Long Cask Poems
Long Cask Poems. Below are the most popular long Cask by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cask poems by poem length and keyword.
Star's darling Moon
You are my sweetest moon
In your arms wrap me soon
I crave to be your star forever
For You are my greatest treasure
Poured you lots of love in my life's empty cask
Nothing more than your love I can to God ask
Our moments of togetherness in the sky's blue terrace
Your shine and scent on me spread with vivid grace
As you draw me close to you and hug me very tight
Calls for a Celestial celebration, angels dance with delight
Shower you kisses enchanting wet and warm all over
Makes me shine and twinkle more like a diamond tower
To all who view me glow I would love to make it clear
My shine and smile I owe to my loving moon so dear
Sweeps he with his charm and shine, my spots of darkness
Fills my barren craters with trust and heavenly sweetness
When you are near my moon life is so adorable
You disappear for a while, my life turns utterly miserable
Like Oasis in desert your entry in my otherwise arid life
You quenched all my thirst and erased with ease all my strife!
©Anulaxmi Nayak,2015
Twas the night after Christmas
Alone with my tinder, ex-spouse
Holed up with this fumigating grouse
Trite presents with her I did douse
Wrapped with old newspaper that she did delouse
With boiling anger she did fumble then browse
From recycled boxes pulled a dingy sweater and moldy blouse
Fueled by spite she began to spew and touse
When to her glee, she my present did espouse
An unwrapped cask of cheap wine, she did uprouse
She intimated that I could now intox and bouse
While she with a better man did carouse
After a few drinks, the blanched holly and mildewing mistletoe did
arouse
A tender feeling for that renovated louse
Purple envelope
sealed with dried red grape secrets
folded with ferments
hidden like wine in a cask—
waiting to expunge its words
Purple grape-skins torn
the bruises dark, stinking with hate
postponed and withheld—
seething, fermenting inside,
to pop when eyes are uncorked
Fingers hesitate—
lingering on paper's seam
as if it might bleed
mauve ink, staining memories
with bitter taste of tannin
Who dares to open
the violet-purple skins
threaded like tendrils
curled poised to strike the reader—
staining lips and tongues blood-red
The envelope waits
as a bruise waits for pressure—
purple concealing
the truth of what lies within
with promise and a warning
in a cursed invitation.
Which beers my dears bring you to tears
Beardy weirdy freaks hipster peaks & nadirs
Slatted bar with glam flutes or bizarre jam jar
Cheers to toots & hoots hirsute tatted peers
Sham craze for cloudy ales or clear yesteryear pales
Old school IPA mule or cool daze ways holds sway
Some fools viral spools spiral amaze as they drool
Not a phase always had haze it's the cardinal rule
Or a silly quip & blip has a nip of a chilli dip in it
Knows zip flip let rip Indian trip phrase you twit
Gawking and balking because they're talking s**t
All about malty pout haughty clout of a naughty stout
Cooed am a lamb to the slaughter for rip snorter porter
Wooed by stock of stellar Bock or cellar brewed Keller
Wheat poo pooed too funkily sweet for this crude fella
Rude taking the mick trick to pick a drop in perfect nick
Chaps won't cower to the lure of cocktails at happy hour
Ruddy cheeked fuddy duddy who is perhaps too dour
Appears fake dreams it seems of a career as a critic
Slating grating ratings mapped trapped on untappd
Skeptic fears musty skunk & fusty funk that is lambic
Brett regret bristles don't fret won't let whet my whistle
Sneers debunk the rusty gunk flower glower of sour
Jeers but bet the ripple of Tripel is still the top tipple
For any cynic or pundit in their Merchant Ivory tower
Hail tale of quirky murky or another stale lager saga
Heaven forbid get rid of sweet & sickly treat for a kid
Snooty about the booty of rank dank stank too fruity
For fecks sake must forsake that milkshake mistake
If tasked or someone asked what's my perfect beer?
Not the new frontier..bask in cask ...holy grail of ale
Suggest zest from noble not global hops treasure chest
Attest not treason manifest reason better than the rest
Beer to pleasure every season that stalled then schooled
What is after all the true quest & have you got a clue test
Which is why I contest you go with the one called "Best"
(Dedicated To Submariners All Over The World)
Dived deep in the bowels of the seas
My steely shell’s a womb.
Deep down amidst the oil and grease
I am at peace in the Lovecraftian tomb!
What’s with the antonyms, you may ask?
Two opposite words you’ve used -
One’s a warm and wonderful cask,
The other’s dead and worm-abused.
The words are apt, as you’ll soon realize,
For a sub’s a Faustian hell
Where the soul imperceptibly dies
A place where sub-human’s dwell!
Dimmed lights cast a sepulchral gloom,
Myriad machines sing Orphic songs
Of palpable peril and impending doom;
Each one of us a Houri’s groom!
To us’s denied the kiss of the sun,
Not for us the fresh blown breeze,
We know not when the day’s begun,
Nor when the night’s a-freeze!
Up periscopes and down again
The klaxons’ strident screams
Make us jump from where we’ve lain
To drilled duties in well-oiled teams.
The sighting of a laggard prey,
Spells sure a petard blown,
For a homing submarine fish tail spray
Brings terror to hardened men and grown.
Though through silent prowls of the deep we hunt,
Like coin could be our fate.
Our shell could crack with the depth charge brunt;
With Davy Jones we’d have our date!
