Sometimes I wonder,
if I’m wasting my seconds
trying to prove love
lasts longer
when you drown it with gin.
Her ghost circles back—
again, again—
the Poppy wears
a saccharine, serrated grin—
(oh, how I’ve missed it)
nestled among
my worn-out keycaps.
I didn’t mean to write her—
I keep pressing delete—
But she never blinks.
That's when I know–
I must
write and write and write and write—
or she erases me.
Salt a gin and tonic,
It’s too dry.
Assault my temple with sin,
Be honest,
You like the rye.
Look me in my honest eye,
Conversations with myself are the fondest,
Because no one understands me better when I rhyme.
Took a pen and across the paper it slides,
Scribble out the oddest lines.
Apply pressure to the page,
Trickle out ink until the pen has died.
Wet ink is promised to eventually dry,
But tomorrow isn’t promised,
For some reason I can’t help but question why?
After four portions of Moët fine wine,
I tend to think of life as if it’s all just a waste of time.
If tomorrow could be withdrawn then what’s the point of the “grand design”?
If tomorrow I wake up past dawn,
Should I consider myself only one step closer to dying?
Don’t overstep,
The temple has redrawn the walls and implores you to walk within the lines.
It’s not perfect,
But nothing’s wrong with second best.
When it stops hurting,
In comes walking Sudden Death.
We can’t always be our very best,
Attempting perfect,
It feels like burning,
The scars left behind showcase regret.
They gather where the signs hang crooked,
under gaslight glare and broken clocks,
where the barkeep’s eyes are twin shot glasses—
fogged, but watching.
Gin Lane rolls in on tired boots,
her laughter sharp as shattered glass.
Beer Street hums a fatter tune,
slumped in booths of sticky leather.
They meet at the hinge of last call,
where poetry is slurred and prophets mumble.
A jukebox wails old revolutions
to a crowd too drunk to notice.
The walls are graffiti'd with regrets,
phone numbers of ghosts,
and chalked-up debts no one will ever pay.
Outside, the world is coughing up history,
but in here, time stirs with a muddler.
The bar is a church with no god,
only spirits, and the faithful who sip them.
Some come to forget,
others to remember louder.
A woman in red sings with her back to the room.
A man orders another round
and trades his name for a tab.
Everyone claps when the glass breaks.
Midnight hits like a bottle to the head—
the bouncer shrugs,
Beer Street staggers,
Gin Lane pirouettes into the dark.
there was an old man named McGuinn
who liked his women and his sloe gin
one night it was said
he took both to bed
and woke up next day with a sly grin
there was an old man named McGuinn
who liked his women and gin
one night it was said
he took one of each to bed
and woke up next day with a grin
gin joint ginger
I had heard of her of course
we all had
but we thought she was fictitious
when we saw the barkeep’s face we knew better
He is usually unflappable
tonight he could barely speak
she had taken his heart
and his tongue it seems
And as I reach my end of years
I’ve come to know my gin and tears
A pleasant cocktail, I suppose
As time, that mighty river flows
Yet, not for sadness in my cup
This combination sums it up
But rather sweet and salty times
That brought me all the best of rhymes
Reflections with an added twist
A tonic of a potent mist
For life’s true reverie is clear
In all I’ve lived and loved so dear
So gin and tears I recommend
When all alone or with a friend
A nice, tall glass will do me fine
I love the life that has been mine
I hope again in ten years’ days
As flowers grow and music plays
I’ll sip away, no matter where
With gratitude and love to spare
out of all the gin joints in Chicago
she had to choose this one
she had an uncanny likeness to the woman he had lost
he could not stop staring
aka
HALLO WEENIE!
Police say a woman named Gidget
Took a fancy to a man's digit
She knew it would grow
But you ought to know
His digit now hangs on a midget!
Added by Belle Bellevue:
The midget was proud of his digit
He wondered just how Gidget did it
It hung to his knees
And swung in the breeze
Witch Gidget was wetting her britches
Gin and Sin
I once stayed at grandiose inn,
With rowdies, who reeked of gin!
Their vulgar voices louder than tin.
The worse thing in the world is sin.
Nothing on earth,shall ever do me in.
Protected by angels, from human vermin!
10/21/2022
Momorhyme by Pangie
Was making dinner for my honey, mine.
I realized, alas, I added far too much thyme.
He whispered, “you are thinking way too much of rhyme!”
Quickly I filled us glasses, with ice-cold tonic, gin and lime.
That softened him and he softly whispered,
“Well, I guess after all, it’s no big crime.”
He was my love, so invitingly delicious and ever so sublime.
A peek for you, into my love-life’s, poetic summertime!
7/22/2022
~ 1 ~
There was a fellow named Tim
Who loved to drink lots of gin.
Got drunk on the beach,
dove in water out of reach.
Too bad he didn't know how to swim.
You who had seen my next of kin
Dining and wining near a bin
And you forgot to raise a din
Or had minded your Gripping Gin…
It was A War you did not win,
Though Loss reports not on The Skin
Like would Incisive Pricks of Pin
Or handiwork of Wounding Tin…
Your love, please, extend to My Kin
In Water Fish that needs Your Fin:
Never mind his mischievous grin
Nor like God be counting his sin…
See, forty bucks in cold, hard cash
can fill your trailer with gin trash.
And for growing fine tomatoes,
forty's pretty small potatoes.
The big box products like Black Cow
will truly set you back, and how!
The cotton hulls and seeds and stems
ejected from the cotton gin,
stored a year in a giant pile,
makes the heart leap and brings a smile.
Earthy, loamy, a little sour,
magical black growing power.
By the barrow, then tilled under,
it's a veggie growing wonder.
Its Round-up contents raise concerns;
the pile's so hot, it nearly burns.
Big veggies are the things it grows,
but I'll look out for extra toes.
You think that she’d have learned by now, to hide it
But no, and those around her must abide it
Sometimes, we'd like to knock her off her fanny
‘Cause we all know, she’s just a Gin Soaked Granny
She stumbles in out and out of bed all morning
and never will she heed our sober warning
before she drinks, she’d better read that label
the bottle she left somewhere on a table
For Gin Soaked Grannies always need their glasses
and sometimes they forget with time that passes
that yesterday, the rats she killed with liquor
should she drink, would only make her sicker
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