Quaffed Poems | Examples

Palastine Martyr's Prize

A martyr flew through holy throne
Alighted to bowl of prophet water

Sipped and quaffed the holy juice
Almighty Lord picked him from many others

Gates were opened one by one
Greeted him angels all of them

He didn't hesitate on the path
This is how Allah lovers' end

Overshadows beneath the Most Merciful's Throne
Walks with his houris through rivers of heaven 

That houri if one descends to earth
Eyes will be blind by her light

If her ankle a little bit shown
Will pass away all daemon and mankind

Every houri every time virgin
Deserved by this world's orphan and bizarre

Left with thirst and hunger to streets
Valueless & oppressed at everybody's eyes

Much Beer

who had quaffed his beer shall make quagmire underneath is not wise at all

Quetzal

Quetzal

Queen of the rainforest
Quaffed in neon or gold
Quick to zoom through jungles
Quivering calls for mates
Quiet, shy, dancing tails
Quirky nests in treetops
Quetzal, cloud forest charm

By Grace Or By Witchcraft

All of us without exception laughed:
On the Pacific Ocean a raft!
Why would one big waters dare with craft
And hope to make it without witchcraft?

All the big lips in the small room laughed:
One saw a snake's fangs and cold beer quaffed!
A nice tale but the teller just daft,
My cash not leaving my pocket's baft.

Ventolin Inhaler Or Christ

For more than forty years my pistol 
And - trust - me - in the dark like a pistol,
Sadly competing with my loved Christ,
Mostly after quaffed Stout cruelly iced!

Years back wore the look of Machine gun,
When it stopped ripe deaths from crazy fun:
The times I’d dared wrestle with Rothmans 
Also with Menthols raunchy romance; 
Once in my bag wouldn’t feel luckless 
As it kept licensing The Reckless 
The Asthmatic: An Idol Worshipper 
My Dream Business: Inhaler’s Shipper.
Till date smuggles it into a church 
Christ’s priests won’t see it, unless they search. 

If my mum were alive, she’d slap me;
Would it – I know - reserve like Hot Tea

Ordered House

The walls are bare
The floors are free of debris
The laundry is put away
The beds are perfectly quaffed
...ready for habitation

Clothes are scattered 'round
Dirty dishes in the sink
Dusty trophies on the shelf
Toys line the hallway
...ready for battle ahead

The doors are locked
The lights are on
The water runs at will
The internet entertains
...ready for usage

The children have gathered
The adults are adulting
The tension pulls at choice
The cables are strong and firm
...ready for communication

The years pass quickly
The aged wonder in pain
The children run to repair
The earth groans under the weight
...ready for transition

RESTORATION REVEALS
        The ORDERED HOUSE

Written by Trudy Schrader on 12-19-2022

The Wobbling Droplets

The wobbling droplets are quite happy.
Full of joy and not too shabby,
I hear them laugh.
They are promptly quaffed.

:-)~:~:~ooo~:~:~(-:

I give my wobbling droplets a shake,
and laugh until my head breaks.
They happily orbit the Earth,
looking down on us with mirth.

o/o\o|~~?~~|o/o\o

The wobbling droplets are enchanting
but they will not interfere with my ranting.
For I have more poems to eject,
that many will not hesitate to reject. 

***o--!--o***

My Life Is More Than a Crooked Line

The trails I’ve trodden are a twisting vine,
Retracing the steps I want to make right,
But my life is more than a crooked line.

Ascending in search of unvarnished sign,
Clearing the forest to gain line of sight;
The trails I’ve trodden are a twisting vine.

I’m more of a patina than a shine,
A bland cover on an unfinished write,
But my life is more than a crooked line.

Blurring the vision between right and wine,
Quaffed adventures soar to dizzying heights.
The trails I’ve trodden are a twisting vine.

A sober look at the life that is mine
Reveals that I’m not a bright shining knight,
But my life is more than a crooked line.

