Long Carouse Poems
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A young woman named Meredith
took a cook’s job on a great ship,
raven-haired and dark of eyes,
she stood slender as a whip.
For five years she traveled wide
across the ocean’s of the world,
seeing so many exotic places,
an exciting life for any girl.
Now Meredith, she was no prude,
she had the run of the ship,
and when it came to the crew
she always had her pick…
Then one trip she met a man,
who meant more than a little fun,
they spent many long months together,
she knew that he was the one.
The sailor, he felt much the same,
and they started making plans,
Meredith would have a restaurant,
the sailor would be the barman.
But there was a minor hitch
when it came to their contracts,
the sailor had signed for another year
after which he would come back.
Meredith settled in Providence,
bought an old diner by the quays,
spent money saved over the years,
fixing it up in the right way.
After six months she opened it,
serving good food with no fuss,
the locals came to love the place,
she called it ‘The Wailing Walrus.’
And for the first few months at least
it seemed to play out smooth,
then on a bright, October day
she turned on the network news.
It told of a container ship
that had just gone down,
swamped by a giant, rogue wave,
all crew aboard had drowned.
Meredith fell to the restaurant floor
and screamed out in agony,
her fiancé had been onboard the ship,
their life together would never be…
I met Meredith forty years
after that most tragic of days,
I worked a fishing boat that docked
near the Wailing Walrus’s quay.
We’d all go in after a long trip,
it was a great place to unwind,
Meredith’s chowder was renowned,
both the New York and New England kind...
We’d toss back beers and carouse,
as men like us are wont to do,
I never passed up the chance
for a bowl of her lamb stew.
Behind the bar a photo hung,
framed up in clean plexi-glass,
showing a man, quite tall and young,
dressed from a time long past.
CONCLUDES IN PART II
Poems about Poets V
Edna St. Vincent Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Downdraft
by Michael R. Burch
for Dylan Thomas
We feel rather than understand what he meant
as he reveals a shattered firmament
which before him never existed.
Here, there are no images gnarled and twisted
out of too many words,
but only flocks of white birds
wheeling and flying.
Here, as Time spins, reeling and dying,
the voice of a last gull
or perhaps some spirit no longer whole,
echoes its lonely madrigal
and we feel its strange pull
on the astonished soul.
O My Prodigal!
The vents of the sky, ripped asunder,
echo this wild, primal thunder—
now dying into undulations of vanishing wings . . .
and this voice which in haggard bleak rapture still somehow downward sings.
Why the Kid Gloves Came Off
by Michael R. Burch
for Lemuel Ibbotson
It's hard to be a man of taste
in such a waste:
hence the lambaste.
Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poetry, poems, write, writing, muse, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dylan Thomas, drink, drinking
Odin he said,’This was not what fate told.
We were supposed to die on this field.’
I shrugged and said,’There was a change of plans,
So listen up, cause here’s the deal.
The norns, you see, could he hex to whole thing
So I sent my best-looking men down,
To treat the three ladies to dancing and drinks,
A regular old night on the town.’
‘And if know them true, they’re all still in bed,
After keeping those ladies up late.
And the webs the norns cast, they fell to Earth
And to dust they did all melt away.
It’s better this way, we all did agree,
Though mythology might be annoyed.
But we aren’t losing friends to nonsense like ‘fate,’
So we broke it, and gave you back choice.’
‘We do not believe we should lay down and die,
Nor could we let y’all think the same.
So we do what we do, we altered the rules,
And made the dark ones play our game.
And your prophecies knew not our modern tech,
Nor the lessons we learned from the horrors…
To think that a wolf, a snake, and a giant
Could beat a species born into war!’
We turned and headed for the great hall
The gods still far too stunned to relate
They’d come ‘round in time, surely enough
We’d all drink, carouse, and celebrate.
And as we walked off I heard the words spoke
From the Thunderer, still shaking his head
‘It may not be what we thought was in store,
But then again, at least we’re not dead!’
And the Norns settled down with their new loves,
And soon were surrounded by kids.
I went back to the hall, found my Valkyrie,
But can’t tell you the things that we did.
And for centuries more tales with will sung,
Great stories and epics will take stock,
Of the Doom of the Gods that didn’t quite come,
Of the SEALs who stormed Ragnarok.
