Little more than a week ago we started the Drunk Poetry Challenge since we felt there were not enough poems about alcohol, drinking, drunkeness and hangovers. Well, with a big smile on our faces we can tell you that this lack of bottled poetry is no more. We were overwelmed by all the great stuff you sent us. So with pride we present to you our new collection of poems on drinking. Enjoy!
Haiku by The Product Poet
Pulled up my chair.
Her name was Margarita.
Licked her salty rim.
NYE by Matt John Robinson from the weblog 365 Fragments of Me
Already my tongue was a white water raft
slipping sideways and crashing into the boulders
of my teeth, navigating those tricky rapids
of mostly coherent language. My body
was quickly becoming more clumsy, giant-like,
the terrified colony of shot glasses
cowering before my destructive hands.
Wiping the dribble off my chin I suggest,
with complete disregard to said dribble
or the way in which my body leans
unintentionally, that we pour the Jungle Juice
into the Beer Bong because this is obviously
the only way to properly celebrate
the newly turned year.
Missin You by MS from the weblog Death Or Lies
Feeling the effects
Just a little too late
It’s been a week or so
And everything’s been great
But your pinky starts to shake
Just a twinge
Just a little
Not something to cause immediate concern
But something none the less
A coldness creeps into your heart
With the first rays of light
You greet the day
Just a little less enthusiastically than the day before
But that’s ok
You keep on truckin
No one is happy all the time
Everyone has ups and downs
Everyone gets a little bummed
Everyone has bolts of uncontrollable rage
Pierce their heart without rhyme or reason
Or is that just You?
The doctors would call it “withdrawls”
I call it livin
Pub Fantasy Gone Awry by Babs from the weblog Sweet Soft Eyes
Here’s a tale with a smile
of a sir with a lanky profile
a man considered a pillar
known to be a civic leader
but who hid a fragile heart
that’d been rendered all apart
but he wore an upbeat light
removed askance each night
six of seven sure
and all because of Dory
the goddess of this story.
She was the darling of his sighs
the lady in his Casanova eyes
whom he’d titled with crown
indeed with secret, guilty frown
but she lived on sculptured lawn
thought of him with yawns
her troth in the valley of foregone
yet she remained object of his songs.
And thus he lived forlorn
eyes starstruck and spirit torn
and each night he’d take a stroll
where drinks of ale took their toll
poured the bottle, feeling bold
at cool pub, one of ancient old
and there, the music held his gaze
with the lovely image of her face
melodies to swoon and sway
wishing her ladyship to come his way.
It became a ritual dear
year of year, with further year
until the shadow came to land
a lawyer placed papers in his hand
his wife had done it on her own
for she’d tired of being all alone.
What I Drank: Amaretto and Pineapple by Cynthia Ditch from the weblog Hindsight
I remember thinking backwards
When my stories made more sense
When lyrics came out in verse
Instead of staggered on the fence.
No words have you yet you scream in bars
What ever shall you do?
When your visions begin to dance and sway
And reality has long since left you?
Ode to a Toad
You scream hey nonnie nonnie
Repeating words like the talking butterfly
Walking around befuddled and dumb-drunkie
Tipping glasses and breaking plates
No whole in the ground you’d evict
A rightful dwarf you would make.
With less dire needs nor self crucifix
Still wondering the backwards game?
Forgotten all my rhyme?
My passion lies in things I read
Without the reason of the time.
Whats printed on the page
Or in book or tombstone head
Are things for you and I
Lest we rest upon lasts bed.
But lyrics voices and words of true
remain when best they shared.
When children sing of silly games
And legends they have heard.
For give me not my ramble scramble
and mix up of different tales
Here I am as a Kitsune
all them tied along the rails.
Nine of them for you and me,
Fine breed of readers creed
have we forgotten where I was?
Oh yes, and to speak the deed.
Manners manners forget them all,
After all this you know not me
You call to old and fiction stays
Come dance in the rain and you will see.
I am small to the eye
An inch or so
best reflected on the page
No matter what page each phrase I know
As “All the world is a stage!”
From mad scientist to sultans harem
Still no bells? My Ring-a-Ding-Ding Kid?
A libraries pet, the book worm.
A Drinking Verse by Brofessorlongphd
So brief we live, the moon shines on,
wherefore our ruby glasses full?
Caressing wind, your smile’s fair,
the rays of summer in that gaze
when lips and wine acquaint —
delicious melodies, sweet and faint,
peripherals blur with night,
as flirting jasmine fragrance
accompanies candle light.
Lament no more this brevity
when eternal moments’ gained
not through documented decades,
but grains of hourglass’s sand.
Lady Godiva by Manure Gurl
I played the bedpan
In the Lady Godiva Memorial Bnad
Wearing a yellow hardhat
9T3, Oh Goo! Harf up a lung!
I did it all
In the New College
That was my home
I drank peach schnapps
Straight from the bottle,
A liquid education
With chemical precision.
A party cup
Of Long Island Iced Tea
To wash down
The quadratic equations.
Rum