Long Distillery Poems
Long Distillery Poems. Below are the most popular long Distillery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Distillery poems by poem length and keyword.
. Mouser.
The distillery cat was flat on his back
He’d had too much to drink.
The silly moggy his mind was foggy
He could hardly think.
It was thee day he was on his way
His time was really up.
The rules require he must retire
So he had drunk from the goodbye cup!
Those little mice they didn’t think twice
they quickly ran amok
And in no time felt quite sublime
Could not believe their luck!
Tails in the air, Mouser so unaware
Their party had began.
For life’s a must, much was discussed
Like an employee ownership plan.
“Imagine if, Mouser was a stiff
And we all ruled this place,
By and large we’d be in charge
Something we could all embrace.”
But just at that appeared a Rat,
You know what they all say.
You’re never more than through a door
Away from their decay.
“Well gee whiz, so what is this
We have an open house.”
He said with grin, “I’ll just move in
And go and get my spouse.”
The mice felt down and wore a frown
And thought we can’t have this,
Awake that cat from off his mat
Get him out his drunken bliss.
So it was to great applause
He had ended up quite upset,
They’d got the hose and gave a dose
Of water cold and wet!
Mouser howled then he scowled
Jumped up and cried aloud,
“I’ll get those mice they are my vice
They will end up in a shroud.”
The mice did flee with so much glee
The Rat it disappeared.
Mousers head felt like stale bread
His paws they went real weird.
And so it was, like an arbitration clause
Came in the Big Bad Boss.
“What’s all this noise I don’t enjoys,
I prefer a hearing loss!”
So Mouser stayed, a big blockade
And the mice he tipped a wink,
The big brown Rat, he don’t like a cat
That’s had too much to drink!
Now drink can make you think
It can feel good alright.
Whiskey can make you frisky
But it can also make you fight!
For a Scottish cat enjoys combat
As much as a Father loves his daughter,
Although there is a cure,
maybe it is obscure,
We could of course add water!
hi I'm Baxter Belknap Mandible IV
the Ninth Earl of Burneydick
I'll be heading your inner assault team
would you like the wine list
we have a nice Retaliation 666
somewhere over the rainbow
where every two-bit overheard whisper is an omen
and other vile statistical deceptions
where the big wheel spins like a drawbridge ratchet
but it never stops too many numbers
and the future continues to remain hypothetical
in degrees depending on the reading
an experiment in capitulation and submission
it was the War of the Parasites
but when has it been otherwise
this is a mathematical demonstration
bold as a distillery padlock
that insanity is the flip side
of merely more insanity
that would be Mandible IV driving
his dream hearse down memory lane
smoke from burning bodies
badly needing a wick adjustment
apparently fogged his lens
the horrors of the world are entertainment
weather permitting we'll visit the ruins
and insist upon representation
in the government Pilgrim Travel Advisory
you see the difficulty
serenity having been proven
a monstrous violation of reality
pause
every idea is a unit of measure
another pause
the pixels swirled and another
unholy vision drifted past in the tide
riveted to my screen
and it's trauma etched engrams
picked up on my middle finger antenna
in the last act you find out why
good bad and maybe mostly maybe
just trying to be more numerological
be certain of your conclusions
or call them something else
sure people's faces can be read
most are possessed by a mad hunger
or acts of cosmetic genius
proving it's more than brain chemistry
they told me that self-creation has its dangers
lots of mockery out there in hammer land
but there's no mocking your best efforts
kept them off my back for a while
set free for the propaganda value
and still always curious
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
It was a moment in time
a fate of inspiration gifted
I believe I was lifted a destiny in writing
I would vibrantly pursue .
Renting a cottage once in Monterey Bay
this cottage special in some way
The very minute moving.. I felt a presence
giving me no serenity , no rest
feeling I were a quest ~
After desiring this home so
telling the Realtor ~ I made a mistake
She told me be calm ~
many have said this before you
~ this haunt was not a new
For once lived a Writer ~well respected Gent
His cottage a distillery during the time of prohibition.
Many Gents and Ladies came to this cottage
unlawfully gamble & drink through the night
Who would think , Doc Ricketts in Cane & Hat
it was a party by moon light ~
In the back a distillery hidden in a old shed
many Alcoholics were fed ~
The ghost popular quite the Ladies man ~
I was honored while feeling displaced
For those who have not read my poems
~ and this may be new.
