Taverns Poems | Examples

Emotional Buffet 6

Tell me, when we meet with a smile,
Tell me of the fondness for love.

The taverns of the city have long vanished,
Tell me if you can bring wine to my lips.

 Roses scattered on the paths you can gather,
Tell me if you can piece together the broken me.

 Each moment has passed in trembling fear,
Tell me if you can become the final hope.

 We usually move ahead without looking back,
Tell me if you can call me home again.

Even your presence feels like a punishment,
Tell me if I still live within you.

This mirror has already shattered,
Tell me if your eyes can still make sense of it.




---

Welsh Winter : englyn

     weathering Wales in bleak winter is hard
 
though starred sheep remain sleek

taverns roaring fires a feat
 
making Celtic maidens sweet 

~~~~~~~

October Nips

Busty shaped and large of hip
the busy winds of October
buffet my brain
within its whistling cave.

Around the shoulders
of every lumpy molehill
taverns and tankards
bloom in a russet corner of light.

September leaves
leave, shaking their brittle cuffs
and frills,
they fly sideways
riding upon broken rafts
of tangled sticks.

October blusters as it bustles,
its wide-spread mouth warmed-over
by wafts and beery blasts.

Now is the time to flap long coats,
to run ahead of a creaking moon
as it rolls drunkenly
into winters nippy
and thin-lipped ice.

After Sunset

The sun set upon the hill
Leaving meadows in the shade,
Trees lost their colour bright
As also waters of the lake.
Flowers too drooped their heads
While silent waters lay still,
No shimmering on the surface
While blazed the setting hill.
People now came out to walk
And some to taverns filled,
Children returned home from school
While elders in the sunset thrilled.
Froth in the crystal glasses
Twinkling like the stars,
Down the hatch gurgled streamed
With winking tail-light of cars.
The leaves and flowers drank the dew
Poured from heaven above,
Mothers prepared meals for night
For children whom they loved.
Darkness soon overtook the light
With stars in the sky,
Sleep is heavy on the lids
With grandma’s lullaby.
Creeping into darkness; hours
Rolled limberly by,
Soon darkness will be filled
With sunrise in the sky.

Life Is a Poem

I’ve heard it said that poetry is dead
But I don’t believe that’s true.
It runs in our veins like water to rain
Somewhere inside me and you.

It’s up in the air, in circles and squares
And oceans, rivers and tides,
In cats and dogs, bayous and bogs,
In taverns and tall rocket rides.

For life is an ocean of poetry in motion
Though we can’t always hear its rhyme,
As it twists and turns, beckons and yearns
Throughout our lives and minds.

Poetry lives in the love we give
One another from day to day,
Intrinsic in nature like Ursa Major
And all the music we hear and play.

While tilling a garden
Or gazing at stars,
Poetry is in motion
Wherever we are.

In photography, paintings
And all manner of the arts,
That move our minds
And stir our hearts.

And while some may deny
The plain simple truth…
This life is a poem
That needs no proof.

© Terrell Martin 
09/08/2024

Nature's Harmony

The sun set upon the hill
Leaving meadows in the shade
Trees lost their colour bright
As also waters of the lake.
Flowers too drooped their heads
While silent waters lay still,
No shimmering on the surface
While blazed the setting hill.
People now came out to walk
And some to taverns filled,
Children returned home from school
While elders in the sunset thrilled.
Froth in the crystal glasses
Twinkling like the stars,
Down the hatch gurgled streamed
With winking tail-light of cars.
The leaves and flowers drank the dew
Poured from heaven above
Mothers prepared meals for night
For children whom they loved.
Darkness soon overtook the light
With stars in the sky,
Sleep is heavy on the lids
With grandma’s lullaby.
Creeping into darkness; hours
Rolled limberly by,
Soon darkness will be filled
With sunrise in the sky.

The Cheese Wars

It's a new day as the hot sun starts,
here reporting on the cheese battle.
Overnight the wine and cheese taverns,
moved in for the cracker spread.
The cider & charcuterue shacks,
were not having any of that.
They are fighting back hard,
with hard salami and cubed cheddar.
Looks like they will not let some wine and cheese taverns,
win this cheese battle.
As the sun sets,
both sides are very tired.
The wine and cheese taverns,
did the unthinkable.
They let loose the wine,
and drowned the other side.
This reporter from String Cheese City,
is signing off for tonight I'm Sharp Slice.

al called - haul

sitting with a rum i take a pen...
and rye-me words
hearing anchor duty sailors...
'all call - haul'

church be an 'all call hall' for...
drivers not hearing answers
to their taverns last calls...
for more alcohol...


stan sand

The Witches Fayre

gather wares for market day