Walk through life with mirth
Laughing, loving, liberating friends and foes
Daring to enliven them as from my favourite firth
I breaststroke ashore and send a rose
To signify my noble intention
Meant to fulfill a wish
I made to my avatar to diminish tension
Within my conscience and denude my desire dish
Of detours from contours from the path of bliss
My associates and acquaintances so much deserve
In a life so unpredictable they and I sometimes miss
The turn and urn that burn the best wishes they and I reserve
For last if we intend to revive hope
To revitalize and sanitize thoughts we aggrandize
As we slide and glide on the slope
Where without any intention to peddle unhappiness merchandise
Associates push me forward to the brink
Where all at once my eyes pop open
To reveal a peal of laughter that doesn’t shrink
From paving the way on the right day for my pen
To dribble prevarication and scribble
A note to my heart, to my brain
Ensuring I no longer nibble
At my bliss to decrease the strain in the main
That wriggles and sniggles if I should make a wrong move
To decrease chances lances of sorrow won’t tomorrow
Fly back and forth to prove in a groove
If I’m man enough to borrow in a row
An idea from altruism to confer on a broken heart
Hope for bliss, hope for hope as I grope
For a chance and circumstance to play a pivotal part
To improve the scope without horoscope
That predicts history will judge me harshly
If I should shrink from the responsibility
To pour love despite the pain I dismiss brashly
To browse and carouse a dose of time honoured humility.
Ended up in trouble and can't be denied;
Was only opening up from deep inside
Expressing what my opinion had been
Which ended up being a mortal sin.
As you read a poem you start to think
Should it be thrown the kitchen sink;
What had been applied forced rhyme;
Some people try to do it all the time.
Out several things had started to scope;
Should never be giving out false hope
And to me it always is very essential
Poor performance when no potential.
Had gotten in trouble on occasion before
End result was making some people sore
What they asked everyone what we thought
Into a trap and net I had been caught.
Why are poetry people willing to gamble
When together words surely seem to scramble
And merely much attention trying to obtain
Ending up driving us precariously insane.
It might sound like either off cuff or in cup
But can a can of worms soon be opening up
That maybe should have remained closed
And what was assumed, we also supposed.
Good God, why try to take people for granted;
Many perfectly potent pills may be planted
And through each poem, I will start to browse
Maybe more around I should start to carouse.
Another thing is required that I want to mention
Ranks are unruly when there is much dissension
Put poem in any washer then out have wrung
And check out guy to see if horrendously hung.
Then I really started putting my mind to task;
Wondered what now should I begin to ask;
To improve a Super Souper what is required?
Thought provoking questions by someone newly hired.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
Whoa .. I’ve need for some hay
then a trip to the trough to quench my thirst.
I’ve not eaten much; I need to rest this very day
will stop at Laramie, must have a stable first
My saddle is heavy, will need to lighten the load
if you won’t stop you’ll be dumped on the road
I relish your companionship, you’re a good dude
but if I had some rest it will replace my mood.
I’m not allowed in the saloon where you down your shots
but left hitched to the post where I stand and brood
C’mon man has you no mercy that I am tied in knots
while you carouse and frolic and become subdued.
I carried you far along those dusty and rutty trails
endured the heat and the rains that came upon
this is not the days of those old western tales
where riders rode seeking gold in the Yukon.
next time when I see you carry my saddle
I shall buck and prevent you from getting on my back
You’ll be left alone while I promptly skedaddle
I won’t be listening to your yakety-yak.
So dude what its going to be, let me bite the dust
or show me your kindness as you would a friend
I can ride out from underneath you like a wind gust
letting you walk in the heat till your days bitter end.
I am not Wilbur and you’re not Mr Ed
can’t persuade me to live that style
living that role of a star I would opt out instead
rather trot and gallop every day up to a mile
I would not be a race horse nor likes to the show
just to be myself in a open field or coral
Won’t be a work horse with a carriage in tow
just to be at your side and have you as my pal.
Swift bee, the gilded messenger of bliss,
Begirt with golden stars of Heaven’s span,
What draws you to the clover’s gentle kiss?
Sweet nectars, that the strongest drinker can
Carouse with dreams and dizzy waves of sleep,
Or mocks the freshest breath of summer’s clime?
Swift bee, a flame-plumed star of black and gold,
Why do you with your mouth, completely reap
The liquors that each golden bud does hold,
And lulls with somnolence the might of time?
Oh, bee, you spread the tufted pollen clouds
Like nebulae of opal stars crossways
The delicate, soft digitalis crowds,
Which passionately garner sunbeam rays
Within their coral shells. I can’t express
How much your toil’s worth to coming spring,
And how so passioned glide your wings around
The purple, gentle harebell’s loosened dress,
And make, through pretty hums, spring’s hopeful sound
Oft too profaned by your most fearsome sting!