But when heightened pulse and throbbing heart
Have ceased their labours wild,
Routine sets in and all is “back to start”
Each one an unborn child.
The sub becomes a womb, you see,
A place where your thoughts get sorted;
An amniotic envelope, safe and cozy,
With fair chance to get aborted!
So I hope now that my ditty’s run its course
The message’s plain and grim
That life and death share the same source -
For a submariner womb and tomb are synonym!
I want to tell you a story that will not end with the glory,
Of a good friendship gone gory, come on drink the drink from my flask.
You have backstabbed me through my worst, so come on now, do quench your thirst,
And to be buzzed, you will be first; I know you’re love to have a blast.
Thanks for helping me; you’re the only one who could help with this task.
Come on, let us bury the past.
Do you remember my good friend, often times you try to pretend?
Saying in you, I should depend, masked people must take off their mask.
Behind my back you were lying, in revenge now I’m applying,
Like in your lies you were trying, to avoid whatever I ask.
And now you will feel, what I was feeling, on the wrath that I cast,
Go on; drink the drink from my flask.
Do you feel inebriated, perhaps too intoxicated?
It seems your vision has faded, my, you have gotten drunk so fast.
Come on help me mix this caustic, hurry now! Is it too toxic?
It’s not harmful; you won’t get sick, be careful it could give a blast.
I push him in, but he don’t fit, so now I had to use my rasp,
I vowed my revenge, so take in your breath; it is to be your last.
And now in this drum you will bask.
You have done me this way too long; lying, stealing; the same old song,
And in life you do not belong, for it’s your lies that are too vast.
I’m done with my contemplating and your death I am awaiting,
Should I go, I am debating, now you’re time in there has surpassed.
I am not like you; I take it further, can you see the contrast?
For your help, it’s an A, you passed.
Sips of liquor is what it took, to rid this liar, thief, and crook,
Now entombed in this little nook, I wipe the germs off of my flask.
And though he’s dead, I am upset, because my clothes and shoes are wet,
And for this day I won’t forget; my senses I begin to grasp.
But for now all of my problems are floating, in acid and gas,
There they’ll dwell, in the wooden cask.
_____________________________________
For Elaine George's 'Tell me a story' contest
The form is Trochaic Octameter
Iambic pentameter serves as the substitute.
Thoughts racing faster
The Monster is the master
Who’ll be outlaster?
Fear is growing fast
As the Zombie I am cast
Can I hold, outlast?
Taken to the task
Face becoming a forged mask
Partake of the cask
Am I savable?
The Monster wants Rafael
Why? Kane slew Able…
Sins of the father
Could be sins of the mother
This we must pay for?
Am I a fixture?
Where’s my soul in this picture?
Just a betwixture?
Adding up heaven
Give me number seven
I’ll take eleven
Must have rolled the bones
Got snake eyes, box cars, and clones
I’m one of its drones
Just another clown
The Monster Circus renown
Don my happy frown
The bugs crawl and swarm
Reshaping me from the “norm”
Mold me in its form
Cannot fight this thing
No antidote for the sting
Slipping on the ring
I’m invisible
My mind’s gone divisible
It’s invincible
I’m a heretic
I’m the Daemon’s lunatic
Perhaps I’m just sick?
In the thick of things
Is it not quite sickening?
This, the quickening…
The scents I remember like hand rolled cigars
Wine cask lined cellars in musty cool basements
Chocolate miniatures nestled in bright candy dishes
Tea leaves and mint steeping in dainty china cups.
Baked goods cooling on the kitchen counter
Roast with potatoes in a rich onion broth
Lilacs and roses lined on back yard fences
Channel #5 clings to grandmother’s sweater
Scents I remember from childhood spent
Fondly reminiscing with a wistful smile
In this sterile world I live in now
What will my grandchildren remember?
No leaves burnt on a cold autumn night
No carcinogens cooked over red hot coals
No second hand smoke that will cling to your clothes
No hairspray, no tea roses, no creams or colognes
No Sundays exploring my old Aunt Ruth’s farm
No chickens or guineas; no old dusty barns
No fresh moved hay or cinnamon apple pies
Just germicide, purified, Ionic fresh air.
“31. When the pot is broken,/the space within it is absorbed in the infinite space and becomes undifferentiated.
When the mind becomes pure, I do not perceive any difference between the mind and the supreme Being.
32. There is no pot; there is no pot's interior space.
Neither is there an individual soul nor the form of an individual soul. Know the absolute Brahman, devoid of knowable and knower.
33. Know me to be that Self who is everything and everywhere at all times, the one who is eternal, steady, the All, the nonexistent, and the Existent.
Have no doubt.”
We are neither this form nor the mind
Who are we then, we may ask
Made in God’s image, we are eternal living light
To experience duality we live in this body cask
As formless presence we are more than the universe
We know it not because we are by senses hypnotised
Containerised in this shell we accept limitation
That is until truth of our true Self and God is realised
The shift needed is from duality to singularity
Or as scriptures say, ‘when our eye be single’
From objective to subjective awareness we become
Renouncing desires whence bliss pheromones mingle
When ego, the temporary earth life interface drops away
We then become that which transcends even formless soul
All manifestations are then seen as mere illusions
As the all that is, one with God, we then are finally whole
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 6pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, “Chartreuse” fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, Monkeyfied by the Green Devil; towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! Not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this day, i visit four cafe’s.
My tipple of choice Absinth ! And a deck of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Bookshop. A Cafe, 174 worn steps below me, its name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.