Swig Poems

High in the Top of Two Cottonwood Trees

my castle is twenty-six foot high in the top of two cottonwood trees
My daddy made it for me, he called it a tree house, but it is my fort.
My refuge, my camouflage, my hearth, my home.
I can sit here all day with a pillow, a swig of water and seven books.
I would make it eleven books, but the library is chintzy.
They will only allow me to check out seven a day.
My castle is where I go when I want to remember the best days of my childhood.
Summer days, when I could do what I wanted when I wanted.
though it has been fifty years, I can hear neighbor’s voices, and I smile.
Remembering their conversations, their arguments, their personalities.
I will never have a castle any better than this.

The Discarded Man

Trapped in layers of sin, ambiguity, and shame. 
The man walks the loud, but still, lonely streets of the city, searching for something that he does not know. The discarded man. A man standing in the wilderness, screaming out shrieks of pain that are lost in translation. The man fears he is alone. The man stands alone, unable to move, stunned into silence, fearful of speaking. The discarded man dances into each puff and exhale of tobacco. Lost in each swig of beer. The discarded man knows of God, but is still fearful to call on his name. The discarded man walks and drinks in solitude till his feet bleed and he cannot sober up. He does not address his emotional pain. From negligence, this pain takes on a physical being. A being that looks like him, walks like him, speaks like him. The discarded man cannot differ between the being and himself, so they walk as one.

Size Matters

When I think of food and drink,
it's no surprise
the question does arise,
with booze some choose to let it breathe
and defer their bottle of wine,
I prefer to savour the flavour
and give mouth to mouth to mine.
(Que Syrah, Syrah!)
Some say, “The glass is half full,”
with accent on the positive,
some see the glass half empty,
and focus on the negative.
Two sides to every story,
supposedly that implies,
as for me I see
something else entirely.
And as for size I will apprise,
but, before I do, I beg of you,
allow me one more swig,
“Sláinte, salud, prost, cin cin,”
the glass is too damn big!

Signed, From The Floor

I cannot write what I do not feel.
I cannot feel what I do not know.
To write without passion
is to kneel at the nameless grave and weep,
to mourn the soil and not the dead,
to beg meaning from dust
and call it poetry.

I lie on the floor of my bathroom
just to feel the weight of my bones.
Cool tile against warm flesh,
as if the divide between body and ground
might spark something
some rebellion of thought
against the white noise of nothing.

I scroll the blank screen,
cursor blinking like a flatline.
There is no pulse,
no poem.

And still I return
no better than the hand
that finds comfort in the bottle,
each stanza a swig,
each line a confession.
I only write when I’m bleeding.
I only bleed when I’m empty.

Darn Autocorrect!

Today, my wife went shopping and in her glee
took her phone and sent a selfie
of her in a beautiful new dress.
She looked quite stunning, I must confess.
She asked “Does this make my butt look big?”
I picked up my beer, took a swig
and texted back “Nooo!”
But my phone went to autocorrect 
and changed my word to “Mooo!”
Please send help or I’ll end up black and blue!

Irish Holiday

Limericks written for St. Patrick's Day
Celebrate the Irish in ev'ry way
It's said in tales of old
Leprechauns buried gold
At the rainbow's end it was meant to stay

It's a day for dancing and wearin' green
Shamrocks in the hair of each colleen
To Erin Go Bragh, a toast
A holiday loved by most
But kissin' the Blarney Stone's not my scene

The Emerald Isle's heathered hills are lush
where on a Bonnie lass you'll have a crush
Walking on Dublin's shore
Or on the grassy moor
You can steal a wee kiss to make her blush

The seventeenth of March will soon be here
St. Patrick's Day arrives every year
Jameson~ take a swig
Then dance an Irish jig
Or imbibe Guiness with lots of good cheer

The time will come when this holiday ends
And I'll wish my days here I could extend
Irish blood flows in my veins
Here, part of my heart remains 
I'll just sing Molly Malone and pretend.

Saint Patrick's Day 2020

I order a Guinness and a shot of Pappy Van Winkle.
My green paper Leprechaun hat is crushed
and lopsided on my head.

That shot of bourbon cost me more
then I used to earn for a day's work.

“I'm worth it”
I say to the middle-aged female server
with my devastatingly crinkled wink -
she shrugs,
she’s seen daytime drunks before.

“My dog just died”
I tell the bulky reveler at my elbow,
he is shouting to some pal way across the bar.

“His name was Paddy,
and he wasn’t no ing Irish Setter *******,
he was a shaggy Kerry Blue”

The big guy doesn't even hear me.

I swig down from the dark mull and amber slug,
weave my way out of the joint,
looking for another pot of gold to piss on.

