Long Sloshed Poems
Long Sloshed Poems. Below are the most popular long Sloshed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sloshed poems by poem length and keyword.
He trundled his way up the three heavy steps
His mop of hair searching every direction
In the middle of the stage a brash spotlight
shone on a large drum kit
Behind a curtain dangled over a hand painted sign
The burgundy curtains partially
covering the letters making it look like alent sho
The boy now seated behind the kit dwarfed by its side.
He adjusted his seat slightly, closed his eyes and
took a breath
The crowds murmurs abruptly cut by some drunks
sloshed repartee -Hey.kid you, a belch breaking his sentence-forgot your sticks
With a tiiter of some of the onlookers
The young boy slowly opened his eyes
A tear slowly rolled down his pale cheeks
Swaying from his chin for a moment
before falling
It meandered along the cymbal's it’s tremor almost melodically before snapping upon the snare
Each tear falling in perfect formation
No beat missed a methodical beat
One after another
The silence of the audience
mesmerised by his music
He played with such sadness
The tears of those watching only adding to his symphony
I joined the army employment-sake; He did the same too;
I from India; He from Pakistan; though both blooms new;
Countries sought enmity; we looked for eternal friendship,
We're no traitors; advocates of peace who sought fellowship...
A simple smile, like fresh-flower, when in morning we met,
With no greeting of goodnight sleep, our sun did never set;
He from his border; I from mine; life-stories we did share,
In times of illness and pain, for each other we did care...
His festivals became mine; mine his; as though countrymen,
We seemed rising from our home lands as global citizens;
Amid many gifts we shared on moments memorable,
A solemn soldier in glass-globe, greatly admirable...
When I wished to know of his marriage he said benignly,
He had duties for his elder sisters waiting humbly;
It's when, like trustworthy brother, he fulfills his duty,
His life, like perennial orchids, will find true beauty...
With sun-rises and sets and season's changes time went by,
Our friendship, like a colorful kite, day-by-day soared high;
Conditions of our countries, we had, but just bird’s eye view,
Our roles to our lands, as soldiers, as sure as life we knew...
There, then fell, like fire, the edict of emergency,
Troops, like sheep on shepherd's voice, stood in restless urgency;
Our brains, like roughest of tiger-leather, got gently washed,
Every soldier, drunk in wine of patriotism, stood sloshed...
As docile as gentle most lambs, we took our place in rows,
Did I ever know, like sheep against wolves, your troops arose?
Orders obeyed, for a moment, my thought of you got erased,
Did you feel the same too? If so, why did you get razed...?
Studied, it’s my bullet that killed you, made me sad and mad,
How come my damn destiny made me miserably bad?
War over as loan soldier I returned to the border,
Burdens full; tears rarely shed; with glass-globe solemn soldier...!
16 December 2021
If love were 'dark matter'
it would be the size
of a small kidney stone.
Hate is
an intestinal tapeworm
that gnaws at our vitals,
though most folks
remain unsure just what 'vitals' are.
The human brain
does not write poetry,
it merely crouches inside one ear,
while shouting into the other.
Poetry abides at the center
of an ever-expanding constellation
deep within the pineal gland -
that physical presence
manipulates, as many as
ten fingertips or toes
plus, a sloshed Calliope
swinging back and forth,
as she clings precariously
to chandelier-like Adam's apple.
Lips learn to think for themselves,
with the help of undocumented
angels.
Thus, naturally
organically produced poetry
can easily be manifest
while a nose dips deep
into a foaming glass of beer.
Yes, to the dance and party at Hotel California.
You love the flirting game with pretty maids all in a row.
No more wasted time on the heartbreak endured in Georgia.
No sad desperado feel blocks your new, solo, man show.
You love the flirting game with pretty maids all in a row.
In the city, fantasy landscapes entice your lost heart.
No sad desperado feel blocks your new, solo, man show.
You believe life in the fast lane is a game you play smart.
In the city, fantasy landscapes entice your lost heart.
You long to dance sloshed into the morn’s tequila sunrise.
You believe life in the fast lane is a game you play smart.
I can’t tell you why your emotion seeks downtown tinged skies.
You long to dance sloshed into the morn’s tequila sunrise.
You’ll take one more skin or gin shot in a New York minute.
I can’t tell you why your emotion seeks downtown tinged skies.
A certain kind of fool with a broken heart, can’t mend it.
You’ll take one more skin or gin shot in a New York minute.
No more wasted time on the heartbreak endured in Georgia.
A certain kind of fool with a broken heart, can’t mend it.
Yes, to the dance and party at Hotel California.
