Long Vodka Poems
Long Vodka Poems. Below are the most popular long Vodka by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vodka poems by poem length and keyword.
They say that naught in life is free;
With that, I have to disagree.
In Oregon, you get the views
Of waves and sand and, if you choose,
A tour of something now in vogue -
The brewery where they make Rogue.
Their beers and spirits never fail
To bring some joy, like Dead Guy Ale
And on their tour, you see it made
For zero dollars - what we paid.
They gave us root beer - that's replaced
For 5 bucks with some beer to taste.
Their spirit barrels sure are super,
Crafted by their in-house cooper.
Whiskey, vodka, gin and rum
Are offered; payees sampled some.
And if this wasn't quite enough -
The Beer Museum - filled with stuff.
A smile-inducing part (still free!)
Was brew part to distillery.
We rode there in a little train;
From choo-choos! we could not refrain.
The passersby all waved and we
Responded with a childish glee.
All told, a bargain and such fun
I'd recommend to everyone!
Leaves of the Dead
Les feuilles mortes
They fall like dead soldiers
Dreams knifed in the dead of night
It is as yesterday
Once more
Where love was kissing my cheek
Where hopes had dreams
One could see the blossom of loves desires
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
Ah now I am holding a cane
I have all but forgotten yesterday
I have no lovers
My friends have all but gone
To their designated places in the ground
Piano keys in soft lit lounges
I remember the vodka stingers and sultry singers
Telling me life was jolie oh so jolie
If only there was love…
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
At 3am, with burnt cigarette butts
If only there was love
When the metro finds it’s unwitting end
Reality and cubes make ugly paintings
There are only drunks
Dreamers and bums
Thief’s picking pockets of your final instructions
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
If you can sober up and face the poverty
Of your empty aspirations of hope
Come to the bois de Vincennes
Where Kings and Queens danced and dined
What better place
To splay the butter
So that the knife slides smooth
Whilst the sun fades kissing the seine
Autumn leaves will fall
Dead again
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
An ardent longing for the finer things ...
Vodka from eggs - bedrooms with wings.
Bugatti's and coffees topped with gold,
Armani, Brioni, and true absinthe, old.
Bottega Veneta or a Lanvin wool coat,
Yachts that are really just mansions that float.
Valets and limos and luxe high-rise suites,
Beds dressed in D. Porthault Jours de Paris sheets.
Bluefin sashimi, Kopi Luwak,
Yubari Melon, and real Dark To'ak.
Matsutake Mushrooms, Wagyu Beef,
South Devon Crab with fresh saffron leaf.
Almas Caviar, Bonnotte Potatoes,
White Alba Truffles, Canarian Tomatoes.
Heligan Pineapple, Densuke Black
Watermelon, sweet. In pocket, a stack.
Milan designed leather shoes and gloves -
Oh, I'm cursed, eternal, with such lavish loves!
So what is the claim, if extravagance deems?
I hope for tomorrow, and believe in my dreams.
For naught yet compares to my imaginings' wealth,
All the money on earth can't buy my good health.
So I dream, but I'm happy with all I've been blessed,
And MAYBE, in time ... fate will see to the rest.
Well Mom and Dad were going off
They needed a vacation
Told us to behave ourselves
A new car for motivation.
As soon as they were gone
We decided to invite some pals
Invited Hank, Bob, Bill and Jones
Told them they could bring their gals.
The word got around of party time
They came in at night
We had the curtains down
Didn't want neighbors to get uptight
Hank brought Vodka, Jones brought weed
I said we got to keep things low
"Don't use that stuff, keep it outside
Don't want anyone to know."
Jones turned up the radio
I pleaded, "don't do that."
He started dancing with a banjo
Looked like a cool cat.
Bob had brought a pet raccoon
It pooped on the cashmere rug
I asked him to put it an empty room.
But Bob just gave a shrug.
Hank's girlfriend flirted with Bill
Hank didn't like that at all
Got on his Apple iPhone
Made a couple of calls.
His friends came in downstairs
Left the front door ajar
Hank pointed out Bill
Bill ran like a shooting star
Bill crashed into the beer kegs
The were stowed outside
Policeman read us all the regs
I realized we were fried.
Parents came back quick
The HOA would fine them soon
Both of them looked sick
Then they noticed the raccoon.
So you teens out there, learn from this
Don't party when they're away
You might lose a new car.
And be grounded till judgement day.
