Pubs Poems - Poems about Pubs

Bubbling babbling burbling banter from the bar.. Sup hush….memory lane trip...Proustian rush..pleasingly tickled. Plushly ebbed…spidery beer swirls webbed…whirls..down dimpled dappled jar.. Parched pagans besmirch..sip...druid fluid drip..Iris’s secular church.. Venerate yesteryear dips…commemorate Faustian fillips....teasingly pickled.. Smug treacle toned thatch rugs hug sturdy slabs.. shrugs.. Tugs tussling tree torn trusses and trestles.... Trumpets tradition.. crisp crumpets in flames..sedition flickering.. Like sassy strumpets calling each...

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Many-hued pubs bid me welcome As would friends on the street And so does Cromwell Bridge Where long ago we first met. I see the fields where we played And plucked up the kerry violets. I gaze out over the dark bay Reflecting our lives as glass. Memories live but a...

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Rain pouring on pubs Grey cotton weaving up high Sprinkling on churches...

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Never bare your soul, otherwise, you will most probably have created your own black hole...

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SCOTLAND'S MONSTER DINNER  walking upon the moors of Scotland    i saw a sprite who became a unicorn -- she mated with Kelpie:  kissing therianthropy --> she rode the unicorn:   shedding her skin--      saltire! I when to Restaurant Andrew Fairlie -- manager said someone got mutilated late last night -- upon the moors...

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Erin, for a girl who embodies Ireland by Michael R. Burch All that’s left of Ireland is her hair— bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin, her brilliant air of cavalier despair, her train of children—some conceived in sin, the others to avoid it. For nowhere is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin, gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair! How can men look upon her and...

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Weekly this sorry procession rolls out a parade of wannabe kings and queens, heirs unapparent to the realms of nothingness. Girls with elaborate hairdos, boys drenched in cheap cologne; drawn to the main drag pubs, solitary ventilators of the monochrome kingdom. Factory gates closed, chained, padlocked; the great Friday escape, a weekend parole ‘till Monday morning cracks a brutal dawn of hangovers and regret. Girlish expectation of...

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