Cognac Poems | Examples

He is a cosmos

Why read Walt Whitman?
Because he writes majestic poems,
Luminous for who has a heart wounded by life,
Because he loves America and its men,*
That he writes that there is nothing more perfect than the earth,*
Because he walked in the ruts, the deep forests,
Because he saw the cities being built before his eyes,
Why read Walt Whitman?
"Because he is a cosmos, from Manhattan, the son" (I quote him),*
Because he is anything but narcissistic,
Because he understood that sweetness was a medicine
Like poetry, like travel or science,
Why read Walt Whitman, the grass leaves,
Because he is a friend, a brother, an interpreter,
He writes like one makes cinema, great cinema;
Because he is wary of faith, Because he loves the new and the old,*
Because he loves you reader, he could be like your "mother"
Because he loves you reader, like me,
Like the fire that feeds on what it burns, the wood,
That he needs you as a reader and that he knows it,
Why read Walt Whitman?
Because he understood that poetry is a bourbon or a cognac
A cocktail or a caipirinha, a sweet Chianti or a tequila
We drink it morning, noon, and evening, to no longer suffer.


*  i quote the genius

The Old Western Bar

A HONKY TONK WOMAN named ANGIE
heads out to our bar every night. 
And those WILD HORSES with hombres 
show up to get drunk or to fight. 

Bar's sign, “RUBY TUESDAY” is red;
behind, though, they did PAINT IT BLACK.
Some sit down to start TUMBLIN DICE;
ROLLING STONES stop by for cognac.

Now, Angie and I hit it off; 
Her sweet, gentle ways stole my heart. 
YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT.
But kindness cements a good start. 

Too soon, it got UNDER MY THUMB!
A huge fight began, as I said. 
This bar gets its share of mean thugs!
I grabbed Angie's hand, and we fled!

Cheers!! Premier contest 3 winner

I shall read you a poem in my drunken state,
if my speech is slurred, forgive me mate,
it is a cocktail of rum, vodka and cognac,
if boss finds out I will surely get the sack!
so am i drinking at work? you may ask,
yes, my mate, from my steel thermos flask,
I bring in to work each morning with me,
everyone thinks it is my Yorkshire tea,
but I need a bit more to help me work here,
we haven’t had a pay rise in full ten years,
I sit around and look busy at work all day,
but just do enough to justify my pay,
boss is a bully who always gets the praise,
when company makes profit, he gets a raise,
all our hard work, and boss gets the cream,
morale is pretty low in the whole office team!
today unfortunately i have had too many,
i meant to kiss Isabel, but I kissed old Danny!
I am sitting stiff in my chair, so I do not fall off,
beginning to see double, now and then laugh!
friends around me know what I am up to,
if boss walks in I will rush to the loo!
Meanwhile my mate, I read you this verse,
if you like it, then raise your glass! Cheers!

The Blind Behold Beautiful

What is beauty to the unseeing eye?
                  Why does it seem to contradict?
The beholder beholds, the beholders conflict. 
       Are other senses true while the eyes lie?

Listen... to the dawn arise,  hear the birdsong. 
            Feel... the cool, naughty slide of silk on your back.
Breathe... in the sin of aged Italian cognac.
         Taste the deep savor of meat smoked all day long.

human things

Human things
Are very tiring,
Pays homage to granite,
Welcomes the warmth
Of the sun that turns,
Welcomes the silence
On the pretty cemetery,

Human things
Are very tiring,
ignore young girls,
And the beautiful alexandrins,
ignores young men
The transparent glass
Filled it with cognac,

Get drunk, more often,
Of the beauty of the world,
human things
Are very tiring, 
Welcome the sun
On your skin, quietly,
The birds are bright,
Human things
Are tiring,


Behold the primrose,
The golden sprig, the daffodil,
Love the silence,
Love the pink granite,
hear my deaf prayer,
Human things
Are very tiring,
Admire the primroses.

Night on the Seine

Night on The Seine
1939

Silver and gold from city lights
daub the black river
like brush strokes from VanGogh.

The Seine
murmurs against La Rive Gauche
where dreams of artists linger,
then turns to glide obediently against La Rive Droite
where politicians drink cognac
and talk of war.

We are in the middle of Time 
in a small boat.
“You cannot leave me!” she commands.
“Of course not,” is my assurance.
“I shall neither be called nor needed."

"We have built the great Maginot Line,
and The Ardennes is too wooded to cross.
It is all talk, anyway."

The city drifts slowly by -

Le Grand Palias and Le Concorde
Champs Elysees,Notre Dame,

 Swifter now - like the time,

"It would be madness to destroy such beauty."

“Besides, the British have pledged to come.”

Dobro Pozhalovat

Standing there wearing 
Baileys holding a Glass 
of Cognac I notice your 
time piece Kremlin findings 
as you calmly approached 
my shyness I recognised 
the untimely gesture leaving 
my quarters knowing full 
well beruit was near you 
offered yourself with no 
strings an yet bombs sounded 
throughout the night time 
air I was taken an yet 
startled King we were taken 
to stone slabs draped with 
teal fabric peppermint oils 
garments of silk I wore you 
into the night while we 
cringed with fright the town 
emptied the tower tumbled 
I kelp yours smile in view 
as your body crumbled into 
the rumble of yesterday I 
awakened to the sound of 
the sun rising in the east 
as I returned to blood 
soaked carnage absent 
from heaven remembering 
only your touch your warmth 
your illuminated essence burning 
my soul whispering dasvidanyia 
from Russia with love

no answer no response 2

17



I know, that there are no answers in cognac or armagnac
In the wine or sacred prayer,
No answers in geometry or trigonometry,
No response in Toronto, or Chicago,
That’s why we write this,

I know that there are no answers in the middle-class,
In the castles of the Loire, or in Pigalle,
In bars or shops, in the shopping crowd
That’s why we go to cinemas
In museums or exhibitions in Landerneau,

I know there is no answer from our neighbors,
No answers from intellectuals,
New Yorkers, or champions,
That’s why we read the poets, That we admire
Rodin or the sunflowers of Van Gogh,

I know that there is no answer in the Brest,
No answer in drugs or diamonds,
That’s why we seek silence,
No answer in solitude or enjoyment,
That’s why we protect bees,
That we travel.

the gual uv her

.

