Best Tankards Poems
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O’ crooked branch and magpie’s claw,
yon rusted chains a’ sway this night
Clutch tight a sign “The Seagull's Squall”
of splintered wood and storm clouds fight
Old tavern lone this craggy shore
where angered waves accost the sand
and drenching rains from heavens pour,
whilst thunder boasts its loud command
On creaking stools with painted legs
'long the bar, a gathered crew
Expected flow from aging kegs
a frothy crown this lagered brew
Fills tankards held of one now gone
'midst pewter death in golden ale
In drunk'n stupor sorrows shown
lost at sea, his soul last sailed
Watching cloaked of shadowed mist
in darkened corner, lingered smoke
O’er long goodbyes on echoes twist
and couraged voices soundly spoke
Weaving tales a' journeys past,
voyages beyond the deep
Ports o’ call and forth day cast,
of treasures that abound to reap
When one, a glass above his head
beckons silence, moments slow
Respect, our mate now swallow'd dead,
entombed within the depths below
Then hearty cheers and farewell speak,
this touching scene if one would be
A ghostly tear now falls my cheek,
this fallen mate they cheer is me
It stood on the top of the hill
dominating all of its surrounds.
Its drawbridge these days lay open
spanning with ease the now dry moat.
Like a fairy tale fortress it had turrets
that soared up high brushing the clouds.
Its four towers majestic as blankly,
they stared, covering all points of the compass.
Slit windows peered out of casements
through walls up to six feet thick.
The massive double oak doors
fifteen feet high and twelve wide
stood thrown open allowing glimpses
of the enormous courtyard beyond.
Battlements led to each round tower
that once housed the nobles.
Old battered forgotten furniture
grandly carved four poster beds.
A sword or two lay scattered
amidst the clutter and bird dropping.
Wide stone staircases meandered
curling round and round the walls.
A gallery or two dotted here and there
perfect hiding places above the hall.
Some for musicians to play unseen
Their notes floating through the air
as below the dancers swept and strutted
as the ladies hooped dresses swirled.
Long tables once laden with food
stood a skiff with broken legs.
Wooden pint tankards higgledy piggledy
strewn about midst wooden platters.
Tattered standards limply lay motionless
against walls dotted with scattered torches.
The Lord of these lands killed in distant lands
leaving an infant son removed to the city
by his grieving mother who sought to forget.
Now ninety years later his grandson views
the devastation of years of neglect and vows
to return the castle to the glory of its heydays.
After three long years of often brutal work
removing shrubbery, moss and decay
Life starts to re-emerge Flags flutter
gaily high up on the battlements.
Chandeliers sparkle and the torches flicker
Tables once more groan with a feast of food
Happy shrieks of laughter fill the grand hall
And one would swear the castle wore a smile,
as children played around the buttress's.
The sea gathered her voice
on the crest of the waves
as dark clouds were herded
by the wind as he raved
in a symphony orchestrated
through elements of sound
composed by the air
from his drafty compound.
By the drum of the surf
on the beat of the waves
a crescendo that climbed
with the sea as she raged
while the wind as the maestro
pulled pockets of sound
from the whistles and moans
as he swept ‘cross the ground.
Soprano! cried the killdeer
Tenor! screeched the gulls
as a baritone foghorn
boomed from the hull
of a ship that swayed
drunkenly atop of the surf
staying clear of the breakers
that crashed on the turf
The ship creaked a response
as it groaned a refrain
but the deft hand of a shipwright
would keep it sustained
for he’d hewn and he’d whittled
great emblems of love
carving an angel for the figurehead
and atop the masthead, a dove.
When the wind stopped his jostling
and the sea spent her ire
the ship slipped back to its haven
of warm hearths and bright fires
where the men mused and wondered
over great tankards of ale
if the hymns and hosannas..
had been but, the wind in the sails?
Welcome to the Hogs head
The local ye olde pub
The ale tastes like urine
And there's maggots
In the grub.
