Drunk Poems

The frozen sun

Placed 10th in the contest 2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 13 by Mark Toney. Contest was judged on September 3rd, 2025~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Afrobeats played in the background,
         his sweet breaths drying my sweat.
       Palmwine sat on his shaky left palm.
    

Taming the Alcoholic

When cage is cask,
And whip is knife,
Blood's to flask,
As wrist's to life. 

For every sip,
There's but cage and whip.
Tis better to skip,
And equip your grip.

Drunk

You get me drunk
On the sound of your harp
Wise man

And I come for more
And I come for more.

Punch-Drunk Poet Meets Chandelier Chin

With nothing but a jawbone, I
unhinge the night, let silence die—
book of broken psalms, toothless songs
of what was right, of what went wrong
beneath the hush of watchful sky.

No prize, no game, no lullaby—
just marrow's oath and blood gone dry.
I didn’t mean to last this long
with nothing but a jawbone.

Still, blood remembers how to lie,
to shape

drunk on fire

Your seawater stirs in me where fire balances high on oil
You clasp my candlefire, wick's motioning coil — 

A sweating kind of missing
A burned open kissing

The glass shared between us two
Flames in our faces as we move

To the synchrony past
Our dressing these masks

These temperatures rising in veins of you and I
God, brief tourniquets in time

Summer Hiku 34

                      Summer Hiku 34

 jasmine flowers in bloom

	 fragrance fills my room~

		drunk with perfume.

Samuel Johnson, Happiness and Wine

As happiness now, Johnson thunk,
Requires that a fellow be drunk,
Pursuing the happy,
A literate chappy, 
So happy became that he stunk.

I Was Drunk

Whispers
Long and lost
Loud and low
“S e i z e  t h e  d a y”
Touched my ears,
Poured into my soul,
Vanished my inner ghoul,
The night nostalgic, new,
Nectarous and nefarious,
Feathered my hands,
Floated me from my desk,
I sniffed soul soothing poetry
Intoxicating from the dusty old
Buttery books shelved on, inviting. 

I drank one poem, 
And another,
Then another,

The day a poet didn’t die-I: The melodramatic poet

A night in fragments—
Breath reeked mildewed regrets,
and static collided behind my eyes.

I tasted shattered neon,
sipping cheap club gin. 
Even alcohol can’t silence the poet—
I mock her perfumed clichés,
but still draft her eulogy
in thrifted elegance.

“I hate writing blind,” I muttered
as gin bled through crooked verses—

March 14th, 
a drunk poet sighed— 
Her pen staged the week’s second

Drunk Driving Isn't Beautiful

Write Eight Beautiful Lines Poetry Contest
Constance La France

Wrongfully wheel with wanton wills which wastefully works 
By Author

In the aftermath of his tragic fate
When adding two plus two is too late
I don't understand drunk drivers
Why risk it all and leave survivors
Now he's resting at a funeral home
Lifeless because of a unwise syndrome
Yet yesterday he's weaving on

Not The First Time

Not the First Time
By Cathrin Stuart
 
Late at night, you came home drunk
Not the first time
I heard you and Mommy talking
Not the first time
You came and pulled me out of bed by the hair
Not the first time
You beat me in the passage until I bled
Not the first time
I was not allowed to cry, mop up

Pass the TP Please

Old Drunk McNab stumbl'd to confession
The priests waits and waits to start the session
The priest then knocks on the wall
“Occupied…, comes a slurr'd call,
…an’ no TP so don'ask the quess’ion!”

Dream-Drunk Love

You’ve lived through loss—
you’ve battled unuttered shame—
yet you hold onto Love like it is more 
than a Delusion—it is Honor—precious 
and rainbow-like—shimmery and 
shadowy all in one. 

You speak to her with Soul, 
truths that seem simple—
truths that survive in warm hands,
in melodies, 
in cadences, 
in overtones, 
in steady Voice.

You are creased at the edges
like

Drunk Dry

Fog unravels its gray threads to smother the sky
and numb the mind,
words slip away to find other mouths
to fall from.

Wallowing in a low funk,
enveloped by a dull dislike
of these sprawling hours,
and this gun-metal sky
shuffling along
as a ghost in carpet slippers.

Into a deep glass of wine
shrinking spirits sink,
listless lips sip mechanically.

Words wriggle away as if escaping

Holiday Fun

Rudolph and Santa, two jolly good friends,
On their own friendship, so much depends.
One day, they both fought,
'Cause someone stole what they'd bought 
But soon, they were able to make amends.

Later that day, they caught the thief,
But learning he'd sold their goods caused them grief.
They then informed the police,
Who gave them ten Pounds apiece.
That their kind

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