She was a shot of tequila,
Gulped by every tippler.
She was a vase of carnations
Set on a high table,
For everyone to smell.
She was a lodge napkin,
To absorb their bodies' muck
She was a cup of cappuccino,
To calm their tactile desires.
They contaminated her,
And she is contaminating,
The gullible satyriasis.
Soon, hearses will be
Moving around!
Categories:
tippler, lust, sad love,
Form: Free verse
A golden ornate cup once full
a mystical reservoir filled
now half-emptied of love and emotions,
as if the night would be emptied
of moon glow and starlight;
sipping in and savoring, bitter delight
in the last few remaining drops
of inner peace and tranquility,
harbinger of melancholia time
bewitching poetry of sage and antiquity;
inebriation, intoxication, imbibed tippler,
the maudlin sour darkness of sleep
rest and forgetfulness of the forlorn soul
the old soul, the soothsayer extraordinaire,
a primitive, ecclesiastical realist;
give me rest, satisfy my thirst
quench my fears and anxieties
in restful sleep and dreamscape
awaiting escape, release, freedom
through this chalice of night.
1/18/22 The Chalice of Night
contest sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
Categories:
tippler, allusion, desire, imagery,
Form: Free verse
(A Salute to Emily Dickinson)
I taste a liquor never brewed
In structured vats of men
Not all the tankards ever filled
Could reign this nectar in
Inebriate of Christ am I
His words I’m sipping from
Of life, of love, of power
Drunken worlds to overcome
When clergy slips and cannot rise
When churches close their door
I shall not move toward recant
I shall but drink the more
Till angels lay aside their song
Till saints the rainbows shun
This fervent tippler ever stays
to lean against the Son!
©cfa 7/4/2016
Categories:
tippler, metaphor,
Form: Quatrain
Paddy Murphy Is Fred Astaire
It's six below and so much snow
this January midnight.
Sunday's gone
and Monday's turning.
Yet Paddy Murphy's stepping out,
his crushed fedora all askew.
He's soused again and all aglow,
dancing along Fifth Avenue.
Tonight he thinks he's Fred Astaire
and so he's swirling in the air.
He needs a partner way up there,
someone pretty, someone fair.
If it weren't for the music
that only he can hear,
Paddy would be gone by now.
Tonight he's whistling, though,
delighted that his fingers find
the parking meter posts
are an endless xylophone.
Listen to him play those posts
so all the world can hear
Paddy's favorite tune,
the jig of an ancient tippler
with one last dance to go.
Donal Mahoney
Categories:
tippler, fantasy
Form: Free verse