This really happened ~
The ghost of John Steinbach rented me his home True
Yvette & The ghost of John Steinbach's , Teamwork 9/14/2013
*RECIPE FOR POETRY SOUP
Would like to come face to face with Gordon Ramsey.
Being on his reality cooking show quite suits my fancy.
Would like to create poetry soup worthy of his exaltation,
One that would make my soup a meaningful sensation.
What ingredients do I use,
Ones that would favor my persnickety muse?
The answer is simple you’ll quickly see.
Follow my advice, and the ‘bees knees’ you’re sure to be.
Start with a base of words so sweet,
Carefully chosen to make your poem complete.
Stir in a medley of metaphors,
While snacking on some petit fours.
Add a dash of delightful imagery
As you drink some wine from the local distillery.
Throw in a pinch of personification.
Stir and simmer and wait for aromatic conflation.
Spoon in syntactic seasoning for extra zing.
Remember to double check your apron string.
Toss in just the right amount of thyme.
Mince up some cadence and rhyme.
Throw in just a smidgen of wit.
Too much can be a distraction, I must admit.
Slowly sauté a couple of similes.
Doing so creates entrancing epiphanies.
‘Tis easy cooking up poetry—it’s like flicking your wrist.
Let the ingredients simmer while waiting to submit.
When it's time to serve,
Pour out your poetry soup with verve.
A steaming bowl, a feast for the mind.
You’ll nourish souls, one poem at a time.
*Note:I created this poem, summer 2024, and later posted it at Haiku Shack’s (Creative Ramblings) Substack account in response to Cendrine Marrouat’s weekly prompt, May 5, 2025. This poem, therefore, is my original creation.
I am sitting in the sun watching destiny on the run
the cars are circling around the bend and you can tell that
the show is coming to an end. The fire has gone out of the people
and reality is just setting in, humility is walking around the town
and shame is dressed in a long gown. The dignitaries are waiting in
the wings to answer the final questions, and make the verdict for everyone to hear. I have been sitting in the rain and sun for one year and eight months, working my heart out for you and hoping that your promise will come through to relocate me to another place. I have endured the batter, and bruises, the insults and the abuses; I have endured the punches and crunches, starvation, and hunger ,your mocking religious prayers and the people chanting death and destruction at the altar. This is not a game and you ought to feel ashamed because you have nothing to gain, and when the day is done your distillery will be empty. Human suffering is real and your sophisticated harassment around me is an attempt to destroy me and lower my dignity. You have made several attempts to kill me but destiny will take you away before you get the chance to hurt me again. I am malnourished and underfed, and I have nowhere to lay my head but my strong will power and in-depth spiritual energy have kept me alive until this very hour. I have absorbed your daily political brawl and I have stood up to dishonest politicians, the don men, the iron man on
the corner, and religious impersonators. I have made peace with the walking dead and the tower that has fallen from his head. The dignitaries are waiting in wings.
It doesn't matter where we go
as long as we're together.
Surrounded by kids and grandkids
Laptop replaced by the kids.
Going to the land of the Maple trees
To refresh and revive the earlier visits
Of Niagara, the Antiope of Canada
To see the migrating birds in Pelee island
Humming with cicadas in the summer.
To have the birds’ eye view from CN Tower
The 2nd highest observation deck in the world
A treat to see the mist across Lake Ontario
From the renowned Niagara Falls.
Watching men navigate their way
Across the glass floor and on nice days
When the roof is open on the Rogers center
Watching League Ball game hundreds of meters below.
And never to be missed Toronto’s Royal Ontario Museum
A major point of architectural interest in the city,
One of the largest museums in North America.
And how one can miss The Eaton center
The massive Mall, a home to over 200 stores
As the evening draws by, a-must for a visitor
The Distillery District, center for the city’s theatre
The area boasting many performance venues
And the official home of many theatre companies.
One can wander freely through pedestrian-only streets
Exploring the art studios and gallery spaces
Till the late hours of the night, before going to sleep.
Travelling for me is not just seeing the new
But the places you can see anytime shutting your eyes.
Dr. Ram Mehta
====================================
7th place win
Contest: It’s Time For a Vacation sponsored by Carol Brown
In my close vicinity has come a neighbor
Who is seen by all as a terrible bore
No one is quite sure of his identity
Nobody seems to endure his audacity
If you go to him, he will bore you with his brag
With stories, your precious time he will drag
Once, with him if you have a chance encounter
Never will you dare to have another
When he begins his tedious yapping
The listeners start turning and yawning
Nobody, his words closely attend
Not a single soul wants to be his friend
He is equally puffed up as a pedant
About displaying knowledge he is ardent
But his learning is tawdry as a bauble
If probed deep, it bursts like a bubble!