The Eagles
Songs: Hotel California, Pretty Maids All in a Row, Wasted Time, Desperado, In the City, Life in the Fast Lane, Tequila Sunrise, I Can’t Tell You Why, New York Minute, Certain Kind of Fool
"Drunk as a skunk"
Flimsy after whimsy
Flunk and debunk
Or mastered getting "plastered"
"Tipsy as a gypsy"
Sunk like a monk
Miss nights out "on the p*ss"
We shan't blush...can't hush
Us as we gush about the rush
Bliss to kiss the alcoHOLE abyss
Have a crush on the plush
Flush flights of a proper "lush"
Grinned while you sinned
Smile..getting in a right mess
Room spinned ... plans binned
Betting the style's "blotto" lotto
Pinned motto bless the "legless"
Jolly golly gosh "sloshed"
What beats "3 sheets to the wind"
Need a slash..have to crash
After being out on the lash
"Smashed"..bish bash boshed
'Off your trolley" wally or dolly
Bedazzled frazzle on the razzle
Laughter after a dafter shindig swig
On the "sozzle"..off his head ..off to bed
Reason for that big red schnozzle
Let's be frank those who get "tanked"
Get thanked...no..blanked & spanked
Don't deride those who decide
To get plied with or "pie eyed" with pride
Have a tiff with those who chose skew whiff
No need upsetting or fretting
Over a drunkard with a tankard
Rum dumb herbert on the sherbert
Woozy boozy floozy doozy
Getting whistle whetting "wanker*d"
Abuser..winner or loser
The boon of the last saloon
All soon forgetting having hankered
For.. then regretting that final boozer
"Wasted"...sauce basted I stammered
Could've plucked for being "f**cked"
Decoded it besetting with maybe "loaded"
Why's he passed on the class "rat-arsed"
Not fussed..nonplussed he cussed
Sussed just with mates getting 'hammered"
So don’t muzzle the "guzzler"
Cripple the ripple of the "tippler"
Can’t match "down the hatch"
Or sip & sup..because "bottom’s up"
No frowning cake-hole sold on downing
Beer.. .neck oil by heck will spoil our laughing gear
Crowning the glory or gory story
Comedy gold told of being "arsehol*d"
Ickle fickle wee "pickled" trickle tickle
Temptation of a nifty sneaky shifty
Iffy & squiffy in a jiffy veneration
Don't be piddly about diddly while tiddly
They might from afar mutter
Wot a nutter...one too many jars
One too many bars ..not caring...I would utter
Have a flutter...I’m lying in the gutter
Rego & I flying while staring at the stars
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Autumn’s abundance attracts adventurers to Munich.
Oompa bands boast boisterous beats.
Beneath the boundless, blue Bavarian skies,
Bountiful banquets beckon where breads and bratwurst blend,
Beer bottles beckon, from barrels and bars.
Steins are sloshed with swaggering splendor.
Generations gather; Bavarians bask in bucolic bliss.
Hearts harmonize in humble hymns of heritage held dear.
Hand in hand, they huddle, harvesting hope
*Oktoberfest in Germany will take place from September 20 to October 5, 2025. This annual festival is held at the Theresienwiese in Munich. (source: oktoberfest.de). You still have time to book a flight and travel to Munich; hotel rooms, though, will be hard to find. smiles
Hardly venture into such verse.
In her bedroom, she wrote her curse.
She despised bright pupils at Yale.
If water drops could tell their tale.
She went on long walks in the drought.
They urged her to blend in and flout.
In gray rain, she went past wan shale.
If water drops could tell their tale.
Had they fed the felled holy trees?
Her thongs sloshed in a thoughtful breeze.
Gather, freeze, pour down wet and hail.
If water drops could tell their tale.
Where had those lovely old dribs been?
which dropped sunk ships and saved Tholepin.
She found longing despite the hail.
If water drops could tell their tale.
Written: August 09, 2022
A Kyrielle about Water Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Kim Rodrigues
Checked by HMS.COM
16 Lines 8syllables each/ 4 Stanzas.
Down beside a stream that flowed red
Lilies stained from the wounds that bled
Short shallow breaths escaped him by
The troops at salute, watched him die
And with one last effort, he bawled
“For life, for home, for bread, for broad”
Ryan was a rather vague kid
He wasn’t the kind pegged to lead
But one day the big, big man knocked
And handed him a shotgun, cocked
Go, Ryan, we’re in grave danger and
Only your strength can save our land
And so, like others, Ryan went
I’m sure ‘twas the fifth week of Lent
To join the other kids and boys
Who had been given lethal toys
Because they were in danger and
Only their strength could save the land
Their first fight was at Old Burgoyne
It was Ryan’s first battle won
But there too, he saw Death firsthand
The pain the “saving” did demand
And watched his comrades slip away
Into chaos each passing day
But Ryan went on, resolute
Brass saw him the perfect recruit
With each shot, his poor soul went prone
With each death brush, his heart went stone
And at night they would slip inside
With broad, and beer and bread beside
He sloshed many a foeman dead
His kiddy hands all shone blood-red
Till they had to take the ghyll
And there a bullet crushed his skull
And his comrades watch him fade
His last charge in the South Brigade
They held his funeral in state
With the others who shared his fate
In a grave so large and so wide
They fit ten thousand more inside
Then they gave someone else his gun
For they had to save “everyone”
The big man stopped by Ryan’s door
This time he came for the neighbour
With urgent cries, John got a nuke
The big man cried, his body shook
Quick, there’re people we have to save
The reds have risen from their grave
Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth
by Michael R. Burch
She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget!”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET!”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.
Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, Nietzsche Twilight, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International
Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.
Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.
Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.
Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!
Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch
The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.
It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.
It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.
Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,
just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.
Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.
They decided early that color
was wrong for McMurtry’s novel.
Peter left his wife after he discovered
Cybil on the cover of Seventeen.
He fired her assistant, when she upset
her by trying to run lines. He fought
with camera men, grips, the rest
of the crew. Cloris and Ellen got sloshed
every night, holding each other
through spasms of grief, unable to bury
their dying marriages. Tim, still hot
from his turn in Trumbo’s Johnny
Got His Gun, ached for the ingenue
goddess Peter kept all to himself.
Driving her in the 48 Ford Sunchariot,
black patch bandaging his wounded
eye, the pain comes off Tim in waves.
Raw performers, drenched
in disappointment and endless
hurt. The whimper of bed
springs when Sonny makes love
to Ruth Popper. Sam the Lion losing
his hold beside calm black water. Lois
in her cooler than cool killer black
sunglasses and scarf, flipping off
the town alpha. The longing in
Genevieve's broken smile. An elegy
to hope: Hank Williams wailing
(he sounds too blue to fly) ice wind
and black dust swarming
like a spell. Crumbs thrown
to the hungry ghost of rejection.
You cannot have me.
You. Cannot. Have. Me.