Long Whisky Poems
Long Whisky Poems. Below are the most popular long Whisky by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whisky poems by poem length and keyword.
On the Twenty Fifth, December Night,
Black Skies Sparkle with bright light!
Church Bells ring,Ding!Dong!Ding!
Chores of angels ,start to sing!
Merry Christmas!Everyone!
Happy Birthday,Jesus Son.
We rejoice in prayer and joy,
as We thank this New Born Boy,
He is Born for You and Me,
from Our darkness ,sets us free.
Christmas time,a time for Friends,
Tender Hugs and shaking Hands.
Red Holllies in Window Sills,
Deers and sleighs,Over the Hills.
Cheery music in the streets,
Christmas time,a time for peace,
Neighbours sharing Merry greets,
robin's nest, safely in trees..
Its a time we give Our best,
thinking more about the rest,
Christmas Cards,a Christmas Gift,
Its Our time,to give and give!!
Christmas Spirit,Home sweet Home,
A star twinkling ,on each Dome.
Lots of toys, For Homeless Kids,
Stories told and ancient myths.
Brindisi ! a toast! Saluting with a kiss,
Warm mulled wine,We never miss..
French Beres,Red coats to dress,
in their tails,Men, look their best.
Decorating Christmas trees,
altogether,Families!
Phone calls ,far across the miles,
Happy Cries and lovely smiles.
Stocking with little surprise,
Before New Dawn,wake and rise.
Five course lunch, For Everyone,
Turkey roasted,just well done.
Aunties,Cousins ,join together,
On this Christmas ,Winter Weather.
At four tea,a Christmas Bun!
Crowd in Chit Chat,having Fun.
Grandma ,bakes ,a Christmas Cake
Snowballs,Mince Pies and Fig Dates.
I prepare ten christmas logs,
Cherries,Nuts,Whisky and Chocs,
Yummie Candies,so delicious,
Forget all which is nutritiuos..
Little Crib in every House,
Grandpa dress as Santa Clause,
Presents,granting many wishes,
Christmas Day, so very precious.
Missletoe and Gleaming eyes,
Christmas Carols,Christma Rhymes.
Cosy Eve,Burning Flames of Fire place,
Spicy wood and Indoor games.
Long Processions in the Streets,
all the Door Knobs Hold Gold Wreaths.
Candle lights in Children's hands,
Miss Christmas and Snow men Dance!
All the Nations holding Hands,
War Is Over,Still a Chance!
Many Blessings On Our Lands,
Merry Christmas Super Friends..
Merry Christmas Everyone,
Welcome Home,Enjoy the Fun! :)
(Inspired by Caroline Devonshire)
(Welcome in my picture of Christmas Landia)
Charma
"All animals are equal. But some animals are more equal than others."
—George Orwell
A dozen of chickens and a number of horses, a cat and a raven, a few cows and other hoofed ones—all of which are perfectly silent. Poor wolfie. He can't even find a voice to growl. "Your Honor, if I may request for a short recess," I whisper, humiliatingly like a dying dragon. But my timid voice is drowned by a sly-looking pig's pouring of whisky into Dis Honor's gilded cup.
"Have you no respect or have you no eyes?" Squealing, he deafeningly squeals. He reminds me of that scaled wyvern whose head now sits in my living room. It roared deafeningly loud but breathed no fire. "His Honor is having his brief period of refreshment at the moment!"
With eyes too dry to cry and throat too hoarse to howl, the defendant meekly weeps. But only I hear it; the jury listens to only the silence, loud as a baby serpent's inaudible hiss, of two semi-digested pigs in his gut.
Who on earth build houses with flimsy hays or sticks nowadays anyway? And was it my client's fault that the third genius Doctor Porkchop got killed when some stray earthquake crushed his oh-so-unshakable fort built brick by bloody brick? Just whose brilliant proposal is it again to have Napoleon presiding the trial of the so-called Big Bad Wolf? If only he was a dragon—a pig-dragon at least— I would fain put the beauty that is my sword into good use right now.
Countless charges of premeditated murder, culpable animalicide, et cetera. Of course, do sentence us all to another life. I turn to look at the audience right behind me: a mare, a goat, a donkey. A soft motherly neigh followed by an intelligent baa, then by an astute silence.