Luck of the Irish.

Persnickety Pig

Persnickety pig, persnickety pig
Would you like to smoke a favorite cig?
Cancer chances are amazingly big
He is being tempted by his cousin Quig

How about alcohol? Please take a swig.
Come here, persnickety pig, don’t be a prig.
Person who added this was his cousin Zig
For this cousin PP did not give a fig.

Zig thought this was funny, he danced a jig
Loud snapping noises, he had stepped on a twig
Persnickety pig, persnickety pig
Where is your mud? I have a need to dig.

Christmas On The Isthmus; Fer yer Consideration

Please rate 1-10
(1 Santa would be proud or
  10 A coal in your stocking!)

A white Christmas in Chicagee don't make no sense
Bout time we skeedaddle, let good times commence

So where to go, my darlin' Maggie and me
As we swig down our egg nog and pack our tree?

The lil' miss and I'll be spendin' this Christmas
Way down yonder on the Panama Isthmus

There's a honky-tonk there on the ol' canal
Tequilla will be flowin' for me and my gal

Coffee Cups and Misery

I grab myself a coffee cup
To drink the sorrow away
Sip by sip, to the final drop
My mind is led astray

Drive the frigid cold aside
To keep my pulse from being still
And free the fantasies I hide
Infuse my heart devoid of thrill

Bliss I find in but a spoon
What more if I swig all it in
Though surely this would all end soon
I'll stake for just one unforced grin

Cup per cup, I crave for more
Of this rich drug I slowly kill
Without hesitation, again I pour
'Till I begin to hold what's real

And thus the truth would set me free
That she won't ever seek my name
Whilst I might drown in coffee sea
Still she will never feel the same

-

Lightning Bolts and All That Stuff

 ~ A Lighthearted Look at Cheating on Keeping Kosher ~

         Pick my poison, shrimp or pork
           closed my eyes, lowered my fork

         I’d hankered for that suckling pig
           but I tasted shrimp, and couldn’t renege

         Lightning didn’t strike me, I did a jig
           of the (shrimp) cocktail, I took a swig

         Upon awakening, my stomach was rent asunder
           Hmm. I'd evaded the lightning ~ but not the thunder 


         ____________________________________________
          Sometimes older Jews tell young'uns that if they eat
          pork, they'll be struck by lightning... Seems they 
          should mention shrimp and other non-kosher fare too!

Swangadabe

I just wanted you to know
I bought this up to say
you put me in a bad position
see I have to forsake all others
keep other men away
don't think I am being jealous
or I just needed something to say

saw him winking at my Missus
a smirk and grin: I saw you smile
Said swig your wine and beat-it Mister
next time I won't ne so kind
See you put me in a bad position
tryna unravel me to me  to cuss
Gone in side I'll see off Mister
let me shoe this fool away

Guess I need more understanding
I thought I was your man
Why you out here hugging and kissing
cuddling up on some other man
aint got much to say about it
I be back when I cool off
there fresh milk in the pitcher
I just finshed feeding and milkin the cow

Make it easy for the cowboy
sometimes let him get his way
ah happy ending with his woman
is that to much for
ah man to pray

That Friday Feeling

that Friday feeling calls near noon
with thoughts of lager capped by foam
and dreams this work-day will end soon
which gives your mind a mood to roam

to favored joints, where with the guys
you joke, guffaw, and swig cold beer
until a soft glance meets your eyes,
inviting you to swagger near

and, with bravado, take a chance
to learn her name is Betty-Lou
and yes, indeed, she'd love to dance;
this precious, lovely dream-come-true

melts in your arms when music slows,
allowing hands to learn each curve
while floral scent enthralls your nose,
imbuing you with manly nerve

to hand-in-hand flee into night
where moon peeps down on newfound bliss
and giddy hearts take sudden flight
when lips approach to share a kiss

but garlic-breathing boss looms near,
you shake awake, return alive,
are bull's-eye of his nasal sneer:
"the weekend, Clown, don't start till five!"

Dabbling in Karma

I tend to swig life
and dabble in marginal pursuits
but not at another's expense...
because karma is a  and will trap your spirit 
against the concrete wind.

Agonizing over details is wasted time and energy
a soul killer...
I think the laws of knowledge and being
may be found within the speed of light 
the substance of sound and anti-matter
all within the matrix of iron faith and soft prayer-

We're about 10 billion years behind the conception 
of this infant cycle-of infinite cycles.
We're not destined to know everything.
Just be in the moment of infinite moments
Take the self to the expanse 
allow it to heal with the balm beat of infinity.

Summer Junket

There's a man from Nantucket.
That lives in an oak bucket.
He's not very big.
And took just one swig.
Drunk on a summer junket.

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