Long Cocktail Poems
Long Cocktail Poems. Below are the most popular long Cocktail by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cocktail poems by poem length and keyword.
A frequenter of concert square
A consumer of ecstasy
Thus was how I begot my teenage kicks
A cocktail mix of pills and beer
On a Saturday night
Bound for club
To dance away
Human traffic
Writhing to the soundtracks of the summer of love
Inside the dome of a super club
As God is my D.J
A child of Robert Miles
Faithless insomniac
I cant get no sleep
My ears bled from the beat
Starring into my bedroom ceiling
In the dark my pupils arch
Back to the strobe lights
I lay in wait
Counting sheep
Still underneath the chemical spell
Pulsations in my veins
The birds who chirp
And dawning sun that thaws between my curtain
Is the price the riders must pay
The entry tickets
When going out to play
With drugs inside your system
Written on January 26, 2020
By Gail DeBole
Drink up daredevils!
It’s not a joke.
The human toe in your drink
Is not just taking a soak.
It’s challenged many drinkers
And many have exclaimed,
“Ewwww, What’s going on?
And who has been maimed?”
But there are the hearty
Who take up the call
To be close to the toe
Soaked in some alcohol.
Yes, the toe is plunked in
If the bar patron says, “Sure!”
To the challenge of swigging
A toe-drink that allures.
But one of the patrons
Who couldn’t live without
Made a home brewsky
After his wife heard a shout.
Before he put on his bandage
His wife could not look
At the painful outcome
Of the action he took.
Now he is satisfied drinking
And doesn’t mind his nine toes.
He has daily Sourtoe cocktails
And now everyone knows!
That he’s not a toe-totaller.
He has a daily drink
And must have his cocktail
While he takes a deep think.
And if there is an error
Of swallowing the toe by mistake
He plans to live comfortably
With toes numbering eight.
Disclaimer: This poem in no way condones the actions of this fictional character.
Note: For the facts that inspired this poem, go to https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/sourtoe-cocktail. This is based on truth with a few gulps of poetic license.
I sip compliance from a cardboard cup. Tight fine steel lines, hoist five lifelike life sized paper mache white swans. The birds seem to wing from sunlit atrium up and over an oak railing to the mezzanine. Dazzling beneath skylights, they depict ascent, flap, glide, brake and then descent towards wrought iron tables. They mimic our trek from mall entry up the escalator to feast at the food court. I sit alone at the railing, gliding swan overhead, and pretend to eye my phone. Today I secretly study humans. Food court stuffed with youthful staff, bargain hunters, transit transfers, mobility scooters, mothers, babies, bags, phones, the braggadocio of men meeting, gaunt faces of the needy. Bodies milling, streaming, yearning. The bubbling cocktail of pop rock, chit chat galore, languages, slanguages, giggles, and that one guy yelling. The carnal essence of commercial cookery. Unspoken competition for tables, at times nearly a blood sport. Each of us tiptoeing through our daily hopscotch. Only children wonder at the swans. Do mall swans search for lost wetlands, or do they strain to join us? Mythology has it that swans shift between human and avian form. The enchantment of Tchaikovsky’s swan, princess by night pirouettes into swan by day. In the wild, sudden bright white, raucous landing, huge bold birds calling, splashing power and grace. I wish we each burst into swan. But flight feathers do not anchor to my bones, nor contour feathers pierce my skin. I vow to visit the wild ones, and leave.
published in "Unbroken" 2025
Being romantic is an innate nature in itself,
Like the smiling and laughing of an ethereal elf;
Natural as the very nature and true as the truth,
The romantic feeling has an out of the earthly youth!
Wake my darling! With a cup of coffee in the morning?
Surprise her with a little gift prompt and no forewarning?
A hug with a cocktail of long lingering love and lust?
What can one not do to make romantic feelings robust?
Sages, emperors, petty kings, princes, paupers, or poets,
Who, once in life, has not felt the romantic love-duet?
If the mighty and wealthy in romance great nations roam,
Won't the poor, with simple gestures, share this feeling at home?
Pouring rains of passions on sweetheart on Valentine Day,
Then cause drought and chill and hunger of love! What spouse would stay?
The romantic feeling should flow fluent and guileless pure,
The vows and oaths made should be, as the sun and moon, so sure!
Romantic feeling, in itself, is a priceless treasure,
Living in it, constantly, can grand heavenly pleasure;
Times may change into thousands of hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
A drop of romantic love can quench the thirsts of eras...
06 October 2021
''R'' Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Sit and buy me a pale ale
while I regale you with
a tale written in braille
by a man stale in jail with
no avail to raise bail.
Curtail the detail ~ suffice it to say
how a frail male whale wailed when
again and again failed dislodging
a rusty nail impaled in its tail.
Not to derail but meanwhile
across the vale, a snail and quail
hightailed it but strayed off their trail ~
Once all were put up for sale,
t’was the female who tipped the scale.
It’s not much of a tale but
thanks for the ale, it was tasty.
Inhale ~ now let's enjoy an upscale cocktail.
