Long Pubs Poems
Long Pubs Poems. Below are the most popular long Pubs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pubs poems by poem length and keyword.
The people rallied round the prince
He was disguised in beggar's clothing
He had a wicked toothy grin
With beady eyes that were all knowing
He was the heir to several kingdoms
Dirty pubs and smoking pits
He liked to feed the bottom feeders
By acting like he gave a ****
He used a drunkard as his steed
Who held the doors and threw the punches
He used a wench to cure his hangovers
With cold wet cloths and greasy lunches
He would protect his loyal subjects
But the security was flawed
Because he'd shield you from the fighting
But it was fighting that he caused
And if by chance you were still sober
When you saw his kingdom fall
You'd say manipulating drunkards
Did not make him the prince at all
By Kyle Ezra Kriticos
I Wish I Were Irish
For the gift of gab, the blarney stone I’d kiss
Upside down by ankles dangling, I’d do this
A story-teller I’d surely be
Risking life and limb ‘tis me
To spew flattery among every laddy and miss
Like the pirate queen Grace O’malley of seafaring clans
Before she sheard her long hair and designed plans
Emerald eyes and strawberry blond locks
Lads swoon by the dozen in flocks
I’ll be in the Dunguaire Castle made by the O’Hans
Plow through O’Conners novel “The Last Hurrah”
Party on Paddy’s Day, shoutin’ Erin Go Braugh!
Feast on authentic Irish lamb stew
While swilling pints of Guinness brew
Peddling my bike up the mountain, of Ballyhoura
I’d sing "Carrickfergus" an Irish folk song
Become a Celtic flutist and chime along
A tenor belts out “Galway Bay”
“Danny boy” heard at the pubs all day
Riverdancing through the heather all night long
Addiction is debilitating and changes who you are
I have watched my friend's life empty of all meaning, losing everything she loved and it can be difficult to reconcile her choices
But are they choices?
For those untouched by addiction, it can appear selfish and within your control to stop, particularly as you lose everything satiable in your life
"What's wrong with her?", "she's so embarrassing!", "she needs to pull herself together"
And that is the indoctrination of addiction
It is harrowing to watch the alcohol consume the person you know and love
Alcohol the acceptable demon, lauded in a westernised society
And used to celebrate and commiserate in equal abandon
"Lets wet the baby's head" to celebrate a birth, "ooh lets have a drink" to celebrate birthdays, Xmas, weddings and christenings.
"Let's drown our sorrows" or "raise a glass" to commemorate or commiserate any kind of loss, death, or receiving bad news
If this is "normal" how can it be so wrong?
These societally acceptable expectations make tackling alcohol addiction so much more difficult to deal with
You don't just need to avoid pubs; you need to avoid restaurants, local shops, supermarkets, church and even holy communion!!
So why do we look down on those struggling with addiction?
We differentiate, theyre not like us
"They take things too far" or "They can't hold their liquor" as though this is a quality of some worthiness
Watching my friend I see it is more than that
The addiction is the symptom not the cause
The cause is feeling so at odds with her experiences and life that the only way she can deal with things is to block them out
Just to even start the day
We don't know what others have experienced
In the same situation could we honestly claim we would not lose ourselves in the same way?
Ulster in Eire, has a legend in song' a son of honour
Who has struck the gong!
Gave it out true, cause he's long on strong!
Other greats have covered his songs!
I'm talking bout Van- Morrison.' sync and method
Decades long, yet new as green grass, I hear he's
Called to court; by a Mr Swan,.? maybe in politics?
Or perhaps I'm wrong? A truth denier? Let's string along
Is there graphene in them jabs; sodium chlorate? or anti-freeze? Is this
All real or just a wheeze? Has your freedom been curtailed?
Do you know of people. Gone off the rails? are there suicides From Sars cov 2 ? Are businesses suffering are doctors on
Phones too? How many people have died alone? Texas has no
Mask task line, I think as a guide ? they're doing fine.' The
Weather's different (now there's the rub) that's why on UK's
Hottest days they advised shut the pubs' they say there's a Learning curve with covid 19 it's full makeup is still unseen!
And Yet a jab for ( it )is here.! don't all that seem rather *****?
But bring it on swan' I'll bet armies of folk; back Van - Morrison.'
It was an island of piety
out of place in Port Adelaide’s
working class sea of pubs.
Off the main road,
St Mary’s was a refuge
for the Catholic faithful
and a few wino’s
pretending a prayer
for an hour of sheltered warmth.
Three masses on a Sunday
drew a dwindling crowd.
My grandmother,
dressed in her best
with the mandatory hat,
went to the 10.30.
It was a mass
for the elderly and the young
hung over
after a late night binge.
I cut my teeth there
on the grim chew
of its doctrine.
Back then latin rattled through
its wheezy lungs.
