Long Shot glass Poems
Long Shot glass Poems. Below are the most popular long Shot glass by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shot glass poems by poem length and keyword.
forging this long lustful loving line into luck
i sta er
art mm
by ha
ply gh
ing ou
this en
sen t
ten ho
ce en
in wh
to en
a th
very hot fire
it
in
to
a
ho
rse
shoe
for luck
Note: Reposted for my good friend John Hamilton who remembered I wrote this when I didn’t
I was just sitting there writing when I saw her stroll in,
I wasn’t alone, all eyes followed those curves sashaying
as if she owned the place and maybe she did. . .
if a heart can skip a beat, mine did a somersault.
Obviously cut from a finer cloth
than these eight dollar trousers ever found in their pockets,
the fit much better too, a warm hug on a cold December day
lingering in the moment
She sat down at the crescent shaped bar,
ordered a martini, neat, pulled a crisp twenty from her clutch
and brushed a few stray brunette hairs from her face,
the mirror behind the bar happily reflecting her beauty
Raising the drink to her ruby red lips
I found myself wishing I were that glass,
smeared in her favorite shade, kissed by a sighing sip,
caressed by porcelain fingers wiping sweat from a glistening neck
A jewel in this dingy joint, shimmering in the dusty haze,
breathing some class into this oblong shadow
that had seen better days, but none like this, like her.
She was out of place like fine wine in a shot glass . . . but didn’t seem to care
She lifted a cigarette to her mouth, I was quick with a match,
watching as tobacco embers flared and smoke rose upward, swirling about freeform.
Putting her lips together she blew out the flame
with a whisper of breath that made me weak in the knees, “Thank you.”
I stared, forgetting the spent match I held between my fingers,
tongue tied or mesmerized, take your pick, both answers are correct.
“You’re welcome”, I stuttered like a school boy in braces, “new around here?”
“Kind of”, her voice as chiffon is soft, “I heard I might find a poet here . . . ”
To be continued . . .
There are two more parts to this poem. I will post the remaining tomorrow if any would care to read them. : )
My '67 VW
I remember the moment I saw you
Sitting in the sun
I fell in love and swept you away
We travelled the world together
Places I never thought I'd ever see
We went to see Woodstock
Rockets launch from Cape Kennedy
You were there when I met my first love
And my second and third
My kids played with you in the front yard
Took you on road trips to God knows where
And even learned about life with you by their sides
But all good things leave
It is just part of nature
You were in my life for so long
My good times and the times I wanted to die
You were there.
The night you died I slept with a shot glass in my hand
A half empty bottle of Jack resting in my lap
And I cried
I am not much of a follower,
but today I am following Rabbi Jesus;
he has taken off his sandals,
and I am wearing them for this
borrowed moment.
He said: I Am The Door.
Jesus may be the last human being,
the rest of us following after the fact.
That which was, is, and has yet to be
- all just a shot glass of moonshine.
A vision of a winding file of us all
(both shoeless and shod),
entering that Door;
angelic sheepdogs nipping at our heels.
Maybe I’ll be one of the slackers
at the back of the line?
I won’t mind much,
as long as I see that Door
shutting out this hell of a world
forever.
Memories dwell
within low spirits over-
whelmed by suppressed
feelings and unspoken
thoughts that accumulate
into a small ounce
poison juice.
My father craved it,
My mother hates it,
My older brother became
lost in it.
I for one nor hate, craved, or felt lost,
I followed the smell and it lured
me with its delicate scent
and harmless manner.
a sip of its warm
flavor coated
my drained throat,
the taste is somewhat
bittersweet, but
its flames bursts
as it hits
my stomach,
its fragrance strengthens
its resolve causing
my head to spin
in illusive traction,
my body burns
to a hundred degrees,
the intensity latches
onto my lungs
like a bloodsucking
parasite rejuvenating
what's left.
While gasping for air,
I lose consciousness,
blurred vision,
echoes strum
against the walls,
I fall barely holding on,
while whispers travel
along my ears,
as its voice ascends
slowly,
I catch a glimpse
at the shot glass filled
with barrenness,
a once detailed portrait
is now the remains
of a youthful shadow.
I am not much of a follower,
but today I am following Rabbi Jesus;
he has taken off his sandals,
and I am wearing them for this
borrowed moment.
He said: I Am The Door.
Jesus may be the last human being,
the rest of us following - after the fact.
That which was, is, and has yet to be
- all just a shot glass of moonshine.
His sandals are too light for my heavy feet
they float away like paper kites in the wind.
A vision of a winding file of us all
(both shoeless and shod),
entering that Door;
angelic sheepdogs nipping at our heels.
Maybe I’ll be one of the slackers
at the back of the line?
