Long Gin Poems
Long Gin Poems. Below are the most popular long Gin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gin poems by poem length and keyword.
donkey ungroomed doomed a wicked whirlwind
grains of wisdom wrinkle sand, dust devitalise
L a n d
here there everywhere _______ nowhere
in eyes, on kitchen table
parched lips pouting, tears tormented fell
drying …
dry gin in glass ghosted verbs, adjectives metaphors, s o n n e t s
a rake on untended farm stood patient
soft sobbing sorrel soil insipid stood
debts piled manic manure mounting
scalp itched his wordy craft crumbling
haikus, verses, vignettes spotted louder
than waiting w i l l o w s
white hair falling, skin f l a k e d
he failed to vision journal, his altar dismantled
an ODE to rip from protruding ribs
too much unsaid, torrents tortured gestate
epics waiting to birth cannot speak nor write
cannot read nor recite
dusty throat bone dry, doleful a fugue lay
faraway in another land, a wooden room
in her fist tight, his voice she secretly held
l e f t his heartfelt poems on dilapidated shelf parcelled with cracked crockery ________
her scribbles on a sheet of toilet tissue he flushed away with dried beetles ~
hens cackled unfed, goats roamed untended
fish-moths party under Victorian linen bled
dust on books, pamphlets, photographs
letters speaking to women dead - - -
Pablo Neruda winked from a harbour along with broken spectacles
his shattered mind broke open
alliteration absent without leave
poetry unspoken fell like beads from silent noose
around neck oozing sweat
an escape beckoning
where to, where from, how long…?
a one-eyed pond with geese watched their
Dusty Poet with his wreaths of unraveled poetry writhing
water lilies fading, dragonflies floating with dust
a buried diary and on farm to be found
skull
_____________________________—-______-
Beneath a parapet of color rich and bright
the shiny sidewalk beckons me to come
closer to his revels closer to his warm caress,
As the rainy afternoon remises light
two mesic hearts begin to drum
in keeping with the rhythm of love's guess
The red umbrella shades us from the world
and keeps the rain at bay while we adhere
devoted to each other we find spark
inside an afternoon of dance and swirl
The old cafe gives witness to our near
as Benjy marks his loyalty with bark
The scent of petrichor feels clean and fresh
as we get lost within our love's embrace
the clasp undoes and we are winded in
pressed soft against each other's flesh
desirously we poise standing face to face,
he tastes like tonic with a splash of gin.
November 4, 2018
They gather where the signs hang crooked,
under gaslight glare and broken clocks,
where the barkeep’s eyes are twin shot glasses—
fogged, but watching.
Gin Lane rolls in on tired boots,
her laughter sharp as shattered glass.
Beer Street hums a fatter tune,
slumped in booths of sticky leather.
They meet at the hinge of last call,
where poetry is slurred and prophets mumble.
A jukebox wails old revolutions
to a crowd too drunk to notice.
The walls are graffiti'd with regrets,
phone numbers of ghosts,
and chalked-up debts no one will ever pay.
Outside, the world is coughing up history,
but in here, time stirs with a muddler.
The bar is a church with no god,
only spirits, and the faithful who sip them.
Some come to forget,
others to remember louder.
A woman in red sings with her back to the room.
A man orders another round
and trades his name for a tab.
Everyone claps when the glass breaks.
Midnight hits like a bottle to the head—
the bouncer shrugs,
Beer Street staggers,
Gin Lane pirouettes into the dark.
See, forty bucks in cold, hard cash
can fill your trailer with gin trash.
And for growing fine tomatoes,
forty's pretty small potatoes.
The big box products like Black Cow
will truly set you back, and how!
The cotton hulls and seeds and stems
ejected from the cotton gin,
stored a year in a giant pile,
makes the heart leap and brings a smile.
Earthy, loamy, a little sour,
magical black growing power.
By the barrow, then tilled under,
it's a veggie growing wonder.
Its Round-up contents raise concerns;
the pile's so hot, it nearly burns.
Big veggies are the things it grows,
but I'll look out for extra toes.
MOTHER
Never Drank Gin in the Morning
My Mother… never drank!
“Cotton Gin” came to her mind,
when she heard the word Gin.
In stores…Gin never find.
I too, just like Mother
my strongest drink iced tea.
When stronger drink took sip
weird warmth.. came over me.
As, N.Y. designer !
