Best Vermouth Poems
Our poetry genius has come back in view.
He is lost in the haze and still has no clue.
With one shot of bourbon and three fingers gin.
He is back on the blogs to give us his spin.
He comes out of the gate with thoughts of his own.
As he puts them in words his cover gets blown.
A shot of vermouth might help him stay true.
Only he sees his halo with its golden hue.
Now he insults, what he cannot comprehend.
Instead of giving support, he chooses to offend.
I see nothing wrong with speaking your mind.
Just be careful with those words that are easy to find.
Words are for all, so feel free to choose.
Write how you want, there is nothing to lose.
There will always be haters that lurk on this site.
They are jealous and petty, and here every night.
Travel with me and enter
into the flower carpeted mountain meadows
of my youth;
Lose yourself in the wild beauty which resides within
God's tinted skies of yellow and vermouth.
Vested memories held captive by eidetic moments,
"Oh blessed beating heart, "
enter the flowered thoughts of a poet's nest, delve into the
sanctuary of God's Grace,
for it is here that you belong.
Seen through the eyes, felt with the heart
ensconced with a soul your free to roam,
inside roads less traveled, where timeless voices
are heard, through the echoes of all time.
You belong to the One who has given you,
both shape and creed.
There once was a man from Duluth
whose habit was spinning the truth.
He had told the same tale
(every day without fail;
'twas getting quite long in the tooth).
He sat down to drink in a booth
then ordered a double vermouth.
He said a tornado
shaped like a potato
had taken his poor wife named, Ruth!
The men in the bar yelled, “Forsooth!”
But one woman thought it was truth
(the gal was a newbie
who'd just smoked a doobie)
and sent more vermouth to the booth.
“The first time I ever saw Ruth,”
he said, toasting her with vermouth,
(Though usually crisp
when he drank he'd a lisp),
“wath back in my youth in Duluth.
“She'd one perpendicular tooth.
When she withled came her pet gooth.
It wath love at firth thight
and we wedded that night
with her gooth on top of a mooth!”
“We honeymooned outthide Duluth
in a cabooth, just me and Ruth.”
He then heaved a big sigh
(he was getting quite high)
“And of courthe the mooth and her gooth.”
He took a big swig of vermouth
and said that they never found Ruth.
“Just an arm at the mall
and her foot on a wall,
pluth one thingle tooth in Duluth.”
He wept as he pined for his youth,
so the gal ordered up more vermouth.
Then the telephone rang
and the bartender sang,
“It's Ruth, your ex-wife in Duluth.
It's I telling you the sad truth
about her and 'who goothed the mooth'!
Now she wants a good check
that won't bounce, you old wreck,
like the last at Bank of Duluth!”
The new gal cried, “Cad, You're uncouth!
You gave your eyetooth it was truth
of poor Ruth and her gooth,
the cabooth and the mooth
in Duluth, and all for vermouth!”
The man said, “The truth in Duluth
and why I keep hitting the juithe
ith that Ruth and the mooth,
the cabooth and her gooth
were a nooth I had to cut looth!”
The new gal cried, “There weren't no gooth,
nor mooth or cabooth in Duluth!
There was just poor old Ruth
and some nooth that was looth,
plus a drunk who soaked up the juithe!”
The man from Duluth knew the truth,
“Thereth no more vermouth. Whath the uthe?”
So he crept out the back,
but the rest knew the tack:
he'd be back next day for vermouth!
Cash
Slashed by
Uncle Sam
Hard earned wages
Burned as income tax
Cash gone like blowing wind
Tax is not like sweet vermouth
This is just like pulling hen’s tooth
Tax going up, paycheck going down
Tax man leave us alone—we need a break!
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
Won Honorable Mention
Etheree Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietirch
June 20, 2010
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
© Joseph S. Spence, Sr., (Epulaeryu Master) 6/11/2010
All Rights Reserved, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA
Senior Advisor, to Founder of Motivational Strips
Ambassador De Literature
Noble Star of Literature 2018
Living Legend of the 21st Century
Pentasiv B World Friendship Poetry Featured Poet 2019
"Thoughts of a Sexual Nature"
Vivid thoughts of you,
in your birthday suit.
Sprawled on my living room floor,
anxiously you wait
for what you came here for.
Long toned legs,
a rippled mid-section.
I want to hear you beg,
you caused this ********.
Incense burn!!
Sex on the Beach
heightens the mood.
I allude,
to a massage.
A mental mirage,
a dream.
Vivid thoughts accrue,
as I knead your birthday suit.
skin like a rare passion fruit,
and I'm working for your nectar.
You're my aperitif,
and I have a sweet tooth
for your vermouth.
_________________________________________________________
Strumming your neck,
my tongue is the pick.
