Long Kegs Poems
Long Kegs Poems. Below are the most popular long Kegs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kegs poems by poem length and keyword.
Four kegs, they’d left on the rye field’s bare crest
gone were the skittles and the balls of wood.
Four kegs empty of magical brew, strewn
upon the hill’s breasts, where gnomes had stood.
They’d left long ago, twenty years today.
Here’d been a mountain, where now a farm stood.
They had left their tipple as each strike thundered
to lambaste lightning from stacked firewood.
On the rye field’s bare crest now shrouded in snow
beneath a Wedgwood sky, stood kegs of wood.
On the rye field’s bare crest each keg turned stone
marking the bones where rebels once stood.
Gone ‘till tonight, the gnomes and jack tars
until the moon’s magic topped the keg’s wood.
Gone till tonight were the hard balls and pegs
this night spirits would dance where we now stood.
Published 2017 by Illumen
Owl and moth felt the forest shift toward tree mother
It’s the faerie queen, whispered one to the other
A slight blink of a light began heading in from the east.
It’s the Cinderella faerie, suggested a frog named Meast.
The cricket arrived in seconds holding fiddle between his legs.
He was sipping a drink from one of the tavern’s yellow kegs.
The more he drank, the faster was the music that he made.
Chipmunk and mouse began dancing a jig right there in the shade.
Cinderella faerie arrived with a team of gorgeous fireflies.
Her hair was red and curly, and she had deep violet eyes.
The owl pretended difference, but he could not stop staring.
This is how we all knew he was enthralled, totally caring.
If you actually have taken
the time to read this
May i ask you please beg you
to comment
Because i want and need to
know and be told if i am indeed
Right as i think or wrong and wierd
Yesterday i went as you and i
everyone does to a pub and
needed the toilet
And i apologize to women as
i am not trying to exclude you
And totally understand if you
cannot understand what i
am about to explain
But anyway i went into the
men's toilet and i was greeted
and blown away by what i seen
Instead of common bog standard
bowl urinals
Someone had come up with the
novelty idea of cutting out and
using
Beer barrel kegs and gas bottles
instead
Which to me i had never in my
life seen or heard of before
So i took a picture and sent it
to 3 of my friends
And the silence and lack of
response was so deafening
I was left with no shadow
of a doubt
It must obviously be me i am
in fact the wierd 1
But am i though
I still can't understand or get
my head around
How on earth they can't
or don't get it
Or how it even needs explaining
So i kindly ask and beg of you
once again after reading this
Please tell me or let me know
If you we're i would you having
seen this 1st hand for yourself
Should i and would you pass
it on or keep it to yourself
Under the moonlight, the voices chant.
Young voices, and nearby, the old men rant
Over kegs of fresh palm wine and kola nuts
Spitting out proverbs and some, with coconuts.
The locust chirps purifies the atmosphere
Mingling with the scent of fresh brewed corn beer
For which my pals and I salivate while skipping
On the "Tabala" conscious, there was none for tasting.
The Village "ngong" beats it's music,
As the maidens shake their waists and tunic
Exciting the lads who gaped in ecstasy
Rubbing their hands in frenzy
Grandpa, in solemnity poured libation,
With proverbs, rumbled out incantation
While creating a link with our ancestors
Who sat side by side with our predecessors.
As the Moon weaned, we scampered homeward.
Accompanied by drums beating skyward,
Jostling lads, professing feelings with gifts of groundnuts
Many of them shy and without guts.
A score later,
With bowed head under the moon I sit.
The yard void of kids with just a seat,
Reminiscing the good all days
Now so altered in many ways.
The "ngong" shed lay besieged by dust
The drums reside in frost,
And while from afar, Don Moen does chant,
I realised our kids no longer play "tabala" and rant.
Such longing for the past brought into me, fear
while down, I let go a tear.
© Temajung Michael T.
I was transfixed with Chuckie Egg sometimes,
By Harry who was obese but with very thin legs,
Which to me looked too slim for his eating times,
For the size of his rounded stomach of kegs.
Sometimes I gave myself an ego trip on him, it,
B y saying that I was a member of a top family,
Where my dad wanted to upon Billy Graham sit,
And my mum was fundamentalism’s anomaly.
My parents were so high up in strict Christianity,
And I thought they were mobile on nothingness,
So Harry was to me an image of them, familiarity,
As evolution theory gave me emotional happiness.
I sometimes had to tell myself that it was a game,
Not real, because I needed to classify my parents,
For their raving social life, connections and fame,
By believing in Jesus, archaic and my abhorrence.