Lemon, lime drink thought try,
Called a “Margarita,”
drank three.. and “Prayed to die!”
Husband will sip Bourbon
stronger, than perfume I wear.
I simply can smell it,
and swear..”.I drank my share.”
Unlike Mother, I drink wine
before going to bed.
Imagine where it goes?
Directly to my head!
At night had bad leg cramps
gave my specialist a call,
“Add Gin to you Tonic”.
Cramps gone..too tipsy.. might fall!
Mom drank, no alcohol
Life taught me.. enjoy mine.
All with “Moderation”
when Paul brings me.. Gin or Wine.
Feb. 28, 2018
Salt a gin and tonic,
It’s too dry.
Assault my temple with sin,
Be honest,
You like the rye.
Look me in my honest eye,
Conversations with myself are the fondest,
Because no one understands me better when I rhyme.
Took a pen and across the paper it slides,
Scribble out the oddest lines.
Apply pressure to the page,
Trickle out ink until the pen has died.
Wet ink is promised to eventually dry,
But tomorrow isn’t promised,
For some reason I can’t help but question why?
After four portions of Moët fine wine,
I tend to think of life as if it’s all just a waste of time.
If tomorrow could be withdrawn then what’s the point of the “grand design”?
If tomorrow I wake up past dawn,
Should I consider myself only one step closer to dying?
Don’t overstep,
The temple has redrawn the walls and implores you to walk within the lines.
It’s not perfect,
But nothing’s wrong with second best.
When it stops hurting,
In comes walking Sudden Death.
We can’t always be our very best,
Attempting perfect,
It feels like burning,
The scars left behind showcase regret.
GIN MILLS
Battered pay phones
hung on the walls
their rings
harsh reminders.
They sat,
ageing men,
hunched
on barstools
brooding faces
glaring into
sullen evidence
of reflected disdain.
Younger men stood
milling about
regaling each other
with exaggerated misdeeds.
The old payphone’s ring
coldly calling those
who were never there.
There was no “top” shelf,
only hard whiskey
for softened men.
Bent backs,
gnarled hands,
empty eyes,
lost in a liquored
loneliness.
Draft beer,
pickled eggs,
Slim Jims,
that damn phone
forever ringing
as they watched
the seasons change
through the dirty window
of death’s waiting room.
John G. Lawless
©5/14/2017
You think that she’d have learned by now, to hide it
But no, and those around her must abide it
Sometimes, we'd like to knock her off her fanny
‘Cause we all know, she’s just a Gin Soaked Granny
She stumbles in out and out of bed all morning
and never will she heed our sober warning
before she drinks, she’d better read that label
the bottle she left somewhere on a table
For Gin Soaked Grannies always need their glasses
and sometimes they forget with time that passes
that yesterday, the rats she killed with liquor
should she drink, would only make her sicker
She was a bookworm of the most finicky kind
reading every day with a book always in reach
at the thrifty store the books were all consigned
she rebuffed discriminately with slow impeach
and rebuked all books that weren't a food find
She ravaged books about cakes & pate de foie gras
buttered tarts, angel hair, and little canape things
books about how to bake fish and how to fry bass
like a true galloping gourmet she would bring
the recipes home, then make them sing...
When winter came she'd sit like a chow hound
and copy recipes into her little red book
feeling lucky for the precious books she found
Pillaging the remnants with eyes sharp as a rook
she made the kitchen her haven, and fair ground
Her recipe for lava chocolate soufflé had charm
and her English toffee lollies were never fickle
she bought her eggs fresh from the dairy farm
and when she made cucumber and gin popsicles,
you could lick to hearts content they do no harm .
March 12, 2019
Contest Name: The Book Worm
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
A chill of Autumn in the air
and spider’s webs are everywhere
these delicate exquisite works of art
such beauty and joy fills my heart
Old Man’s beard has just appeared
weaving its way through blackberry bushes
loved that name when I was small
to touch ~ so furry
to see ~ enthralled
Blackberries plump and succulent
awaiting to be picked
evoking memories of Mum’s fruit crumbles
blackberries and apples mixed
Sloes ~ a rich dark purple fruit
ripe and ready to bathe in Gin
patiently waiting
sloes luxuriating
tempted to taste
but must not haste
for to sip a Sloe Gin on a cold winters night
leaves a feeling of warmth
and another ~ well I might...
Written 12th September 2020
Contest COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE 8
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE