Best Tavern Poems
Henrietta
That's my father there
why pour him more liquor?
lover a tavern
wine of delight in her lips
stupor a poem
© rajat kanti chakrabarty
4th December,2014
The British were coming.
As dawn's cold fingers
clawed the eastern sky,
men scurried to their stations,
all too aware of the rhythmic crump
of that ugly distant drumming.
The Threat was inching closer,
a scarlet thing with many spikes
shimmering in the first sun.
The Monster's great insistent heart
was felt in dreadful pulsing
through Concord's very earth.
On skeins of breeze
shrill snatches of the British pipes
came sighing like the ghosts
of those about to die.
It would begin soon.
The village men all mustered here
before their tavern,
whose weathered boards
they knew by heart.
The Thing that was now looming,
The Standing Army,
must not prevail.
Blood banging in their ears,
here beneath the sign of Wright,
the blacksmith and the baker knew
this was the day of days.
The hour had come
to stand and fight.
The danger from the east
would soon be here.
If life was to be sweet beyond today,
if this young promising land
was ever to grow straight and strong,
if America meant hope at all,
if force majeure was wrong,
then by this very afternoon
the Monster must be stopped.
At Emerson's command
the village fifes and drums struck up,
the skirmishers went out.
Today at Concord, men would die.
America's mettle would be tried.
enormous tavern
goddess
eating me
like pan
drooling sweat and honey
Welcome to the Tavern off Love
the old and wise and the young and foolish we charge a dollar
for lovers and poets the wine is free
Crushed peanut shells are
scattered all over the floor
Beer bottles smashed
while blood drips from the roof
A body hangs from the rafters
while loyal patrons play
a vodka filled game of Russian roulette
Piss stains plastered all over the bathroom floor
cockroach's and rats run rampant
all while raging alcoholics throw fist
and set fire to bar stools
Drunker stupors, and stain glass windows rule
people call it martial law but I call it a regular Monday night...
The warm, dark wood of high-backed stalls
enclosed us like a womb,
and, nose to nose, we talked with eyes,
oblivious of the room.
You shone with special radiance
that welled up from your soul,
a subtle, golden inner light
I was honored to behold.
The candle made our shadows dance
so merrily on the wall -
our faces orbited the flame,
so happily enthralled.
Your eyes were pale as opal stones,
translucent as the sea,
and in their depths I know I saw
what looked like love to me.
You were so fair, so beautiful,
so graceful, that you gave
to me a blessed memory
I'll carry to the grave.
The aroma of battle between cheese and charcuterie is in the air,
As the red wine flows and cider that tastes like a pear.
Rack after rack full of bottles to sip,
I race between each place and leave a tip.
Taverns and Shacks.
Places to sit, sip and relax.
I am writing a post on the war between the palatable wine and delectable cheese.
The winner will not be a breeze.
Each step I take brings me near,
A war of the cheese makes me fear.
Who will win, Gouda or Brie?
There is no guarantee.
Cheddar and Mozzarella stand with pride,
Bidding for the honour to be certified.
Across the towns, the people unite,
Drinking wine and eating cheese in tiny bites.
Families gather around the charcuterie platter,
Excitement in the air and plenty of chatter.
Tastes like heaven,
Wine and cheese that is the question.
The taste grew for the wine lover too,
It has been an honour, bottle after bottle, drinking the brew.
The fight continues between the pairs,
A mouthful of delightful crumbs,
which one will succumb.
Sipping or chewing, a marriage at best,
White gown and tux, we are blessed.
The eternal romance of the paring of wine and cheese.
The moments were bliss, as together they appease
I can see a
pale green
farmhouse
against the
nearly neon
vegetation
of the cornfields.
Soybean sprouts
are shooting
up here and
there.
In this place,
there is no
existentialism
or angst
questing
against our
sanity.
There is no
god or God.
Just the cornstalks,
the soybean sprouts,
and the pale green
farmhouse
in the distance.
Grouping here to plan retreat,
the redcoat officers smelled defeat:
the boards complained beneath their feet,
on entering Wright's Tavern.