There's straw on the floor
A pee bucket by the door
And rats scurry in groups of ten or more.
The busty wenches serve the ale
And over the centuries
There's been spoken
Many a tale
Gossip soon gets far
Tankards flow with ale.
There by the fireside
Is a secret door where
Dick Turpin often hides.
Over by the bar is Robin Hood
And his merry men
Their very merry
And drunk again.
The place is a den of iniquity
Pickpockets and theif's
You can always get a
Stolen purse
or sheep real cheap before you leave.
The regular drinkers often burst into song
In a drunken stuper their often out of tune
And the words come out wrong.
The place is really smelly
And you have to watch your step you do
Just in case you step on and get pig poo on your shoe.
The place never closes
And all the posh folk
Turn up their noses
at such a hovel.
But your always welcome
Why not come on down
And give it a go
Or you'll never know.
Peter Dome.copyright.2014.June.
AWAKENING
Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning’s vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
“from your friend, a fond farewell”
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell
12 DELIRIA
1st Delirium: Collapses
Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
Toxic tongues of laughter stinging... stumbling,
ocean buckets choked with ice
Droplets drumming, thunder muzzled... mumbling,
washed out whispers pay the price
Smothered blazes, cinders smoking... humbling,
ashes shaped in sacrifice
2nd Delirium: Descents
Asphalt alleys, ashen faces... frowning,
blowing bubbles, chewing gum
Drinking ale from tavern tankards... downing,
moonlit beads of painted rum
Stony stars and sea misshapen... drowning,
humble rivers’ rhythms hum
Apparitions aspirating... clowning,
diamonds dying , minstrels strum
Incandescent candles conquered... crowning,
vacant vapours, cold and numb
3rd Delirium: Fates
Tempest turmoil, tapered turrets... holding,
dungeons, dragons, chains and racks
Wheels of fortune, Tarot temptress... molding,
Hangmen, Towers, One Eyed Jacks
Sand dune castles, cryptic candles... folding,
warping walls of liquid wax
Idols colder, combed and coddled... scolding,
hide in fissures, peek through cracks
continued in part 2
Searchin' the waves for sight of a sail.
Throwin' back hearty tankards of ale.
" Sails to port, " the lookout did call.
So excited was he that he nearly did fall.
Closin' in on the prey excitement grows.
In less than an hour we'll come to blows.
Ocean spray feels good on my face.
Closer and closer we're winnin' the race.
" Weapons in hand, " I cry from the poop.
My wolves get ready as we near the sloop.
The vessel did gleam, she's a true beauty.
My blood is boilin' for my pirates booty.
" At her lads, " I yell through a death grin.
We swarmed so fast the fight did barely begin.
The fight was swift but it was bloody.
After spyin' the treasure I knew we'd been lucky.
Out of the chest gold spilled to the deck.
Loot her and burn her, we'll sink this wreck.
Back to our ship we take our loot.
Survivors on the plank their gettin' the boot.
Twas just another day in a pirates life.
You've got to be quick and sharp as a knife.
There once was a mermaid named Lea
Claimed delusional sailors at sea
So a captain set sail
Hopeful the tale to dispel
But returned with kelp on his knee
Once t'was a captain with kelp on his knee
Decided to pay sailors a fee
The ship they all dubbed
And the decks were scrubbed
As he sought the mermaid named Lea
Once was a sailor with story to tell
If he drank tankards of ale for a spell
His captain gone daft
Cast off on a raft
And there was Lea in the swell
For Didds
Four tankards found at the foot of the hill
Bet someone got w*nkered, and now they feel ill
Bet it went down so easy that no one resisted
And now they’ve forgotten the tankards existed
But down at the pub there are rumours of scandals
Of boisterousness, and the theft of four candles
And a gap on the shelf where the tankards once sat
And out on the roof someone’s comedy hat
Maybe barred from the pub and a walk out of town?