"Please, Your Honor," Ridiculous. This stupid courtesy reminds me of tiptoeing past a mother Couatl guarding her eggs. "Shall we resume—"
Slams of gavel.
"Objection! Objection! Objection!" Dis Honor oinks vehemently, his mouth reeking of poorly brewed whisky—and I thought Tiamat's droppings were bad. The way he repeats the slamming of his gavel with every disgustingly pronounced objection gives me a headache as if it was my head he keeps hammering on. For the first time, being hit by the Basilisk's tail doesn't sound so bad at all. "Here you call me 'Your Honor Napoleon' in full," Oh, believe me, the honor is fully mine.
Saddle your horse and get ready for the ride; this will be your final day before you take off to the sky, the weather is too dry over here and we have nothing more to share; I have to reserve what I have for the others living over there.
Come and stir the pot with me and walk with me through hills and valleys, we will survey the vast landscape, lofty mountains and fine river bed. You will observe where the skyline meets with the earth and where the river is washing away the dirt, and then you will understand what I have been telling you all along.
Saddle your horse and come with me, I will take you through the route that leads to the top of the mountain and you will see the optical phenomenon that is baked beneath the earth giving rise to a meteorological vision.
I can see streams of light parachuting from the earth , carving out a circular spectrum in the sky with multi-colored dyes spreading all over the sky. It meets with steep slopes interfacing the earth and refracting around the slopes.
Saddle your horse and come with me, I will take you to the corner store
And show you why poor people are always asking for more. The cost of goods and service are real and grocers have to work out their own deal, a pint of oil is sold in plastic bags and thin slice of cheese is all that they have. The backs of chicken makes good curry and the necks of turkey is poor people’s luxury.
Saddle your horse and come with me and let me show you what life is like in the inner city. They are running up and down the street with guns shooting at one another for fun, the Don Man rides in with his motorcade and flick a sharp blade. He cut the box open and shower gifts to the whole community.
Saddle your horse and come with me, we will ride to the other side and you must tell me what you see. People are hustling and bustling in the street and men and women are dressed in suites and fine gown, their tables are laden with lamb, beef, lobsters pork and all the meat in the butchers shop, but wine, beer and whisky are pouring from the top.
The trees are laden with fruits and everyone is wearing a fine pair of shoes and they are dining in fine restaurant and having nightly party. You have got to correct this disparity. Saddle your horse and come with me I am ready for the next leg of the journey.
NYC nior in black and white
NYC nior in black and white
Dark landscapes 1957 NYC
of automats radio city and hotdog stands
memories of things past
Take us back to lucid dreams of light and shadows cast
set the stage late night dark wet NY detectives on the beat
slow moving like grit and steel they stride down the great white way
steam and clouds shoot to the sky from sewer covers
smoke rings blast out from bill boards of urban midnight cowboys
from route 66
On the street hipsters glide down in pinstriped suits
cool sleek long with straddled watch chains dragging
smoking stogies from drooping lips
wing tipped shoes rested on black boxes at shoe shiners row at 53rd and lex
wanting fem defal’s dark diva’s in fish nets tight red skin dresses with sleek spike heels long cigarettes with long brim hats and netted veils as they walk the line swinging their Purses leaning against posts on the foggy corners
Dharma bums gaze at city lights dreaming of old bards songs
through garment push carts and rushing feet
in the machinery of the steamy night
the boxcars moving past open doors
The cities glare in shadows bare
neon signs striptease flashing in the backdrop of honking horns and traffic
night clubs casinos and one night stands in greasy motels
pool hall hustler’s poker players loan sharker's and scheamers
whisky bars dockyard and widowed screams
tenement houses windows open curtains drawn
sweat and muscle tee shirts yelling out to others
saxophone city of butchers boozers bribers and brown baggers
Bright yellow checkers and taxis on Times Square
down the smoke hazed dark lanes against the hard walls
slim Jim zoot suiter’s lazy dazed side leaning
roll loaded dice with steaming cheap Tricks
Newspaper stands and barbers shops with marbled checker floors
white steaming towels with waiting hot lather
man with straight edge and black leather strap leans over
with Sinatra playing in the back
Neon city balanced in chaotic disorder of abstract lines
of municipal signs
city where monk lady day and Coltrane play Improve
in old coffee houses of smoke filled cafes for pennies a day
as street poets whisper and drink their troubles away
dreaming of Brando bogie smoking Joe's and blondes
of slip hips and jive
Screaming Guillotines
I.
