An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair
That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking
joints of bickering
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance,
wriggling, through chiseled
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait
like death, slow,
their breath
turning to steam
until they could abduct
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged.
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them,
as the old men drifted up in
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.
The slow drip, drip
Of connection
Until we feel known
Intensive flavours
Splash and dance
Off the tongue
The heady rush
Of acceptance
Undiluted
The desire
For more
Conversation
No chaser
Just chastened
Breathless
When the kick
Hits
All the feels
I need
A moment
Re-center my senses
Delicious
Dangerous
Anonymity
i thought about leaving on a train
i thought about walking blindly in the rain
i thought about going somewhere where no one could find me
in the end it was your true love that would thankfully blind me
i thought about making you a casserole
i thought about making you filet of sole
i thought about taking you somewhere that you always dreamed of going
then you tell me that you will always be well travelled as long our love for each other is flowing
i thought about send you flowers special delivery
i thought about sending you a fancy thirst quencher from a distillery
i thought about expressing how your warm my heart with love that would accentuate the expressive beauty of each dimple
instead you took my left hand and said softly with a smile, 'keep it simple'
with that i say i love you as a small diamond pendant on your heart
you respond by kissing me with a quiet passion, simply saying with a smile, 'smart'
Standing there
Arms outstretched
The haggard pasty washed up
Kewpie doll
Of a soon to be ex
Awaited his oxytocin fix
As the dutiful wench
Swallowed the stench
Of his distillery fermented fat
She thought
This puts the retch in wretched
And that was that
A good sense of humour
Is only embraced so far
5.31.2020
The Mystery of Hillary
The humility, oh Hillary…
What are thou good for?
As you rub shoulders with the rich, in victory,
And stomp your feet on the poor…
The conspiracy, oh Hillary…
You still want to be President!
The first lady in the White House Distillery,
Where all of our monies will be spent…
The witchery, oh Hillary…
You’ve lived all your life in politics,
Receiving many gifts from your auxiliary
And all you gave us was your bag of tricks…
The misery, oh Hillary…
The hidden world of you and Podesta,
With pizzas on special delivery,
And the authorities ready to arrest-ya…
The contradictory, oh Hillary…
What’s the deal with you and Trump?
Do you stand for all liberty?
Or do you stand up to grump?
This verse is intended for entertainment purposes ONLY! No politicians or children were harmed in the making of this poem…No names were changed to protect the guilty…If I disappear within the next two weeks…Well hopefully, you'll know who to contact...(All in good clean fun kids)
April.08.2019
A Realistic Hillary Clinton Poem
Sponsored by: Michael Wegman
Placed 5'th...Thank You
They say that naught in life is free;
With that, I have to disagree.
In Oregon, you get the views
Of waves and sand and, if you choose,
A tour of something now in vogue -
The brewery where they make Rogue.
Their beers and spirits never fail
To bring some joy, like Dead Guy Ale
And on their tour, you see it made
For zero dollars - what we paid.
They gave us root beer - that's replaced
For 5 bucks with some beer to taste.
Their spirit barrels sure are super,
Crafted by their in-house cooper.
Whiskey, vodka, gin and rum
Are offered; payees sampled some.
And if this wasn't quite enough -
The Beer Museum - filled with stuff.
A smile-inducing part (still free!)
Was brew part to distillery.
We rode there in a little train;
From choo-choos! we could not refrain.
The passersby all waved and we
Responded with a childish glee.
All told, a bargain and such fun
I'd recommend to everyone!
Fourth Word Has Occurrred Horn Poetry By Me Poems
Fourth Word Has Occurred
Horn Poetry by me
No Money Not Funny
Had Humor Late bloomer
Did suggest go West
Gain Vote Grab coat
Is Hillary A Distillery
Great Scot farm bought
Humor Senseless more suspense's
Really rearing Hair Tarring
So surprising See advertising
Big loss is cross
Started raining quit complaining
Adrift were are sure
Romantic Isle Our style
Package great profound rebate
Several years hair disappears
Turn gray no way
Bathroom being toilet seeing
Now know better go
Was complete shut seat
While spying hair drying
Down drain went stain
Lovely Lady Rosie O'Grady
And end now send.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Premier Poet
When digested was divested
Hillary and Her Kitchen
What if you were to show me some sign
That what you now had never was mine
Next thing you knew you were creator
Of a program called, "The Hillianator."
An alligator up desires likes to gobble
So never again will we have .to hobble
Along but be free and become active
Member of America where we all live.
We may have started out foreign-born
In America will never receive any scorn
Even when youth may have been a scout
And always enjoy helping others out.
Had others in mind and their each need
Helping out as well as wanting to feed
Them many subjects and food for everyone
And of their handicaps do not make fun.
So by now what you have started to see
Is not again will there ever be a Hillary
And at distillery after named a great drink
Dirty Dishes are not in my kitchen sink.
Hillary's kitchen is always completely clean
Thanks to the creation of a Clinton Machine
With it nothing has been know to dissolve
With machine all problems are able to solve.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
'Midst towering fells and tumbling streams
A building stands, not all it seems.
The River Derwent passes near –
So bright and bubbling, cool and clear.
In Sprinkling Tarn it has its birth
Then frolics down for all its worth.
So come with me to Bassenthwaite
To model farm, through wrought iron gate.
Victorian buildings, built to last,
Now house a process from the past.
They're making gin (and vodka, too) –
Let's go inside and see them brew.