They game was up. They understood.
All that remained was noise and blood,
and limping back as best they could,
the fifteen miles to Boston.
Pungent smoke and powder smells,
irregulars' derisive yells,
and fifteen miles of living hell
now stretching out before them.
The King's Own's torn, depleted line,
drawn up before Wright's tavern sign:
this sight would come back to the mind
in years to come, in England:
But now, the urgency was such
that no-one pondered very much
on Tyrant George's loosened clutch:
plans needed improvising.
Back east the shattered remnants flowed,
along the Cambridge Turnpike Road,
to quit the New World for the Old:
America was rising.
I fell in love...
With the bar man, down at the tavern
It was quite an affair.
Until he fell in love...
With the barmaid, down at the tavern
When I wasn't there.
Then she fell in love...
With a back road girl, down at the tavern
Where she used to sing.
Yeah she thought that Boston
Was the right kinda town, to hear her new...
"Country sound"
With it's sharp melodies.
Man, it just wasn't music to me.
And they shared a painter...
Slash-writer-slash-waiter, down at the tavern
He'd serve his coffee black
With quotes of Sylvia Plath
And the rest of that morbid crap.
Then his little brother
Would drift by in the summer, down at the tavern
How he was rugged & mean
And just about the ugliest man, I'd ever seen.
One week he got cozy
With a line cook called Rosey, down at the tavern
She worked her tail end off
With four boys to support
So she bid him goodbye, with a slice of her...
FAMOUS PEACH PIE
Hey Rosey, dear Rosey...
Can you teach me how to be that strong
She mumbled...Child, we just try to get along.
Down at this tavern
Smells like cigarettes
Down at this tavern
No one here can forget
These dark paneled walls
Big bright neon signs
But don't worry Girl,
Cuz we're all just passin by.
Hey Rosey, dear Rose...
I just wanna go,
Home.
In the deep of the sleep i was taken to the writers tavern
a place warm and cozy where they took beer in metallic mugs
a place where a mortal who has shared a story never before
heard or seen in mortal eyes is honored.. i took my cup of tea
and was driven back home.. the writers tavern a warm place
where immortals and mortals mingle enjoying accomplishment
lewis k nyaga
In my dream I wandered into a basement piano bar because someone told me it was the secret place to get great waffles. Sitting at the piano was Beth Hart crooning sorrowful songs, no other accompaniment, just Beth and a piano. It was like this tattooed lass just wandered down the stairs and sat down and started playing with only a few present to share a glorious hour in our lives. I sat at a table near the piano eating a thin waffle with whip cream on top, a scattering of walnut pieces, and no syrup, with a shot of Effen Black Cherry Whiskey on the side, blissfully listening to Beth. I could have died, my life fulfilled.
Well good evening and welcome...
to the BLUE MOON TAVERN
what in the world are you doing
out on this dreadful stormy night
here sit by the fire while I bring
you somethin’ strong to drink...
I usually don't take in strangers
but I have a room upstairs if you'd
like to stay here tonight...
he said thank you but I wouldn't
want to intrude, I said nonsense
I could use the company to tell
you the truth, pouring myself
a strong drink, he said you're
too kind, for all you know I could
be a mass murderer, a demon in
disguise, sitting down next to him
I said well I guess I'd be **** out
of luck huh but I can sense these
things and you don't give off that
vibe...
We sat there talking for hours and
hours, drinking ourselves higher than
kites, we laughed and laughed 'til
we cried then he got really quiet and
looked at me with these cold dark
piercing eyes, he said thank you for
your hospitality but I guess you were
wrong about me, I’ve been watching
you and I came here with the intentions
of killing you tonight and before I could
utter a word, I felt the cold hard steel
of his knife quickly thrusted deep into
my heart and the smile on his face was
the last thing I saw before everything
went dark!
HALLOWEEN TAVERN
a dark spooky night ~
where did all the pumpkins go?
jack-o-lanterns lit.
10/1/2017
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