With enough beer in tow to conceivably drown
As they woke up the town with their loud shouty glee
And blessed all the hedges with vomit and pee
“Here’s bashin’ yer metal” and “Cheers, me old china”
Drinking alfresco, well, what could be finer
Well, ale, I suppose, for it goes down a treat
Not that one cares when one’s drunk on the street
The next day the tankards just sat by the road
All hopeful and waiting, but nobody showed
Until round the corner a giant appeared
Wearing a rugby shirt, smile and beard
“I’ll tell you what, lads, all back to mine”
Four trusting tankards all followed in line
Expressing their heartfelt and infinite thanks
With tinkles, and clatters, and resonant clanks
There followed a search, and some transient glory
And some vain attempt to uncover their story
So brightly they shone in their moment of fame
Then they just disappeared, in the way that they came
‘Tis said, down in Rowde, that the veil is thin
That mischievous fairies throw stuff in the bin
That strange things do happen, when folk have been drinking
All myth mixed with moonshine and magical thinking
Whatever, wherever, they’re not coming back
So; whose were the tankards, and what was the crack?
by Gail
(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
Once more we have a blazoned trail to muse Chasing Greendragon's tea hidden in the sea As the one that drinks bitter he thinks better too In Columbia's taverns men do conspire to be free - Here verses were written and deciphered An age of brown paper print sliced the main sail Taking liberties before crossing the wide fords as Glass bottom tankards ring like church bells - - Reciting mail from stage to stage runs the news in ire of the kings sweet acts and torrid teas After seven years weakend but cloak and dagger true Blaming drunk french indians who poured it on the sea - Beginning the royal blues again the revolution turns A few good men came from these upon your standard But war like a fire has no repect of persons it just burns Unlike these local bars men's constitutions were driven hard
Peers
Eye remember the last time eye respected and emulated mye peers they peered all over
mee. While eye jumped from piers with pears and pares the toenails from the edifice of hice
bewails while jumping pairs of twice brickled edifice pickled in the briny sea side limping on
both feet after fourteen miles a day of hiking where the sun is shade. Eye have a memory
that seldom comes but sometimes when annoyed eye remember getting mad at mye new
friend eye made while travelling. We were sitting in the overpass of freeways looking glasses
turned down to drain the light of flashes. Eye took mye flashlight to the concrete underpass
and smashed it. My friend was asking what was wrong with me so eye had to get creative
quickly. Not wanting to dismember him eye quickly said this was done at your behest not
understanding none of this he sighed and walked away to live another day that’s best. For
eye was only wanting solitude and rest. He got drunks and sold the knives. Drunkards
wanting tankards full furnish many people with foolish things for below cost no advertising
word of mouth just hand to hand attained detachments. They sell cars at second hand prices
and deter the will to live. Telling old defeated Granny she must drive like a snail to get there
and she will. Adding multiples of two and coming to conclusions of one more addled brain a
female peers out her window now hoping he is still in love he must not understand the
female mind. Tonite when eye am dead to world in vain misunderstanding of mye namme
eye will peers from undercovers trying not to cry tomorrow eye will greet that dawn with
happiness in time.
driven by a painful stain i say yes to
1/2 empty Bukowski tankards
full of dusty nothings meanwhile sitting
in shallow quicksand @ 96 sweaty degrees
in this emerging limbo
of rent-per-hour eye blinks
flicking rusty milagros erecting
indifferent sentinels to guard
against a past-due event
of forgettable magnitude
breathing as if here but not really
there feeling all kinda so sharp
betrayal yet acutely bland as if
a still deeper black
could hide the stitches
if maybe kinda as though
the pain of being discarded
could fade to fuzzy
and not hurt like a blunt knife
cutting with careless regret
and lack of purpose
I once lived in high Montana
and I knew a man who live there,
went by the name Rodrigo,
known to most for his wild hair.
But Roddy didn’t grow it long
to try and impress some girl,
Roddy was a history nut,
obsessed with the medieval world.