I sit on the wide veranda of this house called America,
And I can see the Beast Boys coming our jungled way,
Coming like wild torrents of lapping flames over the astonished landscape,
Coming with black eyes squinting and staring for a feast of blood.
I sit trembling with mouth wide open, waiting for the whistling hearses to come,
And the inevitable silent tap upon my evading shoulder.
And far far away into the green enveloping expanse,
Of consuming trees and obliterating American skies,
I can hear the screaming guillotines serenading the ghost dancers.
I can see the whistling hearses bringing in the crimson nightmares.
II.
Time to take my knife again and lacerate the flesh of this dead thing,
This once-breathing creature that felt nothing but the slash of profit.
Time to spit out the long thin hairs entwined around my teeth.
Time to wonder whose hair this belongs to, as I pull out the long strands slowly,
Like pulling out long segmented worms from beneath the dirt of a rock.
“Ah, do you know the time? Is your sister coming by today?
She knows my name, and she can hear the screaming guillotines when they drop.
Will she spend some time with me here on my soft bumpy sofa?
Will she at last listen, at last hear, my remonstrances of lost love,
As we devour this dead, unbreathing thing,
Inside this salty steaming stew?"
III.
The Profit Boys are back in town,
And Jess and Jim are drunk on whiskey.
John Jupiter and his new bride, Isabel,
Are eating chicken and dumplings without a frown.
His new suit, in whisky-laden tatters, is
Hanging propped on a sweat-stained hall tree.
“Lordy those two are riling me; but shucks, it’s my wedding day!”
Then into town rides the Domino Kid from Abilene;
He’s looking to escape the screaming guillotines at Lansing.
John Jupiter and Isabel drink a toast to the future,
Their happy hearts pounding with hopeful glee;
Then he bashfully presents a wedding ring to his dimpled bride,
And kisses her sweetly under the tall Dragon tree.
But now, inside their barn, with soft lamplight aglowing,
Amidst the rambling rawhide, and a cracked cowbell,
Jess and Jim Profit set fire to the hayloft, a fire that is still growing;
The Domino Kid lies asleep, eternally dreaming of Isabel.
You were an alcoholic, my mother says,
Fixing me with her timid tear-watered gaze –
You lived in paradise, on the wings of angels,
And you were an alcoholic…
So we had to take you away
Like Eve with her apple we had to remove you,
From the temptation – from your final graceless fall
We did it to save your life
She says it, tremulously, and I make no rebuke,
Offer no sharp retort
But she knows, and I know, that tearing me from Paradise did no good
That I am still an alcoholic; always will be
For though the booze was cheap in Paradise, the thirst is in my soul
And wherever I am, it comes along too
A dehydrated demon, crouched in my belly,
A baby screaming for milk – laced with your finest vodka
I crave the drink, I cherish the drink…I hoard it like Gollum with his precious ring
And whenever I can, wherever I am, I thirst and I swallow
And I fly into the air on tenuous wings,
Unshackled from sobriety for a brief tempestuous time
But the hills skimming below me are bleak,
There are no angels with me, and my heart is a cold lump of lead
I am consumed by bitterness
For though the alcohol remains, the landscape is not the same
And all is now black where it used to be shades of grey
And oh God, how the memories haunt me now,
Memories of when I used to live in Paradise, and drink…
How I soared above those Utopian beaches of golden sand,
Over those glossy jungle-garmented hills
They were my salvation, my succor during my drunken despair
But I was cruelly torn away from my precious Eden not so long ago,
And sent to purgatory to repent, still nursing the thirst, deep inside
And now here I sit, on the banks of the Styx, still thirsty – still drinking
Still an alcoholic, swallowing acrid mouthfuls of angst and self pity
But there is no Paradise now to comfort me, no angels with gossamer wings
No one to wipe the whisky tears that stream down my ashen cheeks
I am an alcoholic still, with nothing left to live for and nowhere left to go
So when my mother says she wanted to save my life – to save me from myself
I look at her in sullen silence and wonder;
How the loss of Eden could ever have taken away my alcoholic shades
When the mutinous eyes that stare through them belong, solely, to me?
