Long Swigging Poems
Long Swigging Poems. Below are the most popular long Swigging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swigging poems by poem length and keyword.
Happy Hunting Ground
David J Walker
I wonder
If a campfire is
Burning bright
In the Yellowstone
Tonight
Two men
Buckskinned
Fur hats
Made of martin
Black powder in a keg from
The trading post
A sack of beans and
5 pounds of cured bacon
Sitting cross-legged
Across the blazing pit
Swigging whiskey
From a crock
Telling stories long into the night
If the tales are tall and told by
The light of a campfire
It might be
Father and Jim Bridger
After a day of hunting elk and buffalo
In two feet of snow in the
Shoshone forest
As he was leaving
Father told me tales of
The happy hunting ground
That’s where mountain men go
[Foreword: spring in the UK is delightful
But it isn’t all sunshine and roses!]
***
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
The crocus enlivens the woodland way
’twas not to be seen only yesterday
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
Weeping the willow tickles the ripples
The angler most keen swigging Scots tipples
For frost isn’t distant there on the bank
Yet Bream ’neath the branches dance flank to flank
A tail on a golf ball, this is the wren
As an old friend, good to see him again
Venture in sweater to fend sneeze and cough
Yet should the breeze drop, the sweater is off
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
***
11 March 2021
Contest: Breath of Spring
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Long ago in Northern England there was a big lake of heavenly nectar. The lake was called 'Love'. One day Layman was going along the lake-side road with his friends. He didn't know how to swim but had a secret wish to taste the nectar. So he, going through the pavement, intentionally slipped down the lake and began floundering to and fro. But none of his friends came to save Layman as they too didn't know swimming. Layman struggled much to save himself and probably he could do so had he not focused on tasting and swallowing draughts of nectar. He was a drowning man but he didn't crave to live without swigging more and more sweet nectar with mouth wide-open, eyes glittering with untold pleasure, and heart replete with joy. , Some moments later, Layman drowned with a broad smile hovering over his jovial face.
Birthstones and horoscopes over a chi-square
Months with periscopes everywhere
Moon and Sun in shaded segments
Boon and pun in braided alignments
Spells and pleas yowling in the wilderness
Wells or seas swigging in emptiness
Thoughts wandering around
Droughts and dryness seething in a playground
Warmth or heat you nestled from scorching daylight
Cold air or dew drop sighed by moonlight
Wall clock that restricts your borrowed time
Or unseen counter that predicts your stolen dime
Each day that passes by
All day you ask without a bye
Each night that crawls in the dark
All your might you grope behind a scalded bark
Shadows that follow you
Wedge pillows you never had that haunt you
Tales in dreams that smother you
Puzzles in reams that harrow you...
Why bother when there's none to fear?
Fear only God who's able to hear
Your qualms will never leave you
Only until you believe they're never yours that weave you!
Written on January 26, 2020
By Gail DeBole
Drink up daredevils!
It’s not a joke.
The human toe in your drink
Is not just taking a soak.
It’s challenged many drinkers
And many have exclaimed,
“Ewwww, What’s going on?
And who has been maimed?”
But there are the hearty
Who take up the call
To be close to the toe
Soaked in some alcohol.
Yes, the toe is plunked in
If the bar patron says, “Sure!”
To the challenge of swigging
A toe-drink that allures.
But one of the patrons
Who couldn’t live without
Made a home brewsky
After his wife heard a shout.
Before he put on his bandage
His wife could not look
At the painful outcome
Of the action he took.
Now he is satisfied drinking
And doesn’t mind his nine toes.
He has daily Sourtoe cocktails
And now everyone knows!
That he’s not a toe-totaller.
He has a daily drink
And must have his cocktail
While he takes a deep think.
And if there is an error
Of swallowing the toe by mistake
He plans to live comfortably
With toes numbering eight.
Disclaimer: This poem in no way condones the actions of this fictional character.
Note: For the facts that inspired this poem, go to https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/sourtoe-cocktail. This is based on truth with a few gulps of poetic license.
Each Christmas we all gathered there,
‘Aunt Clare, has more room ,after all’ with
her trestled tables and chair.
Grown-ups swigging their brown bottled ale,
young-uns, lemonade with paper straw,
VE style parties, once more.
Lunch over, the voice decibels rose,
raucus laughter oiled by the beer
brought forth more plates of festive cheer.
Cards slid noiselessly over the American
cloth, copper coins switching from pot to pot,
enthralled children watching on, ‘til
banished with a special treat, to the cold
stairs, or now bare front room, or to play
out in the deserted twilight street.