Oh, pretty hummer! Hearty worker! Bee!
I see you roaming round the garden’s bend,
Where sweet, white daisies wreathe a canopy,
And make you but a hearty, cheerful friend.
Swift bee, the aching, swollen heart of mine
Desires comfort where pain knows no ruth
The buds hold, like rich garners golden grain,
Ambrosia of the gods, dream’s honeyed wine
So bring and let dear bee, such moisture stain
My lips and warm my heart with spring’s bright youth!
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
Stark realization, I harbor sacrilegious objection...
Against merry christmas premature blowout,
(or otherwise) ejaculation galore burnout,
hence I feel like the odd man out
neither yours truly, nor the missus
spends money and/or
time at checkout
avoid madding crowds like the plague
elbowing, hustling, jostling,
pushing, racing, shoving...
seconds before blue
light special closeout,
though neither of us
reformed practicing Jews, nor devout
mass consumerism capitalistic fallout,
we steer clear taking refuge within
our underground (arched)
all in the family bunker hideout
remain hermetically sealed
courtesy NASA tested grout
hunkering inside spatially
roomy subterranean getaway
created viz 3d printing
immediately after rollout
ready to take nesty plunge
steeply, perpendicularly, giddily... south
to go down rabbit hole,
where we carouse, cavort,
thermally heated cavernous redoubt
reaping efforts after donning
(MAGA) hardhats constructing roustabout,
whereby protruding innocuous periscope
allows, enables, and provides
mean ways to scout,
since Marshall Mathers Law
declared, mandated trumpeted
courtesy special ops stakeout
regarding our subversive
passive actions hashtagged illegal
if perchance discovered vis a vis,
we Americans express timeout
before changing role as seekers
playing wargames no matter
suddenly Nor'easter creates whiteout
futile search until spring thaw
melting snow exhumes
mister and missus Santa Claus
thank you climate change
regarding attributed drought.
Feel the pulse of the spouse in a house
You thought you knew
Until your mouth turned into the louse
You became as fantasies ate you up anew.
Guilt on stilts divorced
Sombre sentiments in the mind
Imbued with dark thoughts you sourced
From reveries that in your house drove you blind.
To the hilt you moved the feet
Grown sore as you bore boredom
With disdain in pain to treat
Fantasies frivolously in your kingdom.
Don hats of cats and bats
When fantasies syncopate
In the mind that rains dogs and cats
As bonkers you go within your paltry pate.
Ashamed you feel to entertain fantasies
In hidden heavens where you expiate
Dreams society condemns as their ecstasies
Guilt of wit fantasies you ingratiate.
You walk with your head down
Wandering in circles as fantasies heckle
The shame you blame on your town
Where echoes of injustice inhabit an invincible spectacle.
Douse doubt and booze carouse
When fantasies take over
Realms of possibilities in the blouse
You decide insinuates insensitivity in a courier clover.
When sleep sets you free
You feel aghast you dreamt
Fantasies at you laughed with glee
As you felt no values lived in lampoon lessons learnt.
Why you dare ask fantasies hunt your brain
Inside the house you determine to vacate
When fantasies in your mind strain
The daylight you no longer placate.
Gasp in terror and horror
When sheets on your bed breathe fire and fury as the dead
In droves unleash an odious odour
That shakes floundering foundations in your homestead.
For What You Cry!
For what you cry, for what you cry!?
Poor me, poor me!
You never had dirt under your nails.
For what you cry, for what you cry!?
Poor me, poor me!
You would rather split a child in two.
For what you cry, for what you cry!?
Poor me, poor me!
You so independent but can't pay bail.
For what you cry, for what you cry!?
Poor me, poor me!
Speaking of love, hands out, demand you.
For what you cry, for what you cry!?
Poor me, poor me!
You left, then leave, a victim of your own blaming,
shaming,
gaming,
complaining.
For what you cry, for what you cry!?
You're killing us.
You won't listen and you lie.
"They will be paid back with harm
for the harm they have done.
Their idea of pleasure is to carouse
in broad daylight.
They are blots and blemishes,
revelling in their pleasures while they feast with you.
With eyes full of adultery,
they never stop sinning;
they seduce the unstable;
they are experts in greed – an accursed brood!
They have left the straight way
and wandered off to follow the way
of Balaam son of Bezer,
who loved the wages of wickedness.
But he was rebuked for his wrongdoing
by a donkey –
an animal without
speech –
who spoke with a human voice and restrained
the prophet’s madness."
2 Peter 2:13-16
Honor and glory be to God.
by Martin Braun
6/13/2020