Long Tavern Poems
Long Tavern Poems. Below are the most popular long Tavern by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tavern poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh, the blue southern sky
can't help wondering why
if you love us, you've chosen to roam:
and the birds in the square
sing, because you're not there,
"Katy, Katy, come home!"
The Plaza Socorro
is shrouded in sorrow,
and the glitter is gone from its dome:
they sing in Faustino's
and the tavern of Kino's,
"Come home, Katy, come home!"
We've got wine that's as good
as the summer's rich blood,
and the smell of the campo's sweet loam:
hay bromas, abrazos
y piropotazos:
Katy, Katy, come home!
There's the tang of new mosto
in the heat of agosto,
and San Miguel's icy white foam:
when forest owls call,
my voice is shrillest of all -
Come home, Katy, come home!
Plop, plop, plop.
The white light of the window's
Modern-day tavern shone
On the writer's keys
as the raindrops plopped atop
The wooden barrels outside.
His mind both racked and vacant
Body-dragged and summarily questioned
Twixt miles and miles of driving to connect
The dots as the mind, the mind, the mind...
Mutters, mumbles, and mucks through the hours
Like a muddied pigeon struggling to spread its wings
As small concentric circles grow outward on the writer's
Cold wet barrel outside in the inclement Seattle spring spritz...
So you have a break.
So you have time to rest.
So why complain?
Look at all this mental health bliss.
Why fuss and moan and
Stress and with such duress?
There's a way to find the calm in the chaos.
Just go away, get away, though check your emails.
The kids have the flu, go take your break.
It's walking pneumonia, where's your harmonica?
Let's sing the blues.
The songs of our lives.
The tears of all the angels.
Human tears taste better.
An eye for an eye
A hambone for a hambone
Who called the vegetarian?
Fooled you that's a pescatarian.
This poem is a train,
That never found the rails.
And that's okay
When excavating
The soul of the soul,
The eye of the eye,
The plop of the plop
From the Beer Barrel Bop.
I am the raindrop.
And even the barrel.
Plop, plop, plop.
This is the story of Bertie Bucket
A highway man of daring and some notoriety
Who plied his trade around Rye and Hawkhurst
In 1740 but he was not that good you see
He came from a long line of Buckets
There were ten of them in all
His parents were a steadfast couple who had ten children
Five brothers, four sisters and one I cannot recall
He started stealing from an early age
About ten or twelve I think
He stole the purse of a well know judge
Which created such a stink
He ran away to the town of Rye
Where he found work as a stable boy
And learned to ride a horse quite well
And to be a Highway man was the ploy
So in a few years, five or six or so
He started his life of criminality
With his trusty new steed Old Bess a big black mare
They became a team you see
He rode the trails from Rye to Dungeness
Robbing Travelers Coaches and the like
The problem was the authorities
Never could find out where he would strike
On one such daring escapade
Everything went wrong that could
Whilst pulling his pistol from out of his belt
It went off and Bess galloped off into the nearby wood
It only just missed from shooting his toe off
His boot was quite a mess
So off he went licking his wounds
In a state of great distress
A few days later he was back again
And tried to hold up a coach
But the coachman was not so easily scared
And Bertie was full of self reproach
But his luck ran out one fateful night
At the Tavern the old Mermaid Inn in Rye
He was captured by the local militia
He could not escape how hard he did try
He was up in court before the Judge
Whose purse he had stolen years before
So he was sentenced to Hang as soon as it could be arranged
But a gale force wind broke down the court door
He leapt from the dock and was out in a flash
Grabbed a nearby horse and galloped away with speed
Out into the darkness never to be seen again
So any would be Highwaymen take heed.
On the morn of the eve of infinity
Saw the eyes of a stranger I knew
As she danced to the tune of the Devil
By the silvery light of the moon
I said " Lady I came here for drinkin'"
But her burning gaze finished my sentence
She said " Sir! Won't you tell me your secret
And I'll be your queen of repentance"
So soldier or sailor live life to the last
Believe in the truth of expectance
For in some dark tavern or shady bordello
You may meet her the queen of repentance
Then her hand held mine like a grape to a vine
With a promise of pleasures untold
And this angel or wraith was to replace my faith
And shone light in a soul turned cold
So soldier or sailor come tell her your secret
For she's your last chance of redemption
Let the black in your soul be replaced by the light
Where no sin is too great for exemption
It’s 5pm and sunny in Ohio, 40 degrees
and dropping,
by dusk it will be grey turning to red
then black.
