Bloated, worn out and you're dragging the caboose
inside a sequoia log you just can't let loose
Miserable grumpy and feeling clogged
to embarrassed for help trying to pass the log
Prune juice, prune juice swallow a slug
in no time your body will be unplugged
be happy feeling light and floating up
just a swig of prune juice in your cup
The modern diet can weigh you down
sits in your stomach making you frown
Feeling slow and being sad
wanting release needing it bad
Prune juice, prune juice what you need
natures way of easing relief indeed
Lets you go screaming hallelujah I'm plum
with prune juice I'm fluid and done.
Smoke in, ash out
Moss squishes beneath my feet as I breathe
Chlorophyll-tinted water and billions of tiny friends
Evaporate in the sun as I take my next step
Breathe in, smoked out
Another stumbling step brings me home
Crashing on the wooden support beams
Covered by what can only barely be called a cushion by now
Ash in, cough out
Broke my stride fumbling in the dark
Taking a swig that's more foam than beer
Spitting out the grit between my teeth
Death in, death out
All alone once again out here
Another year around the sun passes by
As I await first light again
CONCEPT...FLOW....PROSODY.....
these are sequencailly sound!
Wishing aint gonna make it happen
it's best to stop whinnin and complaining
tuuf it out if you goota
when life puts you through changes
we gots to togther
sorting out the foolishness
from the good stuff
got to be more reliable
to get through this situation
it aint easy thinkin up something
when there aint that musch to say
what seriuos to me is a joke to you
sems you like it that way
toddle up and get ther
do your best to keep it right
we gonna be together
just let me make it throught the night
pucker up and kiss me
Sweet lady let me be your man
concepts flowing groovin together
pouring out like a soda can
swig aint that nasty
it sweter then the honey from the bee's
cold to cold today and tommorow
just keep me off my knee's
I know a poet, name of Mark Heiser
Who happens to swig too much Budweiser ~
His ‘Bud’ Mark does slurp
‘Til he starts to burp ~
As his verse overflows like a geyser.
They begin sipping then supping the Best on cask
Charlie the legend of the barley does a guest ask
What are you up to for the rest of the weekend?
Well regulars would often become a good friend
With a big grin..they swig & say…not a lot mate
Won’t go far…in the offing a spot of bar mat flipping
Will be here till late relishing & cherishing your beer
Gags & chinwags spin laughing gear quaffing just staying in…
Wee Willy Winkie
and three wee pigs
had a wee drinkie
more than a swig
before going to bed
but woke in the wee hours
with a sore head
and the need to wee so
into the woods
behind a tree they did go
(one pig collected twigs)
when outside in the wee distance
there came a wild wee howl
oh no... the Big Bad Wolf
then was heard more than a wee growl
altho' not spent yet afeared for their lives
a wee farther to roam
Winkie's wee willie and three wee pigs
went wee wee wee all the way home
One Couple Of Days all the summer long,
freezing in our coats sang a silent song,
numbered the stars by the light of the sun,
a miserable week — we had such fun.
On broken legs we were dancing a jig,
we swore off the drink while having a swig,
my tale is a farce and absolute fact,
I'm a stable genius, completely cracked!
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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
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.
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