Dear Santa,
As you may well know,
it's tights and not stockings that are all the go.
So, with no stockings to hang on the bedstead,
would a pair of my bloomers be OK instead?
I'll sew up the legs so that there is more space,
can't have my gifts falling all over the place.
I hope you don't mind, as my wine you consume,
please try to be silent when entering my room.
I'm a light sleeper and at my age, which is quite a pain,
if I lose too much sleep, then it addles my brain.
You may kiss me sweetly if I'm in deep slumber
mistletoe on my pillow, plus telephone number.
I promise to leave you a home-made mince pie,
though the pastry's gone soggy
'cause the onions made me cry.
Myopia means recipes I really struggle to see
though onion in mince pies' is a new one on me.
But the pies are quite tasty as I'm sure you'll agree
and if you're still hungry, then have two or three!
There's a drop of fine whisky which you may try too,
bought by my late husband circa 1952
'twas in an old bottle I found in the shed
my hubby drank most of it afore dropping dead.
I think you're so special, dear old Santa Claus,
now here's what I would like you to leave in my drawers:.
1. A pretty box - so I may store my false teeth so neat,
so I can find 'em when I gets me something to eat.
2. A walking frame 'cause I am liable to fall,
and falling, alas, does you no good at all.
3. Some California Poppy, as supplies now seem so short,
if this scent can't be found I will smell like a horse.
4. A pair of big knockers, for front and back door.
A warm cosy nighty, don't need see-throughs no more.
5. Get me a back scratcher, please, if you can,
I can't scratch that itch since I lost me old man.
6. Also an emergency underwear kit,
as nowadays there's times when I don't quite make it.
7. If you have a big dog, leave it in the back yard,
I'll treat quite kindly, if me it will guard.
Thats all the gifts on my Christmas wish list,
but I'll settle for more Santa, if you insist.
I haven't been naughty for many a year,
when awaking, I expect all my gifts to be here!
Merry Christmas!
Looby Loo x
* * *
Christmas 2020
It was said by pilgrim sons next to the Boston Harbor,
That to take tax without redress was action of dishonor.
And so a team of farmers went and built themselves an army,
To drive the redcoats off their land and end George’s tyranny.
We’re beating drums and ask your sons to come now to our aid
We’re marching out as men along the patriot’s parade.
Them red-devil Injuns ain’t no good and they cavort in sin!
So forget your Ma’s and Pa’s my boys the calvr’y needs a win.
We’ll drive them savages off them fields and make that land our own,
Them whisky barons should pay too for drunks and broked men’s homes
We’re beating drums so tell your sons to come now to our aid
We’re marching out as soldiers along the patriot’s parade.
The government of 1812 wanted lands Canadian
they also set about with plans to take captured Lousianne.
Those Brits they really gave us cause with press-gang’d merchant sailors.
Rise up you merry lads and arm let’s feed those Brits to gators!
We’re beating drums to protect your sons so come now to our aid
We’re marching yet again along the patriot’s parade.
Keep sending sons to mount and ride against the red-man nations,
In Texas good men hold back Santa Anna’s salutations.
The yellow cinaman’s opium turns strong men into slaves,
We need to climb Mt. Fiji and teach Japan we rule the waves.
We’re beating on the drums again, not empire, just foreign aid;
We’re sailors, soldiers and marines on a patriot’s parade.
Them fed’ral scum think they can ru’n our way of life. ‘tain’t southern.
They’re try’na undercut our vote by free’n the ‘raff for breedin’.
Those southern states how dare they break from this nation we’re building?
We can’t let constitution bar the way that we are growing!
We’re sailors, soldiers and your sons on a patriot’s parade
We’re the real army and your true sons on patriot’s parade
You may think we’ve fought enough and we all wish that it were so,
But truth be told we need to scold Koreans on Ganghwado.