In the sixties I went to university
where I experienced much diversity
For example, among fraternities
mine went from ‘Kegs-a-Tappin’
to ‘Pills-a-Poppin’
~ LSD, we were a-droppin’
Athletics were a big deal too
freshman year we were football champs
senior year, listened to Led Zeppelin’s mega-amps
Then there was good old politickin’
After Kent State life was great
Semester cancelled, May 14 the date…
To let us work for our 'favorite candidate'
Mine wore 6-inch heels, raised my pulse rate…
Oh, I learned a whole lot in school
~ mostly, how to break the rules
Sunken Treats
Sea swells lost my memoirs of HER
Under waves to caustic mire and murk’s DESIRE
Never to be seen again, that’s how it IS
Kegs of rum float up though, through ghostly grays, FOR
Eternity which finally released them, but not MY
Note book and papers of my lost LOVE
Terrible things are in the underworld DEEP
Real emptiness and pain score my lonely FEELINGS
Ethereal measures from sea and storm EMERGE
Arise from hidden secret depths, WITH
Treasures of my sweet wife, love mementos as I wait to see, THE
Summoned property that was buried beneath the WAVES
Acrostic Contest
created: 4/26/2014
Tiger! Tiger! clear and bright
perfection brewed exactly right,
this traveller’s dry and rusty throat
will always get this fine beer's vote.
In what distant vats or kegs
awaits the brew that my thirst begs.
On what wings could one aspire,
as taste buds bathe in Tiger’s fire.
Maturity of hops and malt
ferment with yeast within its vault,
infused to spawn this brew of fame
with all the power borne of its name.
Perfect flavour, perfect head,
now from each bottle gently bled,
to compliment all that we eat
and make each meal a tasty treat.
When jungle folk threw down their spears,
and water fell from heaven like tears,
Mankind rejoiced their work to see
as they brewed beer as good as thee.
Tiger! Tiger! clear and bright
is nectar of such godly height
that no immortal hand or eye
could better shape it symmetry.
© Ivor G Davies
They hung around the beer joint with the finest Western wear
with thumbs tucked in their belt loops and such a studly air.
But those boots weren't made for stirrups and were polished to a sheen,
and on those fancy cowboy hats not a sweat stain could be seen.
You could be sure they hadn't spent much time around a branding pot,
for the only brands they recognized were ones on stuff they bought.
And if they ever passed the time just musing 'bout their spread,
it'd be the one around their middle or the one they put on bread.
Just a bunch of cowboy wannabes in a modern masquerade,
but they drove the biggest pickup trucks that Detroit ever made.
The beds were big and beautiful without a scratch or scuff inside,
'cause the only thing they hauled around was a horse's big backside.
As they stood around outside the joint, in a smart-ass state of mind,
in pulled an ancient pickup with an old horse trailer hitched behind.
The truck an old green Chevy, year 'bout nineteen fifty-nine,
with two high wooden sideboards stacked with hay bales bound with twine.
Out stepped a skinny hombre, with steel-blue eyes and bandy legs,
but he had a rippling six-pack while all the boozers sported kegs.
His cowboy hat was sweat-stained; high-heeled boots were dusty gray;
he kicked off a chunk of cow pie, then he grabbed a bale of hay.
He was mighty parched and dusty, but he wouldn't quench his thirst
'cause you're not an honest cowboy unless you water horses first.
The pack of fools gave out a hoot, yelled "Hey there, Texas Pete!
Get yourself a man-sized truck and take that geezer off the street!"
As he finished with the horses, up walked two ladies smokin' hot.
The cowboy promptly doffed his hat, while the posers there did not.
The cowboy got a long admiring look and the rounders just a sneer,
as the sham was so apparent when a real cowboy was near
They flashed the dusty cowboy a big ol' smile 'bout ten miles wide...
Said "Honey, would a gent like you care to escort us gals inside?"
He winked, then gave the trucks a look and spat a stream of juice.
Said, "Boys, y'all's might be bigger, but mine gets a sight more use."
`
O’ crooked branch and magpie’s claw,
yon rusted chains a’ sway this night
Clutch tight a sign “The Seagull's Squall”
of splintered wood and storm clouds fight
Old tavern lone this craggy shore
where angered waves accost the sand
and drenching rains from heavens pour,
whilst thunder boasts its loud command
On creaking stools with painted legs
'long the bar, a gathered crew
Expected flow from aging kegs
a frothy crown this lagered brew
Fills tankards held of one now gone
'midst pewter death in golden ale
In drunk'n stupor sorrows shown
lost at sea, his soul last sailed
Watching cloaked of shadowed mist
in darkened corner, lingered smoke
O’er long goodbyes on echoes twist
and couraged voices soundly spoke
Weaving tales a' journeys past,
voyages beyond the deep
Ports o’ call and forth day cast,
of treasures that abound to reap
When one, a glass above his head
beckons silence, moments slow
Respect, our mate now swallow'd dead,
entombed within the depths below
Then hearty cheers and farewell speak,
this touching scene if one would be
A ghostly tear now falls my cheek,
this fallen mate they cheer is me