Hearing you moan lightly, "Oh your so thick."
So eager was the lass,
for me to.... hose down her fire.
You see, the blaze I intensified.
I knew her desires.
Slow down I pleaded,
hasten your pace!
We have all night baby,
and first base is my face.
I had overdosed on her Vermouth.
She poured without a care!
Enveloped in lusts rapture,
it was, to soon to conclude.
Ambiance is important, so I'll set the mood.
Red lights, mirrored headboard
& playing softly in the background,
a love songs
interlude!!!
_________________________________________________________
Soft moist lips lick you're ear
whispering words of delight
pursuing my plight for your might,
my tongue rolls down your neck
peck on peck,
as my goal unfolds
kissing chest nipples
your dimples of gold
tanned bronze like a god,
excitement,
ecstasy
extension to explode,
the ride enhances as liftoff begins
tastier than sins,
searing flesh on flesh emotions
enmesh juices of love in thrombosis,
in oceanic osmosis,
as we fall...
spent ...
content ...
in orgasmic opulence.....
"This is a collaboration written by three different poets... Starting with Me...
Samuel Brooks has the middle section, and Linda Marie Bariana concludes...
This turned out well and I am sure all of you will agree..
Jared Pickett---Asavvy1
Samuel Brooks----ChocolateWoW-------------------------1/27/2010
Linda Marie Bariana------Sweetheart
Writers! Writers! Write what you know.
That's what they say, all the pro's.
Phooey on that gobbledygook.
I mean, get real, take a good look.
Let's say you have a great notion
To put words of a book in motion.
Want to write about real cowboys?
Means you can't come from Illinois?
Poets are sensitive, even men
A saga poem they'd like to pen.
Of women in love and their pain
They can't now if their name's not Jane?
Well, maybe. Maybe they are right
I'm not trying to pick a fight.
Seems to me that writing is fun
You can shoot sans owning a gun.
Think of the love sonnets and such
You needn't have lived all that much.
What about all those dreams of love
Too ugly to be deserving of.
Halloween makes us conjure up ghosts
Don sheets, we're monsters we can boast?
Ghouls and witches in poems do clash
Oh! Where is that real monster mash?
Sweet thing wants to celebrate her cat
On her knees should she eat a rat?
I'd think that sweet thing would say no,
She'll imagine it; let her words flow.
Poets, novelists, are writers is not this true?
Does this have to mean they haven't a clue?
They can't expand their horizons from mundane
And the dullness to something wild and insane?
They write about murder if that's their bent
Without encasing someone's feet in cement.
Some write from deep held passionate zeal
About sunrises, sunsets, tho blind in the real.
The agonies of war can be expressed in truth
By a middle-aged wife full of gin and vermouth.
And while we cannot all write most profound
I still say we have more intellect than a hound.
Which gives us the ways and means to think
About life in other places we can be in sync.
I don't think that crime queen Agatha Christie
Left to kill and maim after her tea and biMaurice Yvonnescuits.
**** For my Caramel Swirl****
Cinnamon flavored,
my caramel love.
Soft inside with a tough candy shell.
My after work
desert.
A cure for my sweet tooth,
not a pervert,
I yearn for her vermouth
Name held until contest is over.....
4/15/2010
Started drinking fruit flavoured water now
Not the tastiest but I'll keep trying, I vow
In the winter months I always seem to gain
Inactivity is the culprit, exercising's a pain
When I walk, it's much more like a waddle
Sure don't resemble a Givenchy model
Gonna keep on trying to recapture my youth
Downed another swig of gin and vermouth
Now everything appears to be quite copacetic
Gin works wonders as an anesthetic
So getting back to the fruit flavoured water
A lot more concerned than this guy oughta
I'm almost eighty-eight so why should I care
Soon I'll be trapped in my big easy chair
Wifey will feed me some ground up mush
Dentures down the toilet gets flushed
But there's a silver lining waiting for me
If I could only get rid of my gimpy old knee
Bottom line is this, sure had a great life
Came up a big winner by a roll of the dice
For some, It’s Margaritaville
My town is called Martini
It’s not so very hard to find
in fact, it’s too damn easy
Just hang a left on Shaker Street,
the one right after Gin
Then find Vermouth, go ‘round the block
and do it all again
It’s quite a lovely place to live
and some may never leave
For me, I visit way too much
with Olive on my sleeve
A happy sort of confidence
so often will prevail
until your head begins to pound
like hammer to a nail
So take a tip from me to you
and come but for a while
Martini Town is guaranteed
to generate a smile
A once vibrant Cosmic marvel turned to dust,
the result of hate, and of ignorance and of lust!
An illusion we have of being the crown of creation,
an illusion that has caused none but devastation!
As our giver of life stands right before our eyes,
we choose to bicker, argue, and fight over gods and over lies!
