Sloe Poems

At the Casino

     lizardly he slithers in
         nursing his sloe glass of gin

     lightning flashing from his eyes
         functioning to disguise

     who and what he really is
         rolling pairs of snake-eyes

     in the air a venomous hissing
         is there something I am missing

A Man Named McGuin

there was an old man named McGuinn
who liked his women and his sloe gin
one night it was said
he took both to bed
and woke up next day with a sly grin

Blackthorn

Now I see it black,
black with a tinge of plum
hinting at sloe fruit
to come.

Soon it will be white,
white blossom dazzling
from roadside and woods
telling us of spring.

It offers hope,
hope of hosting 
many creatures 
within its thicket home,
well defended by its
black thorns.

Primadonna

She spilled porridge down her tutu
As she drank her mug of wine
Sank it in just three swallows
And then she wanted mine

She wore a pair of dirty ballet shoes
Practised plies down the stairs
Played the prima ballerina
With her ill judged airs

She caught a plane to Greenland
Because she though it nice
To drink her sloe gin
With fresh frozen ice

The very very last time that I saw her
She was doing long handstands
Riding naked on a surfboard
Off of Van Diemens land

I thoroughly cleaned and aired my house 
Changed every lock on every door
Hoped she got the right message
Don’t come round any more

Sometimes I thought I might miss her
Bur then I quickly shook my head
Switched on the television
To watch a soap instead

She spilled porridge down her tutu
As she drank her mug of wine
Sank it in just three swallows
And then she wanted mine

In a Spin

oh prunus spinosa 
you are my delight
oh prunus spinosa
flowering so white

to see this thorn maturing
in the autumn hue
makes my heart want to sing
so full of fruit, deep blue

but there is this bitter taste
is there something you can do
it would seem such a waste
what if you merge into a brew

oh prunus spinosa 
you are my delight
oh prunus spinosa
flowering so white

freezing you to release your juice
sweetened and you're almost there
soon to become a new produce
regularly revolved with loving care 

leave you now to father time
no tonic needed to begin
this time you'll taste sublime
just sip what was once in a spin

oh prunus spinosa 
you are my delight
oh prunus spinosa
flowering so white

Created May 16, 2023
Joe Bonamassa inspiration 4
Song "Sloe Gin" 
Contest sponsor Robert James Liquori

Thoughts of Spring

The clocks have moved forward. The Lyth Bank lanes
are primrose studded. Sparky celandines
wide open to the sun as winter wanes 
and lengthening days renew age-old designs.
A pre-dawn chorus, eager for the day,
each one its neighbour seeking to outplay.

The cherry and the sloe, piled high with snow,
and, in the gardens, sweet magnolia.
Along these lovely lanes we gladly go,
delighting in the encircling drama,
yet mindful of the loved ones gone ahead
and in whose steps we do forever tread.

Since Man’s short sojourn on the Earth began,
we’ve viewed with certainty each newborn spring.
Whilst counting down our life’s allotted span
we wonder how and when the years will bring
an end to suffering on this fair planet.
We pray for those who will this Earth inherit.

Autumn - Constanza

Autumn – Constanza

The season that I like the most;
who cares for callow, shallow youth?
The young know nothing, that’s the truth.

With swallows, on their trip engrossed,
I, too, feel atavistic yearning
to celebrate the season’s turning.

And chestnuts in the fire, to roast,
with rosy apples, ripened sloe,
give off a fragrance old folks know.

That August sun, so swift to boast,
is not so mighty any more;
a wimper which was once a roar.

A feeble and decrepit ghost,
an oak leaf, shrivelled in my hand,
reminds me that I’m not so grand.

The season that I like the most;
with swallows, on their trip engrossed,
and chestnuts in the fire, to roast:
that August sun, so swift to boast,
a feeble and decrepit ghost.

Biker Bar

Neon vodka splashes into plastic cups.
Booze-hounds doze
over imaginary throbbing bikes,
their noses tucked into studded chests.

A thick thighed woman whoops
and cusses for no apparent reason,
adjusts her rocking bar-stool,
squirms while cajoling with a low-cut.

“Give her a long slow screw”,
mumbles a gray bearded angel with a leery wink.
Beside him, edged into oily leather, his wing man
strategizes some hasty unzipping.
Later, hid in the dirty light — he just might
if she waits for him outside by a wall
one leg lifted.

~~~~~~~
FYI
“A long slow comfortable screw against a wall,” is a cocktail:
ice
1 part vodka
1 part sloe gin
1 part Southern Comfort
orange juice, as needed
1 part Galliano.