I won’t mind so much,
as long as I can look back, and see that Door
shutting out this revolving hell of world
forever.
The melody is haunting me
Black and white, an old TV
A darkened room, the smoke perfume
insults the sense of right and wrong
Elbows rest upon a bar
Heads are bent, to hide the scars
and troubled souls have found a throne
Some will find a well known home
in a shot-glass of a song
A clarinet has cried the blues
A secret lies with deep regret
Who cares that no one gives a rip?
It's just enough to face the night
Another place to roll the dice
And once again, when tears have dried
they'll leave this place
without a face
to walk away without a trace
leaving me to wonder who
has left me in this darkened room
alone
Written while listening to Billie Holiday
I search my purse for money or credit cards.
Discovering four brochures from September
Receipts from the veterinarian clinic with dog tags
Twelve poem ideas jotted on a red napkin
A used toothpick with gum at the end of it
Four pens that do not write
One pen that writes which I can usually never find in this purse
A blue dog collar
Battered melted peanut butter cup
Sticky roll that has escaped a baggie
House key I do not remember having
Grandchild’s pink and yellow headband
Shot glass, but why? I do not drink.
Two outdated postage stamps
The popped pieces of an orange balloon
Should I clean this fiasco?
No.
I just found my credit cards.
I was just sitting there writing when I saw her stroll in,
I wasn’t alone, all eyes followed those curves sashaying
as if she owned the place and maybe she did. . .
if a heart can skip a beat, mine did a somersault.
Obviously cut from a finer cloth
than these eight dollar trousers ever found in their pockets,
the fit much better too, a warm hug on a cold December day
lingering in the moment
She sat down at the crescent shaped bar,
ordered a martini, neat, pulled a crisp twenty from her clutch
and brushed a few stray brunette hairs from her face,
the mirror behind the bar happily reflecting her beauty
Raising the drink to her ruby red lips
I found myself wishing I were that glass,
smeared in her favorite shade, kissed by a sighing sip,
caressed by porcelain fingers wiping sweat from a glistening neck
A jewel in this dingy joint, shimmering in the dusty haze,
breathing some class into this oblong shadow
that had seen better days, but none like this, like her.
She was out of place like fine wine in a shot glass . . . but didn’t seem to care
She lifted a cigarette to her mouth, I was quick with a match,
watching as tobacco embers flared and smoke rose upward, swirling about freeform.
Putting her lips together she blew out the flame
with a whisper of breath that made me weak in the knees, “Thank you.”
I stared, forgetting the spent match I held between my fingers,
tongue tied or mesmerized, take your pick, both answers are correct.
“You’re welcome”, I stuttered like a school boy in braces, “new around here?”
“Kind of”, her voice as chiffon is soft, “I heard I might find a poet here . . . ”
To be continued . . .
Please check out parts 2 and 3 if you get a chance.
~the Fear of Never~ A DRINK TO REMEMBER!
And the fire catches every time, my heart needs a sip
I bear no shame pouring, poisoned pabulum whisky down
Lost in a place with hungry whores, ink paying gigolos
This night a respected gentleman put's on his evening gown
He sits in front of a mic playing the same old sad song
Fitted out in drag, his wife has no clue
Holy breeders trying to change my shoes
Lingering from the Cute Chinaman, running his tab sky high
Bluebirds of jealousy, set round the vintage Barstool like fools
Minds overpowered and threaten to the very nub
I am drunk-- in his eye,
He receives a macabre confession of possessiveness
I am drunk-- in her eye,
She has a sick confession of subconsciousness
Broken loose from a negative, regressive state of mind
Sit and enjoy this broken bottle of champagne
Unspoken rage in every empty can left behind
A shot glass drops from my unstable hands longing to hold a pen
I look into a mirror and embrace every meaning of stability
Blotting out the madness behind a metal cage of reality
At times, I feel the need to bring down this masquerade
A drink so hostile, I can't even remember my image and name
Too many scars, from the foster of paper and pen
My dependents are drunken demons from a traumatized childhood
Tonight I will legislate a special thanks
Holding up my cup, until death finds my note
I will smile, at every Judge and Jury, during karaoke night
Shutting down my eyes, fantasizing everything's gonna be alright
I will not jilt knowing, writers block haunted my days away
Insecure hoarding monsters enjoying spoil forgotten words
Tonight I thirst like never before, my tongue inscribes around a tin cup
I am not eating up by it, no matter how long I've drowned in it
This is my kind of whisky, my thoughts, my days of ammo
To tell you the truth, I possess no desire to drink
It's all about the love of poetry and how sober, I become (WITHOUT)
The monsters that reside inside, have one thing to say
"Give me Poetry, or give me Death!"
by: PD