,
but I don't think I've made a dent in the size of the Ozone layer.
I don't believe the Nobel prize I'd win for all these tests
my missus says to keep my findings secret would be best,
and though in all these subjects there is no award for me
she says at least between us both
we've still got Chemistry.
Categories:
malt, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
Love Is Strange
I wish I could be the ocean: free, vast, and open, without mundane human responsibility.
Can you get me a coffee with a spoonful of magic?
The one that tastes like malt liquor, smells like honey, feels like velvet, looks like danger, and sounds like explosions caused by planes.
They say terrorists are real, but stories are made up everyday, the stories that look like America and taste like lies.
George Bush, The White House.
I don’t want to be the ocean, it’s so cold, open, and vast. Eternal,
that is all it is. Eternal.
Bae hates this land.
If we elect our next president, he, she, they will change our world for the better.
Ne me quitte pas
The red cow of Value knows trigonometry.
I went to India last summer and met Buddha, talked to Jesus, too, and he told me society was a trick.
Phil is a smart, kind, and compassionate person; he is a good friend.
This poem is published all over the world, it’s exposed the biggest lie from the rulers of the world.
I met thrilling in Italy.
It is possible for a cow to jump over the moon if the cow is strapped to rockets.
No chingues!
Every night my Vinyl player begs for me to sleep with her. She starts singing to me and before I know it, she has seduced me. Still,
Red cows bleed virtue over humans and speak trigonometry in those sleepless nights.
Goodnight.
Categories:
malt, anniversary, beauty, best friend,
Form:
List
We drift aimlessly
Upon a delicate mode of dust
A choice, not ours to make
Existing because we must
Absorbing what must be known
Experience is just what we feel
Careening across the universe
The blind hand of fate on the wheel
Or perhaps we're afloat in a cosmic concoction
A galaxy an abyss in a blender
There's a giant out there who's just like me
On the brink of a black hole bender.
A starry malt of Milky Way
A giant who drinks alone
I wish he'd guzzle to dull his pain
So I won't need a drink for my own.
Categories:
malt, space, universe,
Form:
Rhyme