Lineku: 3 stanzas of 5-7-5 lines ~ each line has 5 or 7 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Just had my tea
Turned off the Christmas Tree
It is sad to see it go
Back to storage I know
But there is a three-day weekend break
And two Championship meetings at stake
American National Conferences will pick their reps
For the Big Game in Miami and we will answer with all our bets
Opinions will start
While NFL merchandise will be added to the Internet cart
Will it be close, will be a blow out?
When some will ask what is all this about?
Chiefs, Titans Packers and Niners are the final four
With two on Sunday being shown the door.
But will the Christmas spirit still be here
As we sip the unwrap Christmas Day Cheer
Or will the next holiday be a day off
Where we nurse a wintry cough?
It is for a man named King
And we should still sing
The message of peace
And war and hate to cease
With two more games on the table
While relaxed think about the disabled
As each injury time out is taking
A message should be in the making
The players are only hurt
With no need to dig up the cemetery dirt.
We are now in winter when its dark
And we really need to spark
That peaceful communication is important
And should be exported.
League sports do work
Especially if it soothes someone ready to blow their cork
Let the cities compete with fans celebrating in the street
It is a sporting spectacle that we need
To keep that Christmas spirit going indeed
If you give points or receive them on Championship Decision Day
Keep in mind the creative angle will pay
Since even the losing wager will stimulate emotion
That is healthier than that colorful cocktail potion
In closing our Sunday ritual will come to an end
And the word draft will be spoken without any worry’s civilians will have to mend
One should keep a stiff upper lip
Knowing peaceful warfare on an athletic field should be hip.
~ A Lighthearted Look at Cheating on Keeping Kosher ~
Pick my poison, shrimp or pork
closed my eyes, lowered my fork
I’d hankered for that suckling pig
but I tasted shrimp, and couldn’t renege
Lightning didn’t strike me, I did a jig
of the (shrimp) cocktail, I took a swig
Upon awakening, my stomach was rent asunder
Hmm. I'd evaded the lightning ~ but not the thunder
____________________________________________
Sometimes older Jews tell young'uns that if they eat
pork, they'll be struck by lightning... Seems they
should mention shrimp and other non-kosher fare too!
The shoelaces untie,
they've been caught by the kitten's eye.
She touches, hesitantly, with her paw,
the lace that rests long on the slope, raw,
to the cool breeze of Mid-January;
next to a window that reveals Her sanctuary.
The sun dresses the top limbs of a tree; its lower bare curves are the hue of a cocktail skirt, with a ripped seam,
that is halfway in the woven bamboo hamper;
that was worn by the church- less Cantor..
and the pine needles
that poke the evening..
they, in sun-light, had the tints of the moss
that recline on the splashed, carved rocks
of a Late Summer Shore.
Now, within the room there is more...
the clutter of a confident craziness
on a wooden scratched glossiness,
upon which belligerently rest, near the kitten's maw,
the chewed 1% spandex blouse, and robicund bra-
they are a tossed sunset over the edge..of Mayan Skies..
mountainous thrusts; Dusk's sleepy eyes.
The books that have begun to be read,
are upon the charcoal foam of her bed.
This portrait is etched within the walls the hue of yellow skin,
exhaustively painted again and again, and again.
Tapestry of Life**
In the intricate tapestry of life, vibrant memories weave their threads, each one shimmering with its own hue. The echoes of past workplaces linger like faint, nostalgic perfume, evoking a bittersweet blend of longing and relief. Seacrest, with its relentless morning shifts and haunting graveyard hours, etched an indelible mark on my soul—a complicated cocktail of disdain and wistful nostalgia. The stench of those long hours, both literal and metaphorical, clings stubbornly to the corridors of my memory like an unwelcome ghost.
Retirement feels like stepping away from a chaotic dance into a tranquil oasis, a serene pond that promises solace after years of turmoil. But as I bask in this newfound peace, self-reflection creeps in uninvited, urging me to take stock of the years lost in an institution where the pursuit of money overshadowed the pursuit of passion. What good remains from that chapter? The ledger of my life seems eerily blank, with joy elusively out of reach.
At sixty, my sanity becomes both a prayer and a quest. A few screws might be loose, but it has yet to shake the foundation of my understanding in a world that often feels absurd. Kindness flows within me, a gentle current that softens the harsh edges of life, yet I am acutely aware that this vulnerability can be both a strength and a weakness in a world that often thrives on sharpness and sting.
And you, a familiar presence, serve as a gentle reminder: “This path, tread cautiously.” In my next life, I envision myself as a poet—a genuine artisan of words, successful and unwavering. A master tinker skillfully weaving language into magical creations that inspire and enlighten. A philosopher delving into the depths of existence, unraveling the mysteries that surround us.
But for now, I embody Annie—the devoted content creator, the nurturing mother, the steadfast friend. And perhaps, in this role, I find that it is enough.
Hospitable church asks for charitable contributions. Helpful children stock empty backpacks to overflowing. Humanitarian convoy of people and food meet needs.
Hungry children's stomachs are filled by a weekend backpack.
peanut butter
crackers
mac and cheese
fruit cocktail
chicken noodle soup
corn, peas, or beans
cereal, oatmeal packets
SpaghettiOs’s
Little Debbie snacks
applesauce
August 6, 2019
contest: The Marmite Poem hosted by Natasha L Scragg