He had all sorts of goblets,
tankards, and great drinking horns,
he must’ve owned a dozen swords,
but was always buying more.
Roddy owned full chain-mail armor,
wore it to the renaissance fair,
and he paid no heed to the folks
who would shake their heads and stare.
But Roddy’s greatest possession
was one he built with his own hands,
Roddy had a full-sized catapult
and would launch stuff across his land.
One day I went to see my friend
and he was launching things out back.
He said,”Get me that watermelon,
and we’ll launch our next ‘attack.’”
We loaded up the giant fruit,
and laughed as it took to flight,
said he,”If launching fruit be wrong
then to hell with being right!”
Next we took a bunch of apples
to achieve a shot-gun effect.
I cracked a joke and Roddy laughed,
so hard we didn’t see what came next.
A black bear in the woods nearby
saw the apples in their pile,
and wouldn’t find a meal that good
if he wandered a dozen miles.
He ran out onto the scoop
while we were both still laughing,
Roddy pulled the lever, unaware,
and he sent the bear a-flying!
The bruin’s moan caught us both
as apple and bear too to sky,
across the field to lodgepole trees
did the beast and his lunch fly.
He disappeared in the branches,
vanishing from our line of sight,
I stood stunned, said to Roddy,
“Should we go see if it’s allright?”
Roddy shrugged and started walking,
we both made our way over there,
high up in an old lodgepole pine
sprawled a frightened, confused bear.
The branches had broken the fall,
saved the beast from being dead,
I said to Roddy,”We should go
before that bear can clear its head.”
Roddy took a picture on his phone
to prove what had happened that day,
then we beat a hasty retreat
before the bear could come our way.
To this day Roddy still recounts,
in his booth at renaissance fairs,
how catapults can launch anything,
even hungry and wayward bears.
3Fable5
3Fable5
Winter Survival
CharlaxFabels
In the Winter of 83 they used to tell me stories the snow was over the telephone
lines and they rode horses there and walked them OVER the lines see eh? Oh
ewe beware the stories of men and read only the charlaxfabels over and over
again. The worst one was back in 2005 the snow was four feet deep they took
machetes and tore my roof off my survival tent.
1 Peter 3:9
Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this
you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.
Eye moved my shelter somehow avoiding a fight and learned just to survive
survival is eating food. Men eat and fight and eating becomes the more important
of the two what kind of neighbor would eye be if eye had fought with thee and not
learned the Golden Rule. Eye lived several different lifetimes sack lunches do not
suffice to rule the hunger in one man. Once eye was worried for existence
seeming Death was at my door. Women thought me evil not suited up just for
they love. Fruit is not my forte orange apple even pomegranate found
persimmons rot on vines in trees not meant to live. Eye ate so many meats they
kicked me out of storeage land and chased me from the parking lot with nothing
in my hand. Potatoes is a fruit and not a veggie in my world. Golden throbbing
corn is afforded to the poor ed.note @39 cents a can at most retail outlets.
Hominy both gold and white is my favorites. Eye just decided to detective the
students many behavioral ways and iff eye had three classes in the afternoon
even if they were staggered over SIX hours the eye would not be in the library
more than thirty minutes at a time. Be that as it may or as it were the ending is
the same eye am a student of life. Walk in an endless path with snow up to the
waisted place then dry the socks in bags and tie them to the feet and hope the
dry will stay to un rot the flesh and hope the shoes will work and not develop
sticheing of the holes in the side of doors and tankards full of glass. Coyboy is
the last to understand a memory taken in the hand.
Everyone who has money
should drop it in a vat and
anyone who needs money
should take what they need
a Swede, a Dane and two
Norwegians tell Fred, also an
economist who flew in from Yale.
After a three-day seminar in the
Antarctic, the four men sit down
with tankards of ale, each comfy
in a chaise lounge chair on
an ice floe slowly melting.
Back at Yale, CNN interviews Fred
about his book on the seminar.
The CIA is now investigating.
Donal Mahoney