Where is the oyster shell now?
The heavenly picture
of a pale spume-tickled .
An unmarried Tudor lady
applies more cosmetic beeswax
to a Monarch butterfly.
I will see the road from my front window
for another hour.
At some time I will eat a cheese sandwich,
At the same time
Consequently I darkly develop
a sunny-side up dawn
casually dressed omelet.
A Siamese cat, coats a Knight
with heraldic tar from a nightjar.
A clay Madonna carves out
epicanthic folds
from an African twilight.
I believe in chains of associations
leading to all possible outcomes.
House plants rent a niche of bedrock.
Plumes of cigar smoke flutter
in airless Mayan canyons.
Factory farmed Quetzalcoatl’s
hustle the leafy bustles of housemaids
as they feather dust aspidistras.
Mind can join together
one probability or another,
one word to another,
words that seem unrelated
yet together trigger an image
that feels newborn.
An iron skillet, crushes walnuts
on a coffin of dead elephants,
a black casket casts kitchen shadows.
Here’s the thing, this power
that may seem like a weakness,
actually
is the way the multi-universe works.
Camels swim an underground sea,
sand dunes wave over a once boozy tavern.
Humpback whales
recite the scriptures
of aesthetic scarab beetles.
The laws of poetically possible realities
operate for you when you follow
your imaginative mind-stream,
all these co-dependent transitional factors
want to link hands.
A speckled moonlight
chases a hen
around a weather vane
while a barnyard tornado
whisks a can of English beer.
Congratulations, you are now a creator,
demonstrating clearly
that you are a child of God.
...She looked at him with a sneer and a snarl,
Then looked off to the priest with venom eyes,
Only to look back and rage at Marton,
“You need to suffer! I won’t let you die!”
She lunged forwards, plunged her teeth in his neck,
Marton just smiled, he’d counted on this,
Adelina was always predictable,
and true to form her response had been brisk.
But then with a cry she went reeling back,
her blood stained mouth dissolving then and there,
hurried shrieks came out of her ruined face,
her green eyes shrouded in pain and despair.
Marton just laughed, and paced slowly forwards.
“Did you not know blood is mostly water?
And that priests can make all water holy?
Did you not know God gave them such power?
“All I needed was to hear a few prayers,
and all the water in me became blessed.
drinking Holy Water…bad for your kind,
maybe enough to kill off your undeath.
“Your mouth is gone, your jaw has burned away,
but you’re not dead yet, so father, grab her.”
The priest seized her and cast her to the ground,
so weak was she no resistance was offered.
Marton just stalked over his old love's form,
said, “Now my dear, you probably won’t like this,
but we’ve no other way to kill you right now,
and I just really have to take a piss…”
What happened next need not be described here,
suffice to say that Marton’s ‘Holy Stream’
finished Adelina with a hot burst,
and no more would she haunt innocents' dreams.
Though they both survived, Marton came to see,
that he had put himself out of a job,
the priest spread the news, the people were blessed,
and of prey all the vampires were robbed.
They got so hungry they turned to livestock,
so the priests went out and blessed them all too,
within two decades the undead were gone,
leaving Marton with nothing much too do.
He ended up running that same tavern,
spinning grand tales of his days of glory,
how a full bladder could kill vampires,
just get him drunk, he’ll tell the whole story!
The war is ever-nearer to the boarders of this land
Seeping forward through the woods
Releasing acrid echoes of doom ahead on energetic tongues of stowaways
Lucky to survive their ordeal
Here they are welcomed, and in this cozy tavern
Their woes are hidden in the shadows while they warm their feet by the fire, regaling their heroic tales of escape;
growing ever grander with the generous plying of ‘the innkeeper’s secret’ special brew
‘It’s a secret,’ he tells me, as I take a sip;
Warm amber fills my mouth, washing my throat with a sense of sweet spicy sunshine..