and cauldrons of the land
baneful stock for the boiling pot
before the evening’s end

tankards spill and taverns heave
upon these Beltane days
see magic folk and sorcerers
on an otherwise malaise

then pack the carts and disappear
before the robin sees
and woe betide the straddlers
caught there on Gallows’ Eve

A Common Whore

Just a common whore they said
Who rolled the drunken tars
As they staggered out from
The Dockside taverns and bars.
Lime Street, Liverpool was
Where she plied her trade.
Where her drunken bargains
Were very quickly made.

Transported to Australia
When she was finally caught
And Maggie May of Liverpool
Could no longer be bought.
No consideration for the times
The Tars gave her a beating 
Or made off without paying, 
The lowest form of cheating.

The girls still ply their trade
Their services still for hire
A trade that isn’t possible if
There weren’t so many a buyer.
A class ridden trade really
With the range of clients it affords
From  back street transactions to those 
Who  service the Commons and Lords.

One just a back street whore with 
A life of hardship, risk and distress,
The other with chance of promotion
To  status of aristocrat’s mistress.
Maggie May is infamous now,
Celebrated in bawdy song
A good modern QC could argue
She probably really did no wrong.

All Stars

Don’t you see the skip of my jolly heels,
skipping about the globe while planting stars?
Ask then from mother earth what joy she feels
When my rubber sole and her corners spar.

In offices, they don brogues and loafers,
See me jolly hop with sparkled laces.
My Chuck 70’s turn suits to gophers,
Gentlemen grimace and grow grey faces.

I know jealous jugs of beer that will spill
and stink my Converse in bars and taverns.
Yet the canvas skin won’t break for their swill,
For it has walked over hills and caverns.

In churches and pews, I dance all the tunes,
Hear the slide of my foot to the insoles.
While priests return bibles for forks and spoons,
I hear sermons from the trips of my soles.

My All Stars have walked a callous journey
From my little foot to my huge footprint.
I don mine in king beds and in gurneys,
This shoe that has become my life’s blueprint.

A Sitka Sunset

Churning listless feeble foaming waves
Pods of Humpback whales splash and dive
Reflecting sunset’s waning rays.
As curly crimson clouds arrive,
Far Edgecombe’s volcanic cone
Shines bright in alpenglow, alone.
Cloudy embers ease into eve,
Flushing Ferrari fires from day
As sun dips for its nightly dunk,
In search of Neptune’s treasure trunk.
Bald eagles soar for lofty nests
Atop crowns of gnarled, ancient spruce.
As Sitka harbor lights wink on,
Ships cast lines, mooring for the night,
To wait salmon fishers at Dawns light
Boatsmen stroll the quays to cavort
In taverns nested by the port,
As stirring strings softly serenade
A music festival ode to night.

Opening

How reverently he removes the seal,
   anticipating the fragrance,
   the first small taste,
   remembering the warmth and
   laughter of the party,
   parties, the bar, the taverns,
   the men, the women,   
   long-tailed cigarette smoke curling.

His tongue unconsciously caresses
   the corner of his mouth
   as his left hand cups
   the shoulder of the bottle
   gently and firmly as a lover.

Drawing a penknife from his pocket
   he pulls open the blade to cut
   the black band binding the cap,
   his lips slightly pursed,
   engrossed in the process.

Deftly flicking the cap,  
   he lays it aside and pauses;
   it takes only a moment
   for the subtle vapors
   to lift to his nostrils.

Not quite a smile,
   something even more
   expressive of pleasure,
   a submission,
   a peace that fills him
   as if coming home
   from an arduous journey.

He pours.

Tale of Evil Scarecrow Pumpkin Head

Evil scarecrow pumpkin head frightens on his ride.
Slightly insane, he causes even the pumpkins to hide.
I hope to never meet him, having heard his sordid tale.
Which is told over and over in taverns over drinks of ale.

Anti-Poem Iphone Maniacs

iPhone Maniacs

crankshaft tendencies secure a brace of sly meatballs
truth daggers entice the worm girls with petite pastas
creature lilacs uproot themselves for pink dippity-do gels
white nylon ghost legs roam outer space in latex leotards
metacarpal syringes find porous outcries in the gloaming 
crankshaft tendencies welcome the tilted exonerations
iPhone maniacs fondle frothing bananas mindlessly now
demon spiders ooze inside the crawlspaces wanting meat
cross-eyed priestesses suck on wax candles in the vestibule 
black-robed choirs sing hangover music to the dribbling 
rock music annihilations played by stoned dudes in shades
temples and taverns shake as the truth daggers hit earth
now the worm girls are dancing with the iPhone maniacs

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