Get ready cause here is the next pontification
In regards to my said, beloved’s infatuation
Hear me thee, here do be, the truth of the situation
Which once was the source of said aggravation
After having arrived at many carnal rotations
Yet to me this was more than just merely fornication
Unless it is just about you and your manipulation
Telling me that there was never a foundation
That it was all about the sexual sensation
Confusing are your words in there translation
They were your words of emotional declaration
Saying, that they are your truthful and honest proclamation
That we were was then had been your chosen words of articulation
Did they not bare as authentic in authentication?
Yet, I would never take advantage of your inebriation
You had already been thru enough of that brutalization
Though we both do know, we do have difficulty in communication
Though to me, it is just temporary blocks of frequency channelization
Amplified by the vodka laced with fruit juice for your gestation
This does be the biggest and truest reason for our causation
And the reason being for my excommunication?
If this does draw me as the fool in this poetic explanation
Then paint me as the man who holds much inner vexation
As we come here now to this thee summation
Because I still feel this be your true vibration
You are truly good enough and worthy enough for a higher lofty elevation
The compact disc now adds full sound.
Our mothers preach from all around.
Explicit lyrics and songs of sin.
We sneak in vodka, some rum and gin.
KISS, The Crue and Guns N Roses.
They play the gym, big hair now poses.
I see my sweet across the stage.
J Geils we dance, rage in the cage.
The smell of hairspray and old spice linger.
We dance real close, ballad of Winger.
The high school dance I sure do miss.
My first real buzz, my first real kiss.
Our parties raged on past the dawn.
The after party still parties on.
Our hidden drinks from all of the teachers.
Come dance with me, under the bleachers.
3-18-20 : "Kim Rodrigues' DWM Contest"
He finds himself among the dead,
the moving parts
of armored columns,
His hands are guns
his eyes are guns
His mind a weapon he points.
Drink raw vodka,
laugh and joke with the dead,
for they all saw the beast,
the clanking grinding machine
they marched away to war inside it
they know it, it speaks to them
behind their closed eyes.
Courage comrades, steady,
we are the harvesting of death.
We have weaponized the dead,
hammered swords from shears,
for the Motherland.
He staggers away from himself,
smoke still fuming from the muzzle
of his hot mouth
while other’s step carefully over
his broken cadaver.
My first introduction when I moved in across the hall
Was a lovely older lady, who stood under five feet tall
She came up to my door to say welcome and hello
And to tell me of the neighbours, some above and some below.
She invited me over for a drink, I assumed a coffee or a tea
Vodka, gin or rum she says, of each, i've got plenty
I said rum was good with me, but just a little splash
I watched her a mix a couple drinks, both were half and half.
We talked late into the evening, as she told all of what she knew
Of everyone who had lived there, from now since '92
Sometimes I used to wander over as we lived on the same floor
She pulled a stool to the peephole, before she'd open up the door
I've moved farther away now and I didn't keep in touch
But I do miss our little chats while having just a bit too much
It's been awhile since we've caught up, maybe I should phone
It would be a little different now, since I'm too far to stumble home
For a cold take
hot tea and buttery cinnamon toast
Flu? baked custard, very cold,
maybe milk toast with
with butter oozing from hot milk.
Sad, depressed? chocolate,
macaroni and cheese,
or favorite ice cream.
Tired from a busy day,
take-out – maybe egg rolls
and shrimp lo mein, delivered.
Broken leg? Get friends to
bring in a loaded pizza,
have a beer party
Headache? cold gingerale
(cold water on towel for head)
no food!
Homesick? Mom’s goulash
with extra melted cheese
washed down with
glass of wine or vodka and tonic.
Insomnia? At three am
anything in fridge
or pantry, preferably sweet,
like doughnuts, but even
crackers and cheese will do.
For anything else, large
cut-up juicy orange,
chocolate malt milkshake,
or strawberry shortcake.
Winter's early evening breeze
feels and smells the same now,
as when sixteen,
except less promising
because more consoling,
contenting rather than regenerating contentious breath
of future hopes and dreams,
knowing we conspire somehow,
Earth and I,
because I feel richer to love this way,
than to breathe evening's winter still, alone.
I am less sure this was not my last daylight
in this operatic, yet ridiculously distracted,
lifetime landscape of sensexstory memory.
When I was sixteen,
my understory was more of a musical-comedy landscape
that would remain forever Peter Pan young, virginal,
well...hopefully not that.
Such confidence of seeing yet another
and another, apparently endless,
pink dawn,
turning yellow,
introducing blue hemisphere,
framed by green Earth's polycultural grasses
and monocultural asses,
which, at sixteen,
I found more amusing
than patience perdures into sixtyfour.
Winter's now later evening silence
remembering sixteen and sixtyfour
together
over vodka-laced pomegranate.