~~~~~~~~

Ripe and Ready To Bathe In Gin

A chill of Autumn in the air
and spider’s webs are everywhere
these delicate exquisite works of art
such beauty and joy fills my heart

Old Man’s beard has just appeared
weaving its way through blackberry bushes
loved that name when I was small
     to touch ~ so furry 
        to see ~ enthralled

Blackberries plump and succulent
awaiting to be picked
evoking memories of Mum’s fruit crumbles
blackberries and apples mixed

Sloes ~ a rich dark purple fruit
ripe and ready to bathe in Gin
    patiently waiting
        sloes luxuriating 
            tempted to taste 
               but must not haste

for to sip a Sloe Gin on a cold winters night
               leaves a feeling of warmth 
                                  and another  ~  well I might...


Written 12th September 2020

Contest COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE 8
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE

A Middle Ground For Passion

Was a time when passion was in fashion
Movie stars and models fairly bubbled
As sloe eyes and sexy looks were meant
To arouse the psyche that was troubled

Then somewhere passion went out of fashion
And the ones we had were pent up inside
The things we had a passion for were scowled 
Upon as things the human soul should hide

Ah, but now we have reached a middle ground
Nothing seems either boring or the rage
Passion is neither in or out of fashion -
But then I suppose it could be my age

11-19-19
Contest: Fashion
Sponsor: Julia Ward

A Time of Butterflies

It's the time of butterflies to fly
 angelic wings drifting hurried by
  in the powdered blue clouded sky;
retrograde illusions left from spring
 revolving a floating dance upon the wing
  venturing into summer's fling;
hovering on echinacea cones
 resting momentary brief never alone, 
  touching each water splashed stones;
Lepidoptera orange peached winged gilds
 skipping flower petals imaginings fulfilled
  rare and delicate lives quickly spilled;
sloe obsidian indigo shaped melds
 barely a moment to be held
 large and small and medium without bells;
awe and wonder at bespeckled migrating swallowtails
 riding the gently salted sea wind sails
  monarchs of the day uncompromised and frail,
grouped gatherings cluster to a southerly warm surprise
 down to Mexico, the gulf and reflected in a child's eyes
  the journey has begun and flight DNA memorized;
observe and watch, their efforts on the clock of need
 spring north to breed and feed
  leggy landings graceful on the summer milkweed
then south as summer fades away 
  with winters ready to chill their fate each day
   for now, enjoy, let the butterflies play.

Listening

Claws step over ear bones,
tap on the tin roof. The cabin
creaks like an ark.

All day winding along
a Kentucky ridge line,
to lodge a night
in a bow-beamed shack.

I fry bacon and bread
on a smoke-licked skillet
as black as a fossil;
then settle down to listen
to April starlight
sweeping timbers.

Dark pelts pace moon trails.
Night birds hunt;
sloe washed wings flick shadows
through briery pines.

I sip an amber glass of bourbon
eavesdrop,
on my sleep-walking soul.

A Witch-Hunting We Will Go

Puritans gather in Congress' hallowed halls, faces glum
  Trampling truth, blowing horns, banging the drum
    Of blazing envy, wrath and sloe-eyed sleaze

Committee member, moralizing minions, on their knees
  Digging up dirt on disapproved-of nominees
    Judgment fled to tone-deaf decrees

Careful, righteous pols, so sure the public will be pleased
  Voters care about jobs, not investigative sleaze
    And when the voting booth decent folks flee
      ~ The doors open wide for all the Crazies

A Witch-Hunting We Will Go

Puritans gather in Congress' hallowed halls, faces glum
   Trampling truth, blowing horns, banging drums
      Of blazing envy, wrath, and sloe-eyed sleaze

Pelosi-Schumer's moralizing minions on their knees
   Digging up dirt on disapproved-of nominees
      Judgment fled to Pandora-box divorce decrees

Careful, all you righteous pols, so sure the public will be pleased
   Most voters care about the economy, not investigative sleaze
      -- And whenever decent folks flee, the door opens for the military

November

October now is on its way;
November mists are here to stay.
With mornings dark and damp and drear
The wintry blast is ever near.
	Welcome to November.

A mournful mist entombs the trees.
All is still – no hint of breeze.
Like soup the mist lies in the vale;
All colours bleached, pastel and pale.
	Mysterious November.

A melancholy haunts the wood
As desperate thrushes hunt for food.
Sadness drips from skeletal twigs
And blackbird in the dead leaves, digs.
	Deep and dark November.

But sunbeams slanting through the mist
Bring joy and hope of Spring, I wist.
Three months to bear the Winter's worst
Before the first Spring blossoms burst.
	Hopeful in November.

The “dainty lady's” lost her gown,
For every leaf there's only down.
The beech mast on the forest floor
And hedgerow bright with hip and haw.
	Time of change, November.

Such stunning colours, rich and mellow :
Deep red and orange, brown and yellow.
With “mellow fruitfulness” aglow –
Sweet chestnut, hawthorn, spindle, sloe.
	Colourful November.

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