And even if that weren’t so bad rustlers have crossed the border,
We need more men that we can send to restore Texan order.
We’re beating on new drums, you’ll see, all dressed in golden braid,
The army, navy and marines on patriot parade!
2025.2.26
Dear A, today would have been your 90th birthday.
Thank you for being my friend, neighbor, and be your carergiver.
I remember all those songs,
You sang in your language.
You had such strong lungs and soprano voices.
I also remember you said,
"Where have you been all my life?"
You repeated that quite few times.
Each time, I just sang "You needed me" by Anne Murray.
Then one day, from your kitchen's window,
Behind the venetian blind
I clearly heard you sang a beautiful song.
Which I heard on the radio, when I was little.
I rang and asked you for the title.
You said "La Paloma", that was it.
On the very next visit,
I brought along my harmonica.
That day, we had so much fun
With singing and playing music.
Eventually. I played the piano,
You sang your favourite songs along my melodies.
Over the time, I was surprised and revered for
Your abilities to overcome all kind of issues.
When you helped me moving in my unit.
All you wanted was a bottle of whisky.
All my life, I hated surprises.
But you did it very nice,
On my birthday, with two digit candles,
On a small chocolate icing cake.
You surprised me with your singing.
My tears ran down on my cheeks.
I did not like surprise but I was happy.
Never before I was spoiled like what you did.
Since that day, I warned you,
Never surprised me again.
Guessed what, my friend, you never listen.
You bought me present on each special occasions.
From that day, we celebrated our birthdays every year,
In 2019, I celebrated yours in hospital.
Dear A, have I told you,
Through out my adult life,
You were the first and the only one,
Who continued giving me pleasant surprises.
I still kept those burnt digit candles.
I would proudly say to everyone,
Of all the people I know,
Whether related or pretended,
All their loves could not add up to yours.
What more precious was,
You taught me how to,
Love someone truly and unconditionally.
Today, here I knee in front of your grave,
Besides the usual offerings as always
Reading you this poem will be a surprise gift.
Thank you for loving me,
Thank you for being my truest friend.
Thank you my dear,
Thank you and may you rest in peace.
Thinking of you always.
The world in her eyes
Has azure blue skies
Fields of emerald green
And fluttering butterflies
The world in her eyes
The songbird sings and flies
Over flowers alight with color
Spring waves “hello”, never “goodbye”
The world in her eyes
Has rainbows in the sunrise
Has a silvery full moon
And millions of golden stars in the sky
The world in her eyes
Has mushrooms on high
A world of swirling color
That can mystify and hypnotize
The world in her eyes
Has whisky, vodka, rum and rye
Beer and wine to warm and cheer
All spirits to satisfy
The world in her eyes
We ride the Polar Express for dimes
And Ted Bear is your engineer
More or less at times
The world in her eyes
Is great and huge of size
With towering trees that bow in the breeze
And soaring mountains and oceans wide
The world in her eyes
We always stay outside
We run and play games all day
Until the dusk of night
The world in her eyes
There are who’s, but no why’s
Wear your ‘Barba-loot’ suite
Dr. Seuss is your guide
The world in her eyes
Has chocolate candy, cherry tarts and apple pies
All good sweet things to eat
That will go right to your stomach and thighs
The world in her eyes
There are laughs, but no sighs
Anger and sorrow fade away
Tears of joy are cried
The world in her eyes
All is truth and never lies
No need to ever run
No need to ever hide
The world in her eyes
The road may be rocky and winds
The night may be dark and cold
But there’s always a brilliant sunrise
The world in her eyes
Sometimes passes me by
Like running on empty
But in our dreams we fly
The world in her eyes
Never sees the demise
Only the creation
God’s hand on land and skies
The world in her eyes
There are no wrongs just rights
The world is one big happy family
With dancing, songs and beautiful sights
The world in her eyes
Sees through the disguise
The false faces we make
To try and hide
The world in her eyes
Sees castles on high
Secrets to keep in barrow’s down deep
Flying horses to ride
The world in her eyes
Where nobody dies
You’re just resurrected
Back to new lives
The world in her eyes
Sees souls to rise
To Heaven to be saved
She has angel eyes…