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.
I Tank Yer
I tank yer fer da guitar ’an an empty bottle o’ booze,
‘An I tank yer fer hav’n run out on me ‘an ma.
I tank yer fer run’n real fa,
‘An I tank yer fer giv’n us nutt’n to loose.
I tank yer fer ruin’n my life thru ‘an thru,
‘An tank yer fer makn’ me fight many a folk.
I tank yer fer makn’ my life a run’n joke,
‘An I tank yer fer nam’n me Sue.
I tank Johnny Cash for his dang song and fer mak'n my dad too dang dumb ‘an too wrong.
I tank all the bars,
‘An all the whisky, ‘an all the ha’ars.
‘An I tank that this poem is too dang long.
Good night!
by, Martin Braun
11/29/2018
A Waft of Smoke, Old Whisky Twist
There he sat on Amnesty Bench,
Stoking his pipe with a pen,
A waft of smoke, old whisky twist,
Recollections of way back when.
This gentleman of senior years,
Appeared thoughtful, quietly content.
Tell me your story, I’d love to know,
What kind of life had you spent.
Looking at him across the street,
He briefly motioned, but did not speak,
I heard words of wisdom and love,
A soft voice, a little frail, a little weak.
I’d seen him many times before,
Sat alone at his favourite station;
Perhaps he was just there for me,
To deliver a message of affirmation.
We did seem to have an acquaintance,
Even though I don’t know his name.
In a blink the old Gent was gone,
Curiously I never saw him again.
I think when I’m in heaven,
I’ll put my feet on a soft cloud.
Pour some Tennessee whisky,
and read poetry to the crowd.
I’ll hug my dad a few times,
I’ll kiss my mom on both her cheeks.
Sit at the kitchen table,
eat her good cooking for two weeks.
I’ll walk those dusty backroads,
won’t care about the summer heat.
I’ll play tag and kick the can,
right in the middle of the street.
Maybe I’ll help as momma,
hangs our clothes outside on the line.
And listen to her singing,
“Old Rugged Cross” just one more time.
Perhaps I’ll join my father,
listen to coon hounds running free.
Laying on the grass watching,
soft clouds floating on a cool breeze.
Walk a few acres of beans,
then buck a thousand bales of hay.
Or head to Wakenda Creek,
sit on the bank, and fish all day.
So, when I’m dead and gone, dear,
please don’t shed any tears for me.
Just take my body’s ashes,
and spread me neath that old oak tree.
Take me back to Wakenda,
back to that place where I was born.
Carry me up that big hill,
let me see fields of wheat and corn.
Let me watch the birds and clouds,
drifting through that Wakenda sky.
Like I did in those old times,
before life went too quickly by.
When you come to the graveside,
and see my name carved on the stone.
Know that I am happy dear,
and I shall never be alone.
You are mad, I get that
Just don't shout, don't break my glass
Go for a run, go to the gym
I don't know why all this fuss
Frustration here and there
Voices everywhere
Whispering in your ears
That every mistake you made is because of life
Haven't you seen a flower blooming?
Haven't you seen a baby smiling?
Haven't you seen happy people ?
Well simply my dear, that is called LIFE
If that doesn't move you
If that doesn't makes you feel alive
Then you are in trouble my dear
Your emotions are dead inside
A glass of whisky won't help
Breaking my glass just won't help out
Fighting over such stupid things
I won't let ruin my lovely day
Get frustrated , I am trying to understand
Negative thoughts won't bring happiness back
Okay fine, break my glass
Just promise me you won't break other stuff
You need to stay by yourself
I give you all the space you want
I wish if I can bloom a flower in your heart
That will bring you peace and calm you inside
Don't ever run from Life
You can't hide anywhere
Do your best and move to the next step
You will be surprised of the power of LIFE
Treat life good. Life is fair
Agoraphobia
Can you imagine, all my life, I have suffered from agoraphobia, the fear of being exposed as the true me without a fig leaf to protect me from the scary world, yet I was hellbent on curing myself because, on that stage of life, all I needed was a push, which I found without any help from you.
It began in Liverpool when I had three cafés to run when the morning fear was acute, only stilled by whisky. Yes, I was the boss, ok with a hole in my heart, I knew I was a fake
Nervous breakdown doctors were not told why you got
into trouble, they thought it was about drink.
It was not that simple; it was about a fear of the open, alone going back to childhood.
