Long Pub Poems
Long Pub Poems. Below are the most popular long Pub by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pub poems by poem length and keyword.
Away with work
I'm going to the pub
Not to sink my woes
Just get some grub
My room is tiny
Cats can't swing
My keyboard's here
But I can't sing
I'm four floors up
The view is fine
This bed is huge
I lie supine
Perhaps a beer
Or glass of wine?
Some veggie nosh
Would be just fine
I'll shake it off
And take the stairs
Just basic 'T' shirt
No grace, or airs
I have a book
To feed my brain
While work provides
This gravy train
So smarten up
In every sense
To feed the soul
Is common sense
Perhaps a poem
I'll take and scribe
At dull routine
I'll make a jibe
The guy who blames, takes nothing on board,
Here are a few things he should know,
That the world is not a “him against them”,
Instead it’s a place he can grow,
He needs to not use poor mental health,
Not use it as an excuse or a cloak,
But rather fix this in a world full of help,
Properly fix what is mentally broke,
And then to take charge of his incoming cash,
Organise his monetary wage,
Understand others money is not his to take,
That taking’s not normal, it’s strange,
And accept people don’t agree with all that he does,
From his boss, his neighbours, his mates,
Respect others houses and not trash them inside,
Not to fill up their house full of hate.
Inside pub steins stout magic spoke
‘neath genie wisps of bangle smoke
Brown cone cigars, deep chubby pipes
Aromatic spills to breach the night.
Music calls to muted songs
Rough knuckles echo Bodhrán drums.
Flute, melodeon, bouzouki*, mandolin
Penny whistles, uilleann pipes, one feisty violin.
Pied piper rhythms, pied piper beats
Bold Celtic persuasions to move proud legs and feet.
To Daver and friendship, thank you!
* Bouzouki...A stringed instrument that could stand up to the volume and intensity of fiddles, flutes, accordions, and pipes.
*uilleann pipes...Irish bagpipes...melodeon. an Irish accordian
Bubbling babbling burbling banter brimming at the bar
First sup.. hush…memory lane trip rush..nicely tickled
Plush lace ebbed…lush beer swirls race webbed
Whirls..down dimpled dappled jar....nicely pickled
Pagans perch….sip druid fluid drip…Iris’s secular church
Trumpet tradition.. beacons blush in embers of the past
Cluttered classy cast of polished pewter..ballsy brass
Whimsy wafting across tobacco tinted tainted times
Parched patrons quaffing while cavorting with crannies
Carousing with nooks sporting timber flannelled panels
As sons then become dad..on the same pews with their lad
Lawyer betwixt a tyro…local employer..bumpkin on the giro
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before
Gracious Landladies…loquacious landlords near and far..
Who let us roam in our home from home we raise our jar
To every special space.. familiar face in that third place..ta
~Aim High~
( The Pub Bell)
See
The
Sky
Now
Aim
And
Fly.
There's so much
You can achieve
Just set your mind and focus
Don't let anything stand in your way
Because God has a divine plan for you
Look at the sky when in doubt, don't stop
For the sky is the limit and you can do it
You can do anything that you dream about
Just aim very high and accomplish anything
You desire, don't be afraid, just fly and then
(Soar)
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2010
December.13.2015
~Author's Notes:
The "Pub Bell" is a poetry style created by Patricia Ann Farnsworth - Simpson.
City life turns to sparse assortments;
Of local pubs and country homes.
Tall brick walls fade into fences;
Amongst hedgerows and mossy stones.
Crowded bustle soon lowers its pace;
Those now free, move unconfined.
Only thoughts spent are of contentment,
Peaceful surroundings heal the mind.
As roads turn to paths unbeaten,
Dipping and climbing, alongside the fields.
Views everchanging, revelling new pastures,
Filled full of beauty from treasures they yield.
Awaking from the brief city escape,
Thoughts soon creep back to the hubbub.
Before it all end though, the passenger pleads,
Can we go for a pint at the pub?
The glass was half empty until he smashed it on the room divider
Tequila Sunrise on the wall
Shattered the pieces lay on the ground when he walked on his shards
Barefoot floored surrender
A bitter taste of guilt as he wretched his way to the bathroom sink
Unplugged mosaic of pain
The lipstick kiss lingered on the mirror but her toothbrush was gone
Message from a bottle
Staggered in defeat he stumbled on slurred words of another promise
Twisted spluttered echoes
As he rinsed his tongue with mouthwash more lies mourned his loss
Prolonged rapid suicide
It was the kindest thing she would ever do for the wasted drunkard
Tough unrequited love
17th February 2020
Irish tales of what a leprechaun gives away
If you don’t wear green on St Paddy’s Day
a painful pinch
Like Suisse’s Grinch,
a green tie or vest so invisible you’ll stay
by I Am Anaya
On St. Paddy's day I grabbed a lassie fair
kissed her lips and pinched her derriere
I so love this tradition
I'm a gent on a mission
Shall I go on I asked, she screamed don't you dare!
by Robert O'Gorelick
My lil green party dress for Paddy’s day is too tight
and I don’t want to get pinched by elves tonight
I let out the seams
And removed all that blings
Clear of Leprechaun’s with a big whiskey appetite
by I Am Anaya
Out on the razzle for Saint Patrick’s night
All dressed up in green, one has to look right
I’ll do my high kicks
As I can’t resist
Being a dare devil, and giving fright
by Beryl Edmunds
Heard in stories of ancient times,
a ship at sea of the privateer line.
A rat infested rigger with a creaking deck,
sailed into Point Berry as a seafaring wreck.
A crew of sailors, dastardly and mean,
shift of the eye for a chicken to pluck clean.
A flock of buzzards turned loose on a town,
drinkers of ail, stealers of pound.
windows closed, shutters pulled tight,
doors shackled and bared, locked for the night.
Laughter and curses mingled with a shout,
“Keep your hands off me.” a wench cries out.
“Come now, lass give ole Plke a kiss,
six months at sea, vinegar and piss.
Pistols charged, powder and ball,
blood on a blade, slice of a jaw.
Loose of tongue, drunk with wine,
Pillager and cutthroat of every kind.
a scene right out of a whiskey jug,
played on the stage of a waterfront pub.
No way, not me, this isn’t my thing,
This pub just isn’t my game,
This pub where vintage is modern as hell,
Where everyone’s beard is the same,
And the price of a lager is out of the world,
An ale costs a fortune or more,
It’s ridiculous hanging a bike from the roof,
Well, those were my thoughts before,
I tasted a stout, a bottled homebrew,
The ride grabbed onto my soul,
And I knew in a moment, behind all the flare,
I’d found my new watering hole,
So now, every day, out the back, on the couch,
Beside the fire pit by the tree,
About quarter past five, with a stout in his hand,
The bearded guy that you see will be me.