The good and bad don’t easily entwine;
This epic battle should be met with might.
The trails I’ve trodden are a twisting vine,
But my life is more than a crooked line.

Selling Paradise

what price to enter paradise?
just become a willing device
to extinguish non-believers
and other common deceivers

making this world so much more safe
when dangerous demons are quaffed
an extremely small price to pay
for our deity to hold sway

simply the cost of admission
for sins placed into remission
doing such necessary things
will make you an angel with wings

what price the entrance to paradise?
simply follow the ancient advice
comprehend what the holy words mean
not being for one instant unclean

there will be a harem or three
where all services are for free
no sins in pleasures of the flesh
all things there have been pre-blessed

beyond any real feelings
or the slavery of needings
no sweat, no fear, no need to hurry
the richest of realms, not to worry

watch miracles come into play
you shall know real bliss, they say
surely you don't want to delay

heaven and all that comes with it
really no need to fidget
do not be a heathen idjit

may we issue your ticket today?

Chef's Special

There was an old sauce chef from Killarney, 
    Whose Irish stew, was flavoured with blarney.
    While he quaffed bottles of hock,
    That was infused with shamrock.
    Which spiced up his special bouquet garni.

    3 / 1 / 2021.

    For the St. Patrick's day contest.
    Sponsor. L Milton Hankins.

The Dark and the Pale

He rode forth conquering and to conquer,
Lord of our time and this realm's emperor.
Pale was his steed, so firm  and strong the hand
in which he held his ruthless iron rod.

Within the walls of yon dark tower mewed up,
his captives cry for freedom and for light,
and one who quaffed too deeply his red wine
must ride a nightmare to the ocean's bed.

Landsknecht's Drink

Oh great Tavern!
Beautiful and wondrous inn
What countless prizes
Lie in wait inside!
Your vault keeps from us
Our treasured Mead, Wine, and Beer!

Oh great Mead!
Pour from the keg
Fill up your tankard
Drink to the Coin brothers!
Toast to your Paymaster
Salute your paying prince!

Oh great Wine!
Delicate to the sip
That is, to the gentile
For us Landsknecht!
Red wine is the blood
And the taste is our communion!

Oh great Beer!
How we hear your cry
Begging to be quaffed
You give us such a fright!
Way into the night
Slipping and falling!

Oh great Coin!
Our most beloved
What we’d kill for
All hail the Paymaster!
For his contracts bring
Our treasured Mead, Wine, and Beer!

Cletus O'Toole's Fatal Thirst For Beer

He quaffed a six-pack of Corona Beers

   Ending up with the worst headache in years

      Perhaps to lessen his plight

         He should've had a Bud Lite

            Sure sign of 'corona' virus, he fears!

You Hide Beneath the Cross Your Sins

in the corner
of smoke filled pool hall
you sat peering
as you quaffed another beer

your umber eyes
locked in the beryl
of mine
lost temporarily
in the depths

you flashed a smile
that seemed to glow
beneath the dimmed lights

my eyes unlocked
in a downward shift
as i couldn't help but notice
the shimmer of gold
contouring your neck
its intricate design
delicately detailed
of the Christ child
as he hung
on splintered wood
when he died
in vain for our sins

my heart skipped
with the soft music
in the background

you approached
hands extended

I trusted in God,
then in you
a whirl around
as months flew by
like fists in rage

now memories flash back
in my wondering;

would you have worn
splintered wood instead
for salvation of your sins?


8/23/2019
One Hundred Thirty Six Words Poetry Contest 
Sponsored by John Lawless

A Golden Brooke

He lives upon a printed page,
marching golden in a dream.
His words described a brighter age --
which quaffed the milk and lapped the cream.
Fate brought him forth to love and live --
scion of a proud and noble race.
All he sacrificed and all he'd give
was deeply marked upon his face.

No gold survives the final frost:
in his prime death carried him away.
In wars, a nation's best are lost;
as then it happens still today.
    His home was England, vale and hill;
    across the years, he's with us still.

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