Best Quaffed Poems
He lives upon a printed page,
marching golden in a dream.
His words described a brighter age --
which quaffed the milk and lapped the cream.
Fate brought him forth to love and live --
scion of a proud and noble race.
All he sacrificed and all he'd give
was deeply marked upon his face.
No gold survives the final frost:
in his prime death carried him away.
In wars, a nation's best are lost;
as then it happens still today.
His home was England, vale and hill;
across the years, he's with us still.
Categories:
quaffed, appreciation, celebrity, england,
Form:
Sonnet
Let me tell you a story from the old wild-west;
Of a terrible lawman with a star on his vest.
His title was “Ranger”; not bound to a town
He studied the outlaws then hunted them down.
One long hot summer; played like a pawn
He’d failed to take down the man called “Big John”.
He was tired and thirsty, his mood like black jet
As he rode into Dodge his sights were still set
On Big John!
He stabled his horse, and checked out the saloon
‘cause he’d heard the big man liked to drink there at noon.
Through the wide swinging doors, he strolled to the back
His face as long as a wagon-wheel track.
The scowl on his face told me this man was risky,
But I was the bar keep, and he needed whiskey.
So I poured him a double in a clean mason jar
And slid it down deftly to the end of the bar.
He quaffed it and gave me a tip of his hat.
I thought it was over, except for the fact
That his mood was still dark, like rain in a flood,
I knew in my gut there was bound to be blood.
There in the corner; his back to the wall,
He waited with patience; said nothing at all.
Just stared at the space ‘bove the wide swingin’ doors,
His hands at his sides, drooping down toward the floor.
It was quarter past noon when the room darkened some,
Big John in the doorway; blocking the sun.
Two shots rang out from the man in the vest.
Two blood stains emerged on the big fella’s chest.
Big John just stood there; there in the door,
Then the glasses all rattled as John hit the floor.
Dry-gultched, like a fox at a watering hole
Big John was finished; so, likely his soul!
The old wanted poster said “Dead or Alive”.
They just didn’t care how Big John arrived!
The Ranger just smiled and sighed, “One more round!”
Then he gathered his pony and rode out of town.
May 9, 2017
Categories:
quaffed,
Form:
Metrical Tale
Ole Kelly worked at the brewery
And was pretty good at that
But one day he lost his balance
And fell into a vat
O’Reilly went to Kelly’s house
Someone had to tell his wife
He said Kelly fell into the beer
And there he lost his life
Kelly’s wife was beside herself
Said I know those vats are slick
Please tell me he didn’t suffer
That my Kelly went real quick
He said I don’t think he suffered ma’am
As far as I could see
In fact while he was swimming in there
He climbed out twice to pee
Another old Irish joke that I just had to set to rhyme.
Categories:
quaffed, death, funny, lost, lost,
Form:
Rhyme
The long awaited needed rain
finally came in gentle drops.
Thirsty daffodils greedily
quaffed the tepid precipitate
while their odoriferous scents
reluctantly merged with ozone
creating a pungent bouquet
that stimulated the nostrils.
Far afield from the daffodils
robins comb the newly wet grass
for ever emerging earthworms
that are coaxed above by the rain.
Soon the tugs of war begin
between the two adversaries.
Categories:
quaffed, nature, daffodils,
Form:
Verse
The bakers brekky, was quite the tasty meal.
Eggs, crumpets, and tea plus butter was ideal.
Porridge when it’s brisky,
Cider quaffed so frisky,
Likes his crumpet crispy; brekky glut with zeal.
(And his gut he surely feeled.)
Categories:
quaffed, food, funny, giggle, happiness,
Form:
Limerick
The Publican and the Pharisee went for a walk after church
One wore pride and majesty, the other the marks of the birch
“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “will you tell if I come to the pub?”