The people trained to help looked another way I cured myself by understanding what I had to avoid: drunks; I retired, which was easy because they thought I was a hopeless alcoholic, but drinking was never my problem,
You were my problem, with your college education set you, and after reading a few books, thought you knew about the human condition.
are you with me, you drowsy pen?…this world is a
freakin’ distorted place. we are scribbling
like mites in pillow fights: dirty nails we have become ,
contagious as micro germs trying to make
sense of all the fake reality clinging to sleek fuzz,
pizzaz and all that jazz… ‘cmon, we are all fragile.
we’re all gonna die. so why be drugged by
penning a Lindsay Lohan kind of intoxication?
look at you, ink! swiveling like whims of tipsy lines.
far too many blots on your made-up tip…
geez, those pop culture digs scanning cosmo hours
with whisky gulps of idle entertainment, you know,
the scratch of feeble hands sucking materialistic
greed. do you think you’re rotten smart in hurried
thoughts of instant gratification? this is for real, for real.
and listen up: have you written about the will of
a spirit for true love of self, of flowers and others?
nope, not the kind you feel when intoxicated phrases
are riddled with booze shots… life goes on, every second,
every written word. there's something
unspeakably beautiful about it all...if only you and i
can share the flow of some kind of wonder without greed.
you’re wasted! pik-bam-boom, take my alcoholic
breaths to the top; see that there is no before or after.
just one rare, pure “ now” moment: damn it’s for real, for real…
our lives are a good freakin’ thing, isn’t it? hey, you’re dozing off !
©
by nette onclaud
for Elliott Bowe’s Drink Drunken Pen
To stop the myth going around that Santa is a Scotsman, a huge hit on the radio here. So fo those that believe this is the truth.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
You just say he is Scottish, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whisky
Washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody here knows that
You say your Scottish Santa’s Glow warm, red and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor bar tat.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swop gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
A life in tree-lined poetry
Once I was a cook on the high seas and worked long days
seven days a week; Eater and Christmas meant more work
baking cakes and baking bread.
It was not only tiring but boring to seafarers like solid
food that they are used to from home, which makes
cooking into a job of blindfolded ennui.
No wonder cooks turn to drink, the combination
of long hours, infinitely making meat cakes and mash
can send anyone into the abyss of insanity
For my next job, I learned to cook books and found
I had my latent talent how to make stories, to make
the numbers tally; I could sit in a soft chair doing this.
For a reason, lost in the fog of the past, I ended up
a counsellor, a strange occupation, telling the unlucky
not to drink, when at night enjoying a whisky or two.
I was found out and sacked; how shocked they were
the justly seniors took my license and nameplate on
the door, hounded me out of town.
There was one escape, back to sea and cooking stuff
long were the hours when not reading self-help books
until some said: “aren’t you the one who got fired?
Little Miss Ruby cannot keep still
Little Miss Ruby is running up the hill
Little Miss Ruby is going around the circle
Little Miss Ruby likes the color purple
Little Miss Ruby is playing smart
Little Miss Ruby is drawing a flow chart
Little Miss Ruby has a bold spirit
Little Miss Ruby is a bigot
Little Miss Ruby keeps changing the tune
Little Miss Ruby love the tycoon
Little Miss Ruby has a big king bed
Little Miss Ruby love the color red
Little Miss Ruby is banging the door
Little Miss Ruby is peeping through the key hole
Little Miss Ruby is looking for a loophole
Little Miss Ruby is out of control
I walked quietly through the back door
Seeking solace for my ripped up soul
I tried to get a sip of whisky
before I join the invigorating dance floor
But something magnetic ushered me away
And took me to the ground floor
unscrupulous men puffing big cigars
gather around a table in the streetcar
Half naked women serving vodka
Big men with big stuff playing poker
Big pocket big hand
Big money big land
Empty chairs, empty bed
Empty house, empty head
The thoroughbred is leaving the shed
And here I am penetrating the letterhead
They kept moving it from pillar to post
until it end up on the ivory coast
I like the shape of that big horn
It was on the wall before I was born
Something spectacular is carved inside
little miss Ruby is full of pride
Little Miss Ruby is coming clean
Little Miss Ruby has spilled the beans
I met a young woman from the middle east
She asked me to walk her to town,
and took my arm.
She felt good, smelt nice
auburn hair, white jacket and trousers,
crisp cotton, studded with gemstones.
We walked through an indoor market.
It sold Moroccan lamps, gifts, cushions
there was a dining area in the centre, with pale blue
table cloths and dark blue candle holders, flickering.
I bought her a tiny white wooden cage with little pigs in,
all different colours. She said it reminded her of college.
The saleswoman frowned at my five pound note, since
the gift cost only 97p, but handed me the bag.
The young woman opened it,
and found inside a black silk lizard,
and she could feel the little pigs inside.
So I took it back and changed it.
We walked with my arm around her
her jacket was short, and my fingertips
rested on her bare waist.
I left her at the pub.
She never turned to me, just continued walking,
now dressed in black
but she left me a gift
she made me young.
I walked out with all of the other women's eyes following me
and then I awoke.
And I felt so sad.
I must drink whisky more often