Old, dark, paint peeled,
it always seemed a breath away
from its last.
Creaking pews, polished
to a shine by a century
of sliding bums, would advertise
when you were late.
Stained glass windows
filtered sunlight
through a panorama of pain.
I was baptized by that wash
of joyless light.
Almost gone, St Mary’s
was resuscitated by Italians
keen to cage a stake.
Their statue of the Virgin Mary
poked a Mediterranean finger
into the collective Anglo eye.
Jewelry dripped, imposing
and ornate, she affronted
local tastes.
Statues were for background,
guardians of peripheral regions
placed to arrest
a wandering eye
and bring it back to God.
This Italian Virgin Mary
stood like a crowned colossus.
The old bishop’s ghost,
they say,
still wanders the church
shackled to his guilt.
Mary McKillop hovers
in his tormented head.
She's gone to God and sits
a newly minted saint.
The church grows smaller.
Lodged like a barnacle
on Port Adelaide’s rusted hull
it still hangs on.
The Italian Virgin Mary
now seems at home
and looks down
on rows of vacant pews.
Outside - shoppers pass in haste
to serve more fickle gods.
It was thought she was pregnant
confused as she was
and out of her depth.
They waded into the river to help.
They floated rubber rafts to buoy her up.
Marine experts posited ways
to keep her breathing in shallow waters.
In dockyard pubs
hard men openly spoke of her plight,
voices low and humorless
as they test-drove new technical jargon.
When she died;
rolling in the pebbly shallows
we threw a tarpaulin over her
as if she were a human cadaver.
We had done our best, had televised everything,
implemented elaborate plans,
recorded last moments with ripples of hope;
watched the sluggish waves
wash away her long drowning.
I have conversed with the common man
in warm and well-worn pubs.
I have been a ribald, and a leery lout,
a seducer of barmaids.
I have been common,
the way a city pidgin is common,
its scabbed claws a common sight,
slipping in and out of poorly lit doors.
Poets are born poor, poorly treated,
and poorly thought of.
The wealthy used to be poets,
but their intelligence
was pawned and loaned to them
by the winking, wicked streets.
They made daffodils out of dog,
many swooned,
but the common people,
we spat out their perfumed souls
for they were distasteful,
much more so
than the knowing fools I talk to
in the most common of pubs.
Virus
No dining no cinema no going out
No football or festivals
No getting about
No meeting a colleague no hugging a friend
No pubs no clubs gatherings
When will we see the end?
This virus has us locked inside
Us over seventies
All have to hide
But its not all gloom it wont last forever
Being kept apart
Has brought us all together
We are Zooming and Skyping like never before
The community spirit
Is just like in the war
There have been front room festivals
And internet plays
Happy reminders of better days
So we wont give up we’ll stay in lock down
Until this damn virus
Is no longer around
If we believe in our hearts it wont be long
We will beat this pandemic
And see it gone
So lets drink a toast to the NHS crew
And to postmen and drivers
Who bring deliveries to you
To bus drivers and policemen and firemen too
Who all risk their lives
For me and for you
So lets all stand firm and never give in
Then the war on this virus
We will surely win
I know we can beat it if we stay strong
And we will see the day
When forever its gone
JUST NEAR HERE
Follow the track ,with the scenic view
through beechchwood, common heath
with grassy scrub and clumps of gorse,
in yellow garb;Amble shaded lanes
to wayside pubs .‘Cross meadow gates
and stile ,contemplate ,or, sit awhile
as daisy,buttercup,and cowslip yellow
mix as one in fellowship.Reach a wood
with its carpet blue, listen to a trickling
stream,where dogrose in a briared sprawl,
flower and prickle, meander tall , shading
mallow where tasselled teasels touching
the trees greened with rain.Scent
honeysuckle waxing in summer light,
a heady fragrance to fill the night.
Listen to me read this poem on youtube under the name of ichthyschiro
The poor lad was sixteen when they kidnapped him
They took him from England to Ireland but the boy did not sin.
His father was a Deacon and his grandfather was a Priest
Who would have thought this would have started
The St Patrick’s Day’s once yearly feast.
A feast back in tradition that was of bacon and beans
Not only has that changed, but the colour has from blue to green
Patrick did escape his capture; he said God told him he must.
He returned to England where he took his confessor into his trust.
He studied to be a priest and then set back off to Ireland
He was a clever man; he taught and held up in his hand…
A piece of shamrock, to us the three leafed clover
A teaching for the trinity and he won lots of them over.
Upon his death on Patrick’s day the feasting and drinking does begin
The wearing of the green and there is a little bit of sin
The pubs were closed at one time, to stop the Irish fun
But now it has spread worldwide so Happy St Patrick’s everyone.
© 06/02/2013
Contest entry for: An Irish Poem