“Nay, it makes no odds to me, and we do some cracking grub”
The Publican and the Pharisee quaffed back a couple of jars
And then another two, then three, for such is the way in bars
And as they drank their wine, an odd phenomenon occurred
The crown of hubris lost its shine, the marks of the birch became blurred
“I say, my man,” said the Pharisee, “I’m feeling a little *****”
The Publican chuckled, mischievously, “I reckon a short, and some beer”
The Pharisee, unused to drink, began to loose a screw
Became dishevelled, sweaty, pink, made a desperate run for the loo
Got locked in for a while, and had to crawl under the door
Got stuck, well hey, you have to smile, for half an hour or more
Was rescued by some rugby blokes, who loaned him some spare kit
And made up lots of witty jokes, about Pharisees covered in it
The Publican, sat at the bar, surveyed his sorry state
He wondered if he’d gone too far, in setting up his mate
“Just sit,” he said, “and listen well, for this I have to say
If I am surely bound for hell I’ll meet you on the way
You are no better, sir, than I, no better, and no worse
Your spiritual wealth is an arrogant lie, and your pride is a cardinal curse
I’m no angel, I confess, but hypocrisy, mate, I abhor
I reckon I should grovel less, and you just a little bit more”
The Pharisee gave a little nod, and hiccupped in assent
Muttered softly “Sorry God,” and got his coat and went
The Publican then rang the bell, poured out a short and sat
“Oh come on, God, you know the bloke, he really asked for that”
© Gail Foster 2016
Categories:
quaffed, bible, drink, gospel, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
…There, but for the grace of God go I…
Is a thought I oft used to think
As I cast a hasty, judgmental eye
Roundabout the coffee shop
And o’er the brim of my morning drink
…I used to judge those so-called ‘sorry souls
And ascribe to them sad histories
In blissful ignorance that
Some were likely looking back
And doing the same to me
…Yet with a superior sense of satisfaction
Would I sip my McDonald’s morning brew
Until some hapless soul would draw my attraction
Ah yes…this sorry soul will do
…I would focus in and build upon
My narrative about this sorry soul
Whose life seemed sad and almost gone
Down into life’s rabbit hole
…Oh the trials and ordeals
That this man must daily feel
The sting of outrageous misfortune
That Fate of late has shared with him
More than his fair portion
…Alas my coffee is quaffed
My imaginative narrative done
I’ll likely see this man (my star) no more
And I wonder who the morrow’s
Protagonist will be
As I walk out through the door
…Tomorrow will dawn a brand new day
I’ll sip my Senior brew and sigh
Select a new star for my newest play
(I think I shall title this one like all the others)
…“There but for the grace of God go I…”
…
Categories:
quaffed, fantasy, imagination, people, stars,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Fire
Flames – destroying everything –
Flames – I felt their heat –
The whirling world – it cannot stand—
In fevered circuit melts.
Those flames traverse
Throughout my bones,
Rage, hot, across my nerves,
Consuming all the stars I see
In heaven’s stretched-out canopy.
Fire – burning in my soul –
Fire – I felt its heat—
The dervish lust was scarce concealed
When he kissed my feet.
My firm and frail virginity--
My bosom -- plucked by him,
No apples bit in Paradise
More ample with our sin.
Flames – destroying everything –
When true love caught me up
From that false vintage that I quaffed
From a false Loving Cup.
O, you burnt brighter than the lust
That, fiery, op’d my doors;
And in your passion, warm with love,
A galaxy was born.
Jan. 11, 2009 Istanbul
Background for this poem: Lee Harvey Oswald was falsely accused of killing President
Kennedy. I was in contact with Lee only 37 1/2 hours before the assassination. Don't believe
what propaganda-writing paid flunkies have written about me or about LHO. The cover-up is
real, and thinking people now have the evidence on YouTube and elsewhere. See my website
at http://www.judythvarybaker.com for more information. I'm writing this note of
explanation because other poems here also refer to Lee Oswald, such as "The Magazine
Bus," and "Lord of the Galaxies." My book, Me & Lee: How I Came to Know, Love and Lose
Lee Harvey Oswald, will be published this spring by Trine Day Publications. This is the latest
of dozens of poems written about LHO, some of which are published here at Poetr Soup.
Categories:
quaffed, history, introspection, lost love,
Form:
Rhyme
The wobbling droplets are quite happy.
Full of joy and not too shabby,
I hear them laugh.
They are promptly quaffed.
:-)~:~:~ooo~:~:~(-:
I give my wobbling droplets a shake,
and laugh until my head breaks.
They happily orbit the Earth,
looking down on us with mirth.
o/o\o|~~?~~|o/o\o
The wobbling droplets are enchanting
but they will not interfere with my ranting.
For I have more poems to eject,
that many will not hesitate to reject.
***o--!--o***
Categories:
quaffed, humorous, science, space, surreal,
Form:
Rhyme
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part ***
IF you pull a long querulous face
At the way Life makes you dire pay
For doubts and questions slaps your face
Fear keeps you from getting out-of-here
If you pull a long-damned face
Why woes and wails end not today
At your meek efforts scoffs the face
E'en Man-made-Laws prolong delay
If you keep pulling that angst-long face
Your duties to dear-ones holds you prey
Hereunder parcours written on tortured face
Corridor of Fortune mid Mother-Father ear
If you then can pull this long-stretched face
Cheek-bone nose shape Fa-ling lines down ear
Snub-nosed Socrates quaffed hemlock in disgrace
Contours of Fate circulate face year by lunar year
So if you must pull a long DNA mirror-face
Hide plastic surgery face under mask or clay
How long Bushmen took to Chinese their race
Yet let the few alter Nature through fore-play
© T. Wignesan - Paris, February 6, 2019
Categories:
quaffed, death, environment, fate, fear,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Species sundry sentential
Line the lost lowered loft
Whose weary wayward-ceiled
Roof raises itself over the lot:
The diverse specimen bottles of pharmaceutic potations,
Mortared and mixed as by the Hawthornean sawbones
And apothecary, yclept, poetically rendered: "The Quack Haunted."