Every year the ritual was much the same,
a family ‘bring and share’ , long before
such gatherings were given this name.
Chet lived creepily in the back of the tavern, hidden.
No one bothered him. He lived vicariously through the others.
The pretty barflies who flitted in chatting too loudly.
Flipping their hair. He had a salacious appetite, saw them all naked.
They sometimes waved to his corner when they were drunk.
He did not think they knew he was perpetually eyeballing them.
Unclothing them one piece of clothing at a time in his mind.
Uncovering their secrets was easy; they shared way too much.
His voyeuristic tendencies got him ostracized and secluded from family.
His mixoscopia and scoptolagnia confusing the prissy Baptists he knew.
He might go Catholic, he had heard they were more open. Nah!
Religion was not for him. His religion was this bar and those bar flies.
One of them was throwing her head back now, laughing loudly.
He would dream of her tonight. He smirked at the eroticism she brought him.
She turned and waved. If he was forty years younger, he would be over there.
But he knew better so he stayed put, swigging back his beer.
RITES OF PASSAGE
Each Christmas we all gathered there,
‘Aunt Clare, has more room ,after all’ with
her trestled tables and chair.
Grown-ups swigging their brown bottled ale,
young-uns, lemonade with paper straw,
VE style parties, once more.
Lunch over, the voice decibels rose,
raucus laughter oiled by the beer
brought forth more plates of festive cheer.
Cards slid noiselessly over the American
cloth, copper coins switching from pot to pot,
enthralled children watching on, ‘til
banished with a special treat, to the cold
stairs, or now bare front room, or to play
out in the deserted twilight street.
Every year the ritual was much the same,
a family ‘bring and share’ , long before
such gatherings were given this name
Econo Lodge sign
High
On
Its
Pylon
Best we can do
For you Tedeschi Trucks
To put a moon in the sky
Over this interstate interchange
Jammed with cars and a decrepit minor league hockey stadium
Advertising the glory days and beer swigging of The Wings
Glows over the deadbeat semis and construction cones
Tearing apart I-94 between Chicago and Detroit
Gleaming casino next city over
Mocking us all by suggesting
I’ll see you over here
The last great guitar players and their dwindling fans
In just a few more years
Yes it’s 2024
And for good our children have left the house
Its couches beds and kitchen table chairs
Like unstraightened frames holding all our wall photographs
Our dog doesn’t mind
Wags his tail with the additional luxury choices
For his many daytime naps
My wife and I look for familiar friends
Though we understand the band are total strangers
During these glorious last 14 years together with us
We don’t want to be creeps to Derek and Susan in love on stage
Though we were the first to love them both up there
I give a hearty wave anyway from the front seats
And I think through the spotlights there’s a smile or wink returned to us
The silhouettes
As the two and their band watch one another
Still mesmerized as they saw and sing the epic Shame
And we the audience smash our hands and shake our tambourine heads
How can the whole world not know more
About this travelling family of musical magic?
We know in our minds they’re the best band in the world
On the scale of Zeppelin or the Stones in their prime
But in the now
And here they are
Still looking good and cool and willing to share something better
Kind enough to stop over
Say hello
Between Red Rocks and Milwaukee
To this little rustbelt university town
Stadium filled only three quarters of the way with 4000 people
I’m sure a sop financially for somebody
But the masterful musicianship we joyfully hear
And we respond with whistles and cheers
As good as anyplace
As loud as ever
Afterward
Outdoors
The Econo Lodge moon buzzes and blinks in our rearview mirror
For our long drive home on I-94
Back to Lansing we go
Chasing breadcrumbs the dotted lines
Our hearts filled our ears ringing
Through the quiet speeding dark.
The teapot house takes our meadow to the brink.
It makes us feel delightful, increasing our pink.
She is colorfully whimsical, an imaginative drink.
We feel her compassion, as around her we slink.
Have you ever been inside? A faerie asks me.
I have a bad memory and cannot remember for free.
I am not sure, I admit. But here is my friend the bee.
He has been there many times, he knows the owner, Lee.
I have never been inside; my bee friend admits.
But I have heard others say sweetness it spits.
Ask the gnome on the hill who has all the tantrum fits.
But I don’t feel comfortable, so I run toward friendly kits.
Where is she going? One of the inquisitors doth ask.
I don’t know, but I am sure she has a laborious task.
I lie in the sun with the snugglies, and we all bask.
Swigging down Dr. Pepper in a teapot decorated flask.