                        'tiz written
                      all 'bout hern
                            face

                            from
                          red hair
                      unto her fair
                             tall
                            built

               'pon the cobble stones
                             uv 
                          cognac
                           hern
                           celtic
                         glisters

We sat Fused

2.5 cups of chickpeas
2 egg yolks
3 t of lime juice
4 tablespoons of garlic
1/2 onion
1/2 flaked fish
1/2 t of dried thyme
4 T shredded coconut
1 teaspoon of smoked paprika
4 T toasted sesame seeds
2 Tablespoons of flour
2 T cornstarch
deep fat fry in
a mixture of
olive oil and avocado oil.
2 T cayenne
4 tablespoons of powdered cream cheese
drain pea
ground in f. processer
add spices vegies and fish
pulse. add yolk lime juice
make sheres, refrigerate, 
deep fry in olive oil and avocado oil.

mayo
relish
T sour cream
chives
1 T. cognac
dilute spirt with lemon juice.
and honey.

we boiled the country ribs
seasoned them when they were done
and BBQ'd them under a broiler with
a tangy BBQ sauce 

steamed asparagus with
garlic lemon butter

Hazelnut and pound cake
cupcakes with marzipone topping and vanilla icecream dessert.

A Familial Condition

Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun,
one of her hands would refrain from touching her,
the other has been long carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar,
she now floats between worlds.

Uncle Sean, the iniquitous Maître D'
looming above a meaty cleavage,
he who flambéed Steak Diane
with a slyly sapid leer,
poured cognac,
then after the salacious hunt,
triumphantly decanted his thirsty+ lusts
into any grateful woman
whomever.

Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound,
blew out his brains.

There are cousins removed and living,
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry,
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live a life of unremarkable normality,
trysting the nights away
with damp-stained regrets.

Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.

Nomad

Tomorrow’s going to find me in another place
I never had the urge to settle down
There’s so much of this world that I’ve never seen
Another mountain, another valley, another town
I get those urges every time I hear a train whistle blow
Or the sound of a ship pulling out to sea
Staying put is killing me and I’ve just got to go
That open road is calling out to me
My memories take me to my youth
Just living for each day
Reveling in the joy that freedom brings
Flew from Spain to Corsica
Saw Ajaccio but I couldn’t stay
Listen to a mermaid as she sings
Barcelona then the other side of Spain
Pull cinderella liberty for New Year’s eve
Take the liberty boat back at Two AM
With a bottle of cognac up my sleeve
Walked around an old castle in Patras Greece
On a warm and sunny day
Stopped in town and had a few
Then it was time to be on my way
Remembering all the places that I’ve been
Look at the lines carved in my face
Wishing I could sail again
Memories time cannot erase
Dreams take me back to the open sea
Stop for a while in Kingston town
See the Southern Cross at night
Pour another tequila down

Paradox

The rich man sups his Cognac
As he sits and relaxes
Complaining in his mind about
The level of his taxes,
Congratulates himself 
On the amounts
Secreted away in
Offshore Accounts,
Wines and dines his Advisor
Just to show his thanks.
The poor man shows his gratitude 
For his local Food Banks.
Both profess Christianity
Which seems an oxymoron
Or are the Camel and eye of needle
Out of date and long forgotten.

My Best Medecine

Love is known as the best medicine, after all,
But chocolate is an excellent medicine,
Citronette is an excellent medicine too,
Praline is a medicine that can be enjoyed,   

Leave loves in their pink cardboard box,
Unpack treats and yellow nougatines,
Orangette is the best medicine, in bed,
To take with his green tea in the evening or solo,

Love is a divine medicine, now and everywhere
But Cognac croquette is a love medicine,
Poetry is the best medicine, in many places
With dark chocolate.  Or colored sweeties.

Intoxicated

11/20/22

Here is an honest statement
I'm extremely intoxicated
These haters still constipated
Snakes continue being nominated
Dark forces thirst for power in a world full of a lot of hatred
Or folks that are calm and patient
Much being complicated
Good intentions punished and corruption tolerated

Still nothing helps
Onto something else
Put my heart into it yet still wasn't felt

Sipping a glass of Cognac
Yet again another nosy ass
You'll never see me at any Holy Mass
The same said for discussing Zodiacs
Try your luck, shred you like a Kodiak

Wanting my help the one that they call quick
Often having a hand and much involvement
Still a drug addict and alcoholic
A continual problem have yet to solve it

Had to fight for room, since most weren't giving any
Regarding life, I'm missing plenty
I've not been living healthy
Changes, I've been resisting many
Slipping every
Time after time, eventually the outcome it is deadly

I appreciate your concern
There's been much I've had to learn
Many times I got burned

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