(Aye,) Haunted and hunted he was, by that vile old crone,
Whose life he did not decrease one iota nor span,
With the ingested application of one of his odious elixirs,
By the harridan so quaffed.
Yet, the obstreperous host of the soldierly soldiery of dozens of nations,
Yclept herein by the appellation, "Plagiarism," they fairly encroach upon
The tableau naught but ominously.
And thus ominous be also the tone of this,
Which 'tis my most perfervid and prayerful hope that
'Tis utterly unclassifiable, unidentified and unidentifiable.
I do not care for the onerousness of being pinned down,
For living up to the hoary and draconian standards of the vast
Collect of poetry-of poetries.
This I will not brook.
(But before I end this ebullient and elliptical encomium,
I must turn once again to that species of alliterativeness that
Provided the nutriment for it and me: the "grist for my mill,"
As the archaic idiom has it: )
Therefore, these things
Have henceforth
Come casually
To their
End.
Categories:
quaffed, absence, age, america, angst,
Form:
H-E-L-P!!! N-e-e-d s-o-m-e b-o-d-y!!!...
Spouse booby trapped husband!!!
Homicide courtesy munch
house zen by proxy
immediately suspected hunch
police, K9 corps, and ambulance
nearly lost their lunch crossing over divide
yellow crime tape
cordoned off homicide
booted feet did poetically crunch
while leashes untangled,
viz braided bunch.
Law enforcement officers i.e. they
Perkiomen Township precinct tidy
as... executive attache
case headed by narcotics
mod squad trooper Amelie
Beth knew address of scrivener brother
immediately quaffed mouthful Schuylkill
downing requisite with "FAKE" sedative cray
zee that seems giving
judicious punch to allay
time and again marital altercations daresay
put Schwenksville neighborhood
under immediate lockdown
Bay of Pigs in comparison childsplay
summoned rookies re:
instant karma coldplay
witnessed unusual display
officers, paramedics, and trained
German shepherds on faux pas did pray
(canines formerly under religious sway
nsync with neutered saint Matthew Scott
sacred church fathers and mothers
panglossian benevolence ne'er betray
loved spouting doggerel pay
Canis lupus familiaris obeissance
oh... I got scent tum mental anyway
kit and caboodle - women in blue,
plus aforementioned cod ray
regarding medical technicians
braced themselves steely, fiery, burly,...
former career recruits, thus okay
toughened courtesy green beret
fearless motley crew did sashay
gingerly, nimbly, softly... treading listening
faintly hearing sauntered without delay,
whence plaintive bent down on haunches
analogous to plie (plea yea)
including dogs ready to spring,
where overly curious inquisitive nee
bores asked to take selfie oy vey
afterwards quickly made bee line
discerning most strategic way
to enter apartment and rescue
a scene no stranger Giacomo Casanova,
to Rabelais, or Marquis de Sade
chaos theory put thru paces
mind boggling utter disarray
courtesy the missus
floor to ceiling clutter, perhaps soiree
gone awry with personal paraphernalia
strewn helter skelter hodge podge
bajillion potential accidents away
one misstep to temper and disable
garden variety trumpeting popinjay.
Categories:
quaffed, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
There was an old sauce chef from Killarney,
Whose Irish stew, was flavoured with blarney.
While he quaffed bottles of hock,
That was infused with shamrock.
Which spiced up his special bouquet garni.
3 / 1 / 2021.
For the St. Patrick's day contest.
Sponsor. L Milton Hankins.
Categories:
quaffed, food,
Form:
Limerick
The trails I’ve trodden are a twisting vine,
Retracing the steps I want to make right,
But my life is more than a crooked line.
Ascending in search of unvarnished sign,
Clearing the forest to gain line of sight;
The trails I’ve trodden are a twisting vine.
I’m more of a patina than a shine,
A bland cover on an unfinished write,
But my life is more than a crooked line.
Blurring the vision between right and wine,
Quaffed adventures soar to dizzying heights.
The trails I’ve trodden are a twisting vine.
A sober look at the life that is mine
Reveals that I’m not a bright shining knight,
But my life is more than a crooked line.
The good and bad don’t easily entwine;
This epic battle should be met with might.
The trails I’ve trodden are a twisting vine,
But my life is more than a crooked line.
Categories:
quaffed, character, feelings, how i
Form:
Villanelle
belfrey and the bats therein
risen high on heady winds
as if a quirk as if a whim
the bats like rats within my soul
they sat like cats within my skull
beneath this skin inside was sin
this world will fail for lack of men
and bats full of rabid ilk
spilled my brain with spider silk
i quaffed the gall and rancid milk
to binge i cringe outside the fringe
and cinder singe my heart a twinge
O belfrey and the bats therein
i've hurt my friends my love my kin
the world will fall because of men
as ashes fall from burning oil
demand the bats be damned to toil
be dimmed to gnats and brought to boil
the world will fall as well as men
Categories:
quaffed, angst, introspection, philosophy, sad,
Form:
Alliteration