Long Inebriation Poems
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I see drunk men
A lingering scent of alcohol from power
Power-drunk men
The type of inebriation
Where imbalance manifests as impulsiveness
Not materialistic enough to construct
But sufficient to set disruption in motion
A seed yielding acts of corruption
Influencing the youth
Boasting to elders
Men of power
Children of the soil
The rain does not linger above but descends to the earth
Water your roots
Nourish the source of your strength through humility
If men of power evolve
We arrive at an economic resolution
Like lilies in spring, kindness unfolds
We don't march to destroy
But to grow together
A golden ornate cup once full
a mystical reservoir filled
now half-emptied of love and emotions,
as if the night would be emptied
of moon glow and starlight;
sipping in and savoring, bitter delight
in the last few remaining drops
of inner peace and tranquility,
harbinger of melancholia time
bewitching poetry of sage and antiquity;
inebriation, intoxication, imbibed tippler,
the maudlin sour darkness of sleep
rest and forgetfulness of the forlorn soul
the old soul, the soothsayer extraordinaire,
a primitive, ecclesiastical realist;
give me rest, satisfy my thirst
quench my fears and anxieties
in restful sleep and dreamscape
awaiting escape, release, freedom
through this chalice of night.
1/18/22 The Chalice of Night
contest sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
Stillness is the source where creativity does arise,
and shades of images become alive.
Melodious ripples taken form,
synchronizing the dark with visions to be born.
The frequency of desire establishes all meaning,
some images turn into the right feeling.
That mystic gentle finger playing the tone,
on a half full glass to perform.
While the soul strings to the right chord,
and pure thoughts turn into the word.
Liberating the river of intellect,
making joyful notes of timing perfect.
The soul animates those earthly visions,
remembered in radiant dwelling by dream permission.
Composed by true inspiration,
from the richness of inebriation.
The sphere in sphere ripples from celestial conduct,
touches those fragile thought reception, by heart up-duct.
Symmetrical physics of harmonies,
when the sacred purpose recognizes itself with certainties.
water cradles embryonic fetus in utero until birth
a necessary ingredient that fosters new born and also original life
heavens relinquish liquid pearl shaped dewdrops to quench the earth
fertilization of ova and sperm when specific conditions rife
else womb and uterus will not expand to a sizable girth
yet despite ideal biological criteria met emotional strife
could undermine this miracle to bring cries and mirth
as witnessed by this husband from debut of offspring by wife
whose first pregnancy necessitated induced labor so doctor could head to the club
golf field plush with deep green swards from freshly fallen gentle recent rain
flushing out the ordinarily hidden now vulnerable grub
from predators on land or those soaring high like an aero plane
susceptible critters helpless to escape from meteorological crafted tub
condemned to become fodder for prey within the biological food chain
critical for balance of nature as an airport hub
serves departure point for global travelers who rely on this networked brain
similar but not exactly like those in search of ale scout out the local pub
lick kingdom to forswear vow to abstain from drink which tonic doth wring
appeasement like precipitation from the sky nourish flora/fauna with mead
either elixir a balm to parched thirst satiated from man-made or natural spring
yet the latter serves the gamut of species to feed
without inebriation nor pennilessness from addiction accompanied by ka-ching
of last red cent acquired from tireless labor or mental task type deed
and rather than being a curse with bodily harm, the rain a blessing does bring
watering parched land versus how former engenders violent behavioral breed!
Get ready cause here is the next pontification
In regards to my said, beloved’s infatuation
Hear me thee, here do be, the truth of the situation
Which once was the source of said aggravation
After having arrived at many carnal rotations
Yet to me this was more than just merely fornication
Unless it is just about you and your manipulation
Telling me that there was never a foundation
That it was all about the sexual sensation
Confusing are your words in there translation
They were your words of emotional declaration
Saying, that they are your truthful and honest proclamation
That we were was then had been your chosen words of articulation
Did they not bare as authentic in authentication?
Yet, I would never take advantage of your inebriation
You had already been thru enough of that brutalization
Though we both do know, we do have difficulty in communication
Though to me, it is just temporary blocks of frequency channelization
Amplified by the vodka laced with fruit juice for your gestation
This does be the biggest and truest reason for our causation
And the reason being for my excommunication?
If this does draw me as the fool in this poetic explanation
Then paint me as the man who holds much inner vexation
As we come here now to this thee summation
Because I still feel this be your true vibration
You are truly good enough and worthy enough for a higher lofty elevation
Amnesia
... or impaired memory?
Jezebel stood firm before my eyes!
Behold Her Imperial Ruthlessness!
And her bosom, harbouring bile,
Was bleached like lightning.
Arachnid fingernails mock the efforts
Of talons from revelling vultures.
Eyes pierced my brows with lasciviousness
So atrocious like the willpower of romantic gales.
And I saw her bathing in full nakedness
Upon rocks of blood,
Naked with the accoutrements of raw power.
And she bathed with inebriation.
Power is like alcohol which intoxicates only
Those who have tasted it.
A panting rill rustled like vagrant, charred leaves
Around her cold, naked feet.
Jezebel.
Whiter than horrid death!
Night,
And she sequesters.
Sublime, the existence,
Merging with night, with
Mirrored glances atop arid waters.
Her flesh reeked of baked blood;
Subcutaneous imprints live on her.
Jezebel,
Mother of termagants,
Rector of covens,
Ancillary to Devil’s cantonment
Hater of suffragans,
Hasten upon these hills
Before the break of dawn...
