Long Swilled Poems
Long Swilled Poems. Below are the most popular long Swilled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swilled poems by poem length and keyword.
A cup to slake the parch of thirsty lips
Spilled from heart to goblet, with love twas filled
Words penned from the nib of inked fingertips
Bouquet of wine breathed before being swilled
Seductive the taste, fervid the senses
In pursuit of desire's indulgent throes
Breaching love's barriers, hurdling fences
Therein lies proof and pain of ardor's woes
Elation lasts 'til sparks turn to ashes
Afterglow fades and impassioned flames die
Welling to surface, tears moist'ning lashes
Parting's ne'er sweet with whispers of 'goodbye'
Juliet once smiled from her balcony
Doomed in Shakespeare's romantic tragedy
A silken drop nectar refined,
Delicious, smooth, it’s taste sublime,
Worshipped and revered in times of old,
Bacchus it’s God, his hand-maidens bold.
The Romans swilled, the Greeks imbibed,
The British drank, the French prescribed.
The Church just called it Christ’s own blood,
Believers flowed as if by flood.
This luscious liquid as fine as honey,
The fountain not of youth but merely money,
Small price to pay for so much fun,
When it can turn a dowdy day to sun.
Clinking glasses moments shared,
The more imbibed the more is bared,
Food important or so they claim,
When as a smokescreen its main aim.
All that said let me be clear
There’s a reason we choose wine not beer,
Wine is healthy, helps the heart,
Beer is fattening and so tart.
Whipping post
Didn't you watch the on coming storm, alchalic words ! blew
Dry into my wired mouth , the art of conversation is stilled, while
Your streets soon boiled in fury , watched by A Queen in her linen and volts
A Doppler Queen, who feasted on broken wombs, swilled down,
Eased in its swallow, phlegm tears of the poor, street dogs
Tired eyes decades in the ruining, dripped like damp ochre leaves
Metal, stone, burned, smelt like flesh off the bone, her veil held dignity
Washed in a puss of lies, psalms hidden, in heavy false books.
And I watch through tired eyes of decades,
the crinkle cut ochre leaves parachuting gently
and with no choice to ground.
The tree has become seasoned and not opaque anymore,
in a light breeze its finger like twigs snap open the clear view beyond
And, i wonder, how many leaves have fallen pointlessly from my tree
Clearly the amount of leaves left swaying on my branches are foremost
In my waking dreams, thoughts, my roots still, and firmly covered.
Gather round while I spin a yarn
'bout a young gal, grew up in a barn
With horses and cows, she had her own stall
She loved taking care of them, most of all
She'd feed the horses and milk every cow
Nobody ever showed her quite how
She worked so hard, she rubbed her hands raw
Baling the hay and bundling the straw
Well, year after year she took care of her tasks
Secretly hoping that someone would ask
Her out on a date or some such like that
But she was afraid of men and a little bit fat
One summer day the sky turned pitch black
A tornado was brewing, there was no turning back
It stormed right on in, a-whirling and whooshing, a picture of awe
All her hay swept away, she clutched at two pieces of straw
She hung on to those straw strands with all of her might
As they swilled and swirled, and flew up out of sight
The last folks saw of her, she was high up in the sky
Singin' -- "To heck with horses! I'm a bird; I can fly!"
September 10, 2020
Clutching at Straws Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Family foibles and festive baubles to share
Frivolity frolics jollity & alcoholic histrionics
Swilled fables & tables filled with similar fare
Suggestive seasonal strolls for restive souls
Cast bitten still smitten bestilled by chilled air
Bedevilled dishevelled by some distilled wares
Pagan past perch in their old peculiar church
Dare to revel with another level devil may care
No graces or airs just familiar faces and lairs
Don't be reckless or feckless this Michaelmas
Feuds rude moods eschewed along with despair
Plied with yuletide pride bliss of this solstice kiss
At last no faff or fuss for us secular Christmas fayre
Wee Luck McGee, came into the pub
And the Barman started pouring a beer
"No Tanks for me, a martini you see
Is what you'll be serving right here"
Then McGee with one hand, pulled a jar from his coat
Removing the lid with the other
Plucked out the olive, and swilled down the Gin
Then abruptly ordered another
With each martini he knocked back with cheer
An olive was placed in the jar
And when it got filled, He screwed on the lid
Then started to walk from the bar
But the barman called out "What's that about ?"
To McGee with the jar he did cling
"It's me Mrs you know, she told me to go
And get Her a jar of these tings"
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me as I
skimmed stones across the tiny ripples of rock pools.
Small scaly creatures and stones sliced toes like knives but
we were full of excitement then,
craning necks and nets at the alien life under water that
swilled any blood away in a salty sting.
Until that day.
My rock pool filled with tears/spit/teeth from savaged parents
covered and muddied by seaweed from miles out - dragged against
flotsam and jetsam from the seabed. It all tipped endlessly into my rock
pool in a careless hurry/rush/smash like workmen at skips.
I went back to those pools and streams, like tears, crawling from the lake.
Found it was lost and
drowning within its own water:
a roof slate, a car, a swing from along the coast. A doll’s
head that just bobbed and plopped.
It would have been sucked and spat
upward, surging towards the sky with plastic arms praying,
in the deluge just moments (days?) before.
It’s not my rock pool anymore. It’s not our town.
People killed by geography:
Subduction – Subtraction of me from my family.
Subsidence - Insidious silence that lulled people to exposed sand with palm trees over heads like question marks… before the wave even Noah would struggle to sail.
Tsunami… you and me.
“Don’t turn your back on the water...” my grandmother told me
He stumbled in, as drunk as sin
with a limp and a nose full of red
He ordered cheap gin, and the blood dripped in
As he raised the drink to his head
He sat on the stool,and the drops formed a pool
He could feel all the eyes on his back
He guzzled the fuel, but he kept his cool
As he loaded the balls in the rack
He straigtened his gaze, yet still in a haze
and challenged the room to a game
Then through the maze, with a cigeratte blaze
The surly stranger came
His face was stone, He walked alone
With a beer and a black leather case
with a cue of his own, his cover was blown
On his wrist a tatoo of an ace
He said "I'll take", and he put up his stake
The lushes all gathered around
With a half hearted shake they flipped for the break
While the bartender poured out a round
The stranger broke, with a solid stroke
And down fell the four and the three
This guy was no joke, then he pinched from his poke
and cried out "the next one's on me"!
Ear to Ear grins, as they swilled down that gin
In this stranger, a hero they'd found
They cheered him to win, as he knocked those balls in
they cheered for another free round
He had it won, yes all but one
The eight was final ball
The table run, the lushes stunned
When that sphere refused to fall
Clinching his fist, shocked by his miss
He glared across the table
Like a ship in list from drunken bliss
to stand he was barely able
That drunk cracked a smile, for he knew all the while
That he only needed one chance
In appearance so vile, yet he shot with style
That Gin put him into a trance
His vision was blurred, he mumbled and slurred
Yet to win he would need just one more
And so much as a word, could not be heard
That stranger just stared at the floor
Well he sank that ball, and won it all
and he yelled with a bellowing groan
"before last call just one more tall
And the lushes can all buy their own!"