There are powers far greater than our understanding of gods,
when in truth we may all be wrong, what are the odds?
We are from the Earth and that should be our church,
we are the protectors of life and as such must emerge.
Is nature then, not the apex of amazement and burst of life,
when we so comfortably trade that for money, possessions, and strife.
Creating a twisted mental persistence to compete,
when in the end it will all be imminently absolute.
Nature is my church and my actions my proud religion,
while the opinions others have of that is a mere smidgen.
I am the forest dweller and ambassador for truth,
adding to the spice of life just a tiny dash of vermouth.
A protector, a sailor, a thinker and perhaps even a saint,
be it as it may, my decisions and path are always quaint.
Try to think of what makes you laugh.
Is it people being hurt or people who work hard?
When you think, consider naughty words and sin.
What is cheap and what is classy?
Classy comedian is an oxymoron.
Just ask the experts.
Who are the experts?
Socrates never made me laugh.
Philosophical whimsy is an oxymoron.
Developing whimsy is quite hard.
With a two drink minimum, events should be classy.
So much of the field is surrounded by sin.
A comic cannot thrive until bathed in sin.
Just ask the experts.
A comedian is seldom classy.
Disheveled people make us laugh.
Living life like a dirty worm can be hard.
Clean dirt is an oxymoron.
Happy clown is an oxymoron.
In a cocaine fueled decade of sin
everybody works hard.
Who are the experts?
When everybody works hard, people laugh.
Is cocaine cheap or classy?
There is a distinction between expensive and classy.
Funny CEO is an oxymoron.
When the bar has no vermouth, it makes us laugh.
Ordering a martini in a comedy club should be a sin.
Just ask the experts.
Some of the best comics live hard.
Surviving running through the streets aflame is hard.
Being entertained by the story is not classy.
Who are the experts?
Ignorant expert is an oxymoron.
Elegant individuals have to hide their sin.
Sin makes us laugh.
Classy comedy is not an oxymoron,
though comedy is synonymous with sin.
Think about what makes you laugh.
Golden epaulets smile
A hint of vermouth
Through an opened door
You think you’ve got rhyme but you’re blind
I’d go up against you any time
These here rhymes are so smooth
people think I’m a mime
Vanilla cool collected
I’m the definition of “sublime”
My words are complicated simple
yet they easily intertwine
Try looking at the sun
to escape my super shine
I burn metal to dust
with each and every line
You want a part of this?
Step up so you can see
what it means to be fine!
You think with me
these are blows we’re trading
I’m worried less I confess
as I watch you fading
Forget your pontificating
feel my words erasing
Verbs nouns making sounds
adjectives educating
The logic of me
goes beyond debating
Drink me down like vermouth
my words are satiating.
Things I’ve seen are mean
but still I keep my words clean
I’m not interested in creating a scene
Yet not one to bow down
to any King or Queen
Stronger than the tower of Pisa
see how far I can lean
Breaking the silence barrier
and everything in between
Watch how our worthy words careen
I’m old fast n furious but no has-been
Inside my mind I feel like a teen
Rhyme once or twice
or four times three
Whatever you’ve got
it’s no worry to me
You’re swinging on a rope of hope
tied to the wrong tree
If that’s all you’ve got
you might as well let it be
Even though you’re next to me
Who do you think they’ll see?
You think you sting like a Bee
But I pack a punch like Mohamed Ali
If you step back in the ring
we can make History
I couldn’t resist, I wrote this piece after reading Nick Trim’s “Hyper Active Rhymes II”. No disrespect intended, this is all in good fun.
olive skin so soft and silky smooth
dark brown hair the color of poo
sat in the sun too long is what she do
and now shes bronzed and leathery too
her skin and hair turned to vermouth
aged and withered unwise to see
the color of bronze she turned indeed
now caramel swirled and autumned hair
she sat in the mirror and wondered and stared
how to turn back to the dove she once heired
the tanning bed is a wreckless thing
it wrecks and wrinkles the skin!
Serenade
O butterfly of beauty,the harlequin of Herphrodite,
Cladded in sequin lace and golden floss.
Of royale regale you are sunk in lavender,
And the sequoia of colours beseech thee.
You are the true vine of adorations,
Of tartan floss you glow in majestic revelry.
In flames of passion you dwell in ale of winter,
Of flakes of emotion you tell the tale of summer.
O butterfly of beauty,the beauty queen of herphrodite,
Shaded in the opals of ace and lustre of pageantry.
Vermouth shall be let loose when the mount displays,
And the vintage of opera shall raise the vantage.
The verdant of vino and the lingo of linoleum,
And memories of maiden days lay in royal elan.
From the songs of fairyland you deem comply,
And the tongs of Maryland the theme apply.