Prepared from three ingredients,
A gin of striking elegance
Is manufactured here by Cumbri
With purest water, yeast and barley.
Distilled two times in copper still,
Handmade by craftsman with good will.
And flavoured with botanicals,
Hand-gathered from the vales and hills –
Juniper, heather, bilberry
Brought home to the distillery.
So let your taste-buds have a thrill
And take a bottle to the till !
Sweet morning sunshine --
Damn you how I
despise this labor
that lies ahead.
The cousin of Grizzly Adams’
patiently waits with the
ancient white pickup truck
he ran me over with while I slept.
Off we go with the toolbox
dancing in the bed and it’s a band
of pots and pans, the opening act for
our weapons of mass construction.
Murph says he’s a team player,
although I don’t recall a sport
consisted of getting wasted
and having shameful sex.
He grumbles and curses about
the day ahead hung-over with
his perfume from the distillery and
gum he must’ve marinated in an ashtray.
We better do some stretching
before the circus begins—
watch me as I carry an elephant
up the twenty year old ladder.
From two stories above I witness
the war forming between
old rusty nails and the tiny,
soft green blades that stand no match.
The ground has become a grave
of tetanus but the old umbrellas
we toss down from the house
cover up the battlefield.
(To Be Continued)...
Massil with Carn Mor Dearg
you rear up in massive bulk
Devonia volcano with collapsed dome
proud you stand against darkening skies
Many to your summit climb
wary of your cloud chambers
us mortals tremble at your storms
forked lightening flashing deadly bolts
Venomous mountain your Gaelic name
at your summit a series of ring dikes
your slope longest and steepest in this Isle
wide open your vast plateau, nay shelter here
Dropping to Glen Bennis Nibheis as you descend
be sure to visit the Glen's distillery for a dram
savour Usige Beatha" a taste of heaven for sure
Look up and wonder at the beauty of Beinn Nibheis
originally written 03/09/2013
As most of you will know Beinn Nibheis is Ben Nevis which in Gaelic meaning venomous
or malicious mountain, in a 5 year period responsible for 13 deaths. Usige Beatha means
water of life in Gaelic Massil means twinned with
Robert Burns - P is for Poet.
Intro- Rabbie Burns stated on his deathbed on 27th July 1796 that he did not want the Awkward Squad i.e. Scots Military firing a tribute to him at his graveside.Burns wish was not granted and he died with full military honours with thousands lining the streets of Dumfries, Scotland.
At the graveside the Scots Military fired three volleys as the dirt was shoveled into his grave.
P is for Poet
Peasantry pulled by independent thoughts
Posthumous plaudits, academics besot
Penury not privilege, to which you were born
Poor ploughman's son, sowed our new poetic dawn
Prescriptions for passion and artistic artillery
Paradoxical pilgrim in heaven's distillery
Poetic pied piper, peat-fuelled injected ink
P is for poet, from your chalice we'll drink
Persecuted profile, diagnosis was death
Painful, your passing, blood in your last breath
Pistols point skywards, as Awkward Squad fire!
Pageantry and pomp as dying wish expires.
RIP ROBERT BURNS.
Robert Burns - P is for Poet.
Intro- Rabbie Burns stated on his deathbed on 27th July 1796 that he did not want the Awkward Squad i.e. Scots Military firing a tribute to him at his graveside.Burns wish was not granted and he died with full military honours with thousands lining the streets of Dumfries, Scotland.
At the graveside the Scots Military fired three volleys as the dirt was shoveled into his grave.
P is for Poet
Peasantry pulled by independent thoughts
Posthumous plaudits, academics besot
Penury not privilege, to which you were born
Poor ploughman's son, sowed our new poetic dawn
Prescriptions for passion and artistic artillery
Paradoxical pilgrim in heaven's distillery
Poetic pied piper, peat-fuelled injected ink
P is for poet, from your chalice we'll drink
Persecuted profile, diagnosis was death
Painful, your passing, blood in your last breath
Pistols point skywards, as Awkward Squad fire!
Pageantry and pomp as dying wish expires.
RIP ROBERT BURNS.
I am the bleary eyed bemoaner
of self made misery
my body's not a temple
its more of a distillery
drinking doesnt numb the pain
but it numbs my awareness of it
sat talking to myself in the corner
like a sodden surly hobbit
the main reason your gone
is 'cus my drinking went on
and on, and on
i am the president of the broken soul society
yet im not even tempted by sobriety
wondering why i cant ever seem to keep my
perpetual misery in check
as i pour another glass of liquid depression
down my grateful neck
Jasper Newton Daniel was born in 1850.
He hailed from a small town called Lynchburg in Tennessee.
Jack was born on a farm located in Moore County.
He was one of twelve children born to the family.
At an early age, he started a distillery.
Its product would be a world-famous sour mash whiskey.
In a rectangular bottle with a black label,
“Old Number Seven” proved quite popular and able.
Despite the Civil War, and strong legal repression,
the whiskey even survived the Great Prohibition.
Jack Daniel never married and had heirs to bestow.
Therefore, the business went to his nephew Lem Motlow.
These two men earned the Tennessee whiskey a big name.
The Brown-Forman Company made it achieve more fame.
Jack Daniel’s success is something no one will deny.
This is strange considering the Lynchburg town is dry.
I thank both wikipedia.org online encyclopedia and Jack Daniel's website for information I obtained to write this poem.
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