Not that he lacks any sense of humor
But he has some shady deals, runs the rumor
Some say he runs an illegal distillery
His past is history and his present a mystery
Meeting him face to face is a fright
People often flee for life from his sight
Some say, he plays many a foul trick
That he is seen as a pestering tick
By his talk he makes others feel sick
To him not even his children do stick
Strange that he could easily be pleased
If his hunger for praise could be appeased
Among locals, he is called a bore
His new entry, they sorely deplore
If you have such an uncanny neighbor
Will you bear him or totally ignore?
Placed Second
1.Jan, 2022
King Size Bull Crap Poetry Contest
Sponsor- charles messina
My Destiny
Oh God! Look at my destiny page plain
Why separation is written time and again
Her Conversation
She avoids conversation,
But I want confabulation.
Your Complain
Your eyes' tear come out of my eyes,
You still complain, we don't love you.
My Enjoyments
The whole enjoyments stolen by distillery,
My eyes were complained by cupbearer.
Her Beauty
She seems more beautiful,
When she talks in delightful.
Cry Like Me
Without having a redchalk like me,
Cry without exposit your eyes like me.
Birds Kiss My Hands
The birds come to kiss my hands,
There is someone who skeans my words.
My Story
I can't think anybody else you,
My story just ends upon you.
Your Silence
Your silence pained me,
Your regardless smacked me.
Your Collator
Some of your collator was infidel,
Some of I wanted to be corruptful.
Your Secrets
I can burst your secrets in my heart,
And if you want I can make a fiction.
Human Tempore
Once such tempore arrives,
A smile also becomes revile.
An Ungroved Heart
If a heart can't settle, destroy it,
If can't become grove, Wald it.
Your Felon
People will die on you, besides me also,
If this is coercer, then monad the felon too.
My Smile
Smile never came tolerance,
Every laugh made occurrence.
My Opponent
Why doesn't the divine-day awake?
Before me, she is sitting with fake.
Deathsnake coiling, squeezing.
Heavy soul wheezing.
Conforming for conjoining.
A trick or two sets the mood.
Teasing and pleasing.
For a quickened f-_-ening.
In distillery of proofs.
In massage of noose.
Native tongued nativity.
Masochism helix form.
Homing sense reaching.
To carry me the way home?
The distance sends a beacon.
An Emmissary.
A Prostitute of Heaven.
This sphere bounces carelessly.
Joy acting aloof.
In ignorant ecstacy.
In distillery of proofs.
In massage of noose.
Native tongued nativity.
Such a cold frivolity.
The mind does fear it.
An idiosyncrasy.
The closer you are near it.
Makes no nevermind.
Obsequious of spirit.
I say to self, this is sick?
Unscrupulousness.
With a shiver and a twitch.
Lightness now of solid form.
In it's foundation.
It's proving grounds, now shine, honed.
Ethereal warrior
Of understanding?
Trial by fires reborn?
Do I mean my prayers?
What is the endpoint.
My desires be not undone.
Do I deceive even me?
Synchronized, alone.
As I think myself clever.
Errors of grandeur to the bone.
Errors to the throne.
Touched in such a wicked way.
That no-one would ever know.
I feel not deranged.
I feel that I want to change.
Bridge me that comforting path.
Please, so I may know.
I'll suffer not wrath, but home.
The Mystery of Hillary
The humility, oh Hillary…
What are thou good for?
As you rub shoulders with the rich, in victory,
And stomp your feet on the poor…
The conspiracy, oh Hillary…
You still want to be President!
The first lady in the White House Distillery,
Where all of our monies will be spent…
The witchery, oh Hillary…
You’ve lived all your life in politics,
Receiving many gifts from your auxiliary
And all you gave us was your bag of tricks…
The misery, oh Hillary…
The hidden world of you and Podesta,
With pizzas on special delivery,
And the authorities ready to arrest-ya…
The contradictory, oh Hillary…
What’s the deal with you and Trump?
Do you stand for all liberty?
Or do you stand up to grump?
This verse is intended for entertainment purposes ONLY! No politicians or children were harmed in the making of this poem…No names were changed to protect the guilty…If I disappear within the next two weeks…Well hopefully, you'll know who to contact...(All in good clean fun kids)
April.08.2019
A Realistic Hillary Clinton Poem
Sponsored by: Michael Wegman
Placed 5'th...Thank You