Suddenly I know, how despite being closest to the edge of conflict, this tavern will be Sanctuary …
Spying the patrons and the ever arriving newcomers from my shaded alcove seat;
Spotting frantic newcomers; a beacon of fear in a sea of jovial patrons slurring songs of old, arm in arm with one another
It’s not hard to see that this tavern if filled with patrons from both sides…
But it seems that the only person seeing this…is me
‘How do you do it?’ I ask under my breath, reluctant to destroy this mirage of comfort before me.
‘It’s a secret,’ he smiles, melting into the crowd.
I try to follow, but my legs are soo heavy, anchoring my flying torso to my seat, my will fighting my body to stay in the now,
´HOW!’ I shout out, a cry of desperation …
He turns back, only once, with a cheeky smile and a wink for good measure … then he is gone … like he never was
I wake to the sound of twittering birds in a cove of dappled sunshine, before me a meadow where once stood a cozy tavern…
All that remains; a tangled arch of wisteria and jasmine …
And the eerie susurrations of songs of old,
Inviting all in … to the toadstool ring.
Broken radio waves visions of screams deep within the gardens of my mind
Peace created by summoning my own best friend into my heart
Jeff is not a killer
Jonathan was always Joshua
Inside the caged cell the heart grew into roses that bloomed into emeralds
Topaz eyes and sparks of mirrors igniting the flocks of sparrows
Friendly fish or gentle serpents we sing with the wolves and dance with eagles
Your fire in the ocean became a new universal call sign
Under the sky we plotted to dig in the ground
Juniper and tumeric with raisins and mint and garlic plus some lemon rind
You look to the dawn to experience the rising sun
Heavy doom avowed to question merging spring time with winter celebrations
who raided the moon? who opened the scrolls?
Time in the cave of wonders brought out my faithful return to self
Giant elephants and horses on fire explored rivers of electric rain and bloody snowfall
Twisted hunters sought to overthrow the heights and discovered their sights restored
Gold and silver sunshine minted coins of copper and iron sold off wooden caskets to bakery greetings
I Yearned to meet the regent and discovered he borrowed my tavern to fix my quest
Red robes turned black dissolved the mountains with silent friction
it is all in the hips so I swung my clubs and drove the ball into the basket
She was a woman who had a little hair on her chin.
She was older, robust, called simply Old Finn.
It did not make sense that they called her this at nineteen.
Still, she was the wisest one in the local tavern, usually seen.
If we had a question about our drink or our food
We could always ask Old Finn; she was in a loud mood.
That never changed, her voice brought rats from the rafters.
She was a beer-loving-waitress, known by beer drafters.
Her manner was coarse, but she was tavern exact.
Knowing how to do every job and that is a fact!
I grew up here with my grandparents since a little tyke.
I cannot give you your car keys, honey. Borrow a bike.
She took no risks, would not let anyone drive home drunk.
Sometimes she would call the police – her nephew McFunk.
Lumberjack burley, he would take you swiftly out of danger.
You might wake up in bed, sometimes next to a stranger.
Old Finn would keep your secrets, she never spoke ill of you.
She would uplift your spirit, and help you keep down your blue.
Her funeral was the largest our village had ever seen or had.
If you don’t believe me, ask your cousins, mom or granddad.
Dehydrated by the unbearable heat, they constantly sweat and suddenly leap;
where would they find on a prairie a cooling shade,
if their exhausted brains tells them to lay down and sleep...
when its not dusk yet and their bodies seem bone-tired and out of shape?
Where would they find on a prairie a cooling shade
as the rolling grassland is not gentle on their dry skin,
when it's not dusk yet and their bodies seem bone-tired and out of shape...
like the limping travelers who searched all day for a small tavern or inn?
As the rolling grassland is not gentle on their dry skin,
it gives no shelter to the buffaloes that billow and beet thirsting for water...
like the limping travelers who searched all day for a small tavern or inn;
no, not under the cacti sizzling into the hot noon, where the cowboys sleep on fur!
It gives no shelter to the buffaloes that billow and beet thirsting for water,
if their exhausted brains tell them to lay down and sleep...
no, not under the cacti sizzling into the hot noon, where the cowboys sleep on fur!
Dehydrated by the unbearable heat, they constantly sweat and suddenly leap.