It’s dawn.
Day of Jezebel’s atonement
And blood cluttered upon solemn boulders
And upon harmless pebbles,
Upon sapphire and onyx,
And upon flaming gold and eerie silver.
Mad moments of pulsations!
Tremors and heat of hanging day,
Eruptions on Pompeii’s rage,
Adrenalin aerated beyond
Flirting clouds dancing with the greed of
Sorrow.
Hope springs eternal, they say
Robin red-breast seen with the blue jay
Flowers poke their way up through hard ground
Buds on tree open, prisoners unbound
The sky is a pale azure-blue
Her breezes so warm and inviting
Spring's yearly hope's again sprung
The very air whispers promises exciting...
Then what to make of renewed hope in mid-Winter
Rivers and streams no longer flowing
Icicles hang from stark tree limbs midst snowing
Few hints of life outdoors stirring or growing
Yet it's in with the New Year, decked out in gay flirtation
Spirits soaring higher, with each clink of inebriation
Optimism peeking into every nook and cranny of our nation
There's a feeling of can't-miss anticipation --
This year will usher in an era of Lasting Peace and Jubilation!
December 31, 2018
Undulating emotions
are encircling all around
Discomboblating and muffling
the impression of sounds
Retarding the stillness
of abiding on smooth ground
It's like:
What do?
I do?
Do I
Take a walk
worn down
unshining
strapping on
buckled high
heeled shoe
bling
Or do I
Sit with
drooping butt
reading
unfortunate news
of their bust
out of luck
Do I
Flail
amid flustering
dropping the
glass breaking
pieced together
anew rule?
Or do I
Watch
returning episodes
of Cops busting out
laughing inside
an inebriation with
broken down
old fools?
Do I dye
the endings of
my pink hair
looking in
reflective mirrors
with a vanity
in wear?
Or do I
Pick apart
those strolling
around town
of unkempt
bare faced ugly
wearing cloths
horribly bent
Do I
Write poems
not punching
time clocks
at work
involved in
artistically lyrical
musings of
attention grabbing
Or do I
Pic apart
someone's art
painting on
canvas stealing
brushes
streaking
fire igniting
criticism
unmatched
Undulating emotions
are encIrcing all around
Discomboblating and muffling
the impressions of sound
Retarding the stillness
of abiding on smooth ground
"Hyar she comes! The weekly stagecoach is a-comin' to old Santa Fe!"
The driver cracked his whip and blowed his klaxon to herald the way!
The weekly arrival of the stagecoach was cause fer raucous celebration!
The town's ne'er-do-wells found another excuse fer excess inebriation!
The excited citizens one and all awaited its arrival with bated breath,
To see and greet the motley rogues brought to town by the driver, Seth!
Seth descended from his perch midst snarlin' curs and guttersnipes,
Gun-totin' hangers-on, genteel ladies, the sheriff and other sundry types.
Grizzled Seth cut loose a stream of cussin' and in a furious rage,
Yelled, "You'uns clear the way and let them people git off'n the stage!"
His bedraggled passengers set foot on the dusty streets of old Santa Fe,
Happy to be relieved of the stagecoach's nauseous lurch and sway!
The Baptist Ladies Guild gasped when down stepped a lady of the night,
But she was greeted by the fellers of Buster's Saloon with a cry of delight!
Next was a feller all dressed in black scannin' the crowd with a gloomy glower.
He was a preacher-man causin' fellers from Buster's Saloon to cringe and cower!
A steely-eyed dude with 44s on his hips viewed the mob with condescension,
But his shifty manner put the sheriff on alert and merited his attention!
Down stepped a foppish dandy wearin' diamonds and dressed in fine attire.
He was a gamblin' man aimin' to see how much town capital he might acquire!
Seth hollered, "All aboard! I gotta git to Albuquerq' by six tonight!"
He whipped his steeds to a gallop and soon old Santa Fe was outta sight!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
I walked in and pulled myself up to the bar,
The place was dingy and smelled like sour beer.
The people all had that same stare,
Inebriation wrinkles covered their faces.
"Give me a scotch on the rocks," I yelled to the bartender,
An old man who looked like a character who stepped out of the 40's.
The ladies in the bar were few and far between,
But those that were there were a sight to be seen.
One had a face like a porcelain doll,
But her eyes were cold and empty, like a bottomless hole.
Another had a smile that could light up the room,
But her laughter was forced, like a bird in a cage.
As I sat there, nursing my drink,
I couldn't help but feel like I was on the brink.
Of what, I wasn't sure,
But the feeling was there, and it was hard to ignore.
The world outside seemed so far away,
And I knew I couldn't stay,
In this dingy bar, with its sour beer smell,
And the people with their inebriation wrinkles.
So I finished my drink, and I paid my tab,
And I left the bar, feeling sad.
For I knew that I was the man at the bar,
And that my life had gone way too far.
I stumbled out into the cold, dark night,
Feeling lost and alone, with no end in sight.
The stars above seemed to mock my pain,
As I stumbled down the street, feeling insane.
The world was a cruel and heartless place,
And I was just another lost soul, with no saving grace.
I stumbled and fell, and I couldn't get up,
And I knew that I was destined to drink from life's bitter cup.
So I lay there, in the cold and the dark,
Feeling like I was being torn apart.
And I knew that I was the man at the bar,
And that my life had gone way too far.