Sticks and stones will break your bones
But hard liquor will kill you quicker
A penny saved is a penny earned
A dollar lent is a dollar burned
Free advice doesn't cost a cent
But it won't help you pay the rent
To gain success trust your ambition
Don't ever trust a politician
Live your life by the golden rule
Don't waste your life by being cruel
Take deep breaths when feeling nervous
Thank a veteran for their service
Live for today forget the past
Fair weathered friendships never last
Don't let hate invade your heart
It's hard to quit once you start
Born a boomer, he was.
After World War 11, he appeared.
Just before The Korean War, he came.
Into poverty, Saturday noon, he landed;
Never hungry was he.
Much warmth and love.
Obeyed parents and elders too.
He also went to school every day.
Good hard-working parents, had he.
He even had the treasured luxury of a
live-in grandmother who loved him ever so
dearly. 8 sisters, 3 brothers, and a dog named
Jack; Baseball, apple pies, and Sunday Church.
Let it be known that this boomer was surrounded by dreamers.
He lived among a proud people that never asked for much.
Everybody worked hard, and some also drank hard liquor.
Like today, all around the world, people up; people down.
The hand full of the very rich, contrasting with the truck loads
of the very hard-working poor, who endured the toil and bore the shame.
But they did not waste their time and energy playing the 'blame game'.
No time for steaming, they went to work every day and kept on dreaming.
090222PS
November comes to a whimpering close
No harangues of wind or blustery snows,
Rather hopefully I watch as autumn goes
Thinking of wreaths and Christmas bows
The airwaves are filled with holiday shows
Elves are on the shelves, everyone knows,
Holiday parties where hard liquor flows
Reminds me I forgot to wind up the hose
But Mama has brought out heavier throws,
The yard is through with its seasonal mows
November sees the last of the pink rose,
And heavy socks now cover my chilly toes.
written November 28, 2021
My doctor’s warning is dour I say,
soon I could be lowered in clay,
so fat, sugar and salt,
hard liquor must halt -
I went to his funeral today.
Faces come at me as stricken
as graveyard moons.
The supermarket hangs heavy,
laden as it is with neon anchors.
The aisles are runways for empty eyes,
a few sections contain searching bodies.
She turns to me at the check-out,
she has me tagged;
wine bottles from the mark-down bin
rattle on the moving counter.
She clutches a red plastic pocketbook.
Brown knee-length boots, dimples.
Gold button earrings - worn-out pretty;
hard liquor in soft bottles.
There is just us, and the
shuttling hands of the shop-worker'
She has to talk. "Sorry," she says.
I wonder if I should apologize also?
I think we are just forgiving each other
for being here in an awkward moment,
in the late hour, exposed like this.
Outside, the car park is lifting off
into the night.
A thousand aliens are leaving
to search for salvation.
I can't look at them,
each face is a small moon shining.
You're not satisfied
Eyes lacking passion
A burning sensation replaced with ice
Our intensity reduced to a mere glance
sitting in silence where the chatter used to live
I am an afterthought.
Letters you sent her
While I laid in wait
I am patiently going mad
Waiting for you to think of me first
You’re wanted more than I
The attention I crave is
trapped by your thoughtlessness
I want you to want me
Words that go down easy like hard liquor
I only nod
My self loathing is your burden
They were not jokes They are not jokes They will never be jokes
You only worry for me
I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care
You’re hard to reach
Late or Never at all
You arrive
I’ve realized how much you dread to answer
For I’m always too sobered
And you’re much too high for life
Clouds at her feet, she hangs her head
Thinking she should have stayed in bed
Days into nights just one big blur
Masking effects of hard liquor
As dusk gives way to stars of dread
In an effort to block what’s said
Before last fantasies are dead
Dream being an adventurer
Clouds at her feet
Feelings of joy have all but fled
She’d have to overcome this dread
Rekindle passions deep that stir
Ignite embers that do recur
Take flight and soar full speed ahead
Clouds at her feet
AP: 2nd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on September 25, 2018 for contest END SEPTEMBER 2018 STANDARD sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
P-aint not the town red,
R-emain pure in heart;
I-n spite of peer pressure,
N-ever break your faith apart.
C-over not the town red;
E-ven though it's enticing;
S-tay away from drinking hard liquor that's so tempting.
A-im not to paint the town red, let not pleasure turn to pain;
N-ever stay much longer under the falling rain.
M-aintain your holiness,
E-vading the evil mind;
N-either whiskey nor cocaine
D-oes make your head fine.
E-vening thirtieth of July, sleep early in your bed;
Z-ealously avoid night out, paint not the town red
Atheists,
nihilistic babies
weaned on void milk
They raised themselves not to partake
of any faith-altering substance —
God and religion
is hard liquor and hardcore ***********
to their pure humanist, temperance sensibility
They don’t believe in spiritual invisible things ...
yet, they can touch the unseen air they breath
The spirit of unbelief ... spirit of the Sadducees,
rest within the bosom of their dry souls
Breast fed on prayer emptiness,
so many miracles of God they dismiss with ease
On womb birthdays and tomb holidays,
they eat cheerfully the sumptuous Devil cake:
(a dark angelic spirit in whom they don’t believe exist,
of course, in the first place)
A pasty pastry which contain twin ingredients: malice and avarice —
hate and greed leaven mixed into the ugly bake
They take such preening pagan pride
in denouncing the very existence of God
But, in cremation ashes they can’t hide,
from the holy, divining Resurrection rod
When their atheist flesh and bones
get reconstructed from the urn grave
It will be too late
for them to wanna believe and be saved
The Right Choices
There are those who have gladly made their drugs of choice.
Then, there are those whose choices took away their voice.
When just a little lad, I stealthily opened our refrigerator, and experienced such distaste as I secretly drank hard liquor.
Fortunately, for me, neither of my parents ever discovered my crime.
In addition, thankfully, I never acquired a taste for drinking a second time.
And also when just a lad, with friends I secretly took puffs from cigarettes.
Again, I escaped detection; and for this deed, my parents never had to protest.
O, the deeds of a child that often remain hidden and never remedied.
But then, there are those who early on, choose rightly by God’s Grace alone.
They make better choices; drugs never being among them.
And O, what pain we avoid, by making the right choices.
05302016 PS Contest, That Colorful Drug, by Lewis Raynes; HM
Contest, Any HM ever, Laura Loo; 5th Pl.
The roaring twenties prohibition.
Left violent crime to seize the day.
An act of folly, no forward vision
Of curbing crime, and their ambition
To supply hard liquor, and disobey.
The roaring twenties prohibition.
Failed to prevent, what was tradition.
A paradox says that,'crime does pay'.
An act of folly no forward vision.
Corruption is blind no opposition.
The 'cotton clubs' were there to stay.
The roaring twenties prohibition
Was needful then for more attrition
And fighting crime, without delay
An act of folly, no forward vision.
Until the lawmen gained submission.
Who was to blame? Society will say,
The roaring twenties prohibition.
An act of folly, no forward vision
3/ 2/ 2015.
Alcohol is a culturally accepted drug
Many drink alcohol at point in their lives
Some only drink during social occasions
Others may have an evening glass of wine
Moderate alcohol consumption can reduce your risk of heart disease
The benefit is not so great that a non-drinker should consider drinking alcohol
About 1/3 of those drinking alcohol will develop problems with alcohol
Drinking problems can increased your risk of serious health problems
Accidents
Or injuries
If you want to drink alcohol
Moderate consumption is considered safe
Moderate drinking is considered 2 drinks a day for men
1 a day for women or lighter-weight men
A drink is 12 ounces of beer
5 ounces of wine
1 ½ ounces of hard liquor
Each one counts as one carbohydrate choice
2022015
We Old Poets Love Our Rhyme
We old poets love a sweetly flowing rhyme
we made our phone calls with just a dime
Movie for two, drinks, change from a dollar
we drank great hard liquor to hoop and holler
Gals we chased first, then we went a courtin'
no hanky panky and so very little cavortin'
A night out was to a movie theater or play
never late could a very good gal ever stay
We old poets still love a sweet and fine rose
as long as it rhymes almost anything goes
Once my gal had such bright and pretty shoes
she gave me a treasure when I hadn't any clues
We old poets dearly love our inspiring Muse
Gifts us such lovely inspiring words to choose
R. J. LINDLEY, 07-30-2014
"As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly." - Proverbs 26:11 (KJ version)
Imploding glass into my martini
Hard liquor…hard glass
Shattering my soul and body
The visual alone left me dead drunk
Like a salty dog awaiting hell
I fell…before the glass ever emptied
Wondering the thoughts of those around
Though I lied and said I didn't care
Stranger's thoughts were everything to me
Honesty drained like a cold beer on a Sunday morning
Cornered by a truth that stings
Filled with pain and shards of acceptance
I was bent on worshiping this feeling
Because rain falls and cools the anger
Just as sorrow freezes the spirits
Glasses clank
No thought of joining—no intake
A watch always from afar
A flash of relish for this emotional bar
Everything melted like a dream
I was awake in this stupor on the kitchen floor
Tired, naked, writhing in vomit
Lapping it up like whiskey
Only to extricate all of it again
-do excuse these...just reposting some oldies that I had taken off for a time for evaluation and revision..-
I sit in this dark room and empty the soul I call mine
Into the void we call time
The void slowly sips it down, burning like hard liquor
Then hammers it down quicker and quicker
The cursed soul begins to burn and time now seems sicker
Until bursting into flames like a fine whicker
Burning bright through the black of night
His feelings lie, except in his weary eyes
Where no one looks, no one pries
Simply by disguising cries with laughs, by hiding behind broken smiles
If he wishes tomorrow won’t come, it always does fast
And when he wants tomorrow to last it will pass
Reminded of yesterday by the pain lingering today
Diminished to ashes and flashes of pictures burnt in
Seeing doesn’t mean your not blind
Because we all search for the thing we can’t find
So bind my hands, unstitch my lips
Take the last sips of curses
Because I’m done with these dark verses
Ash to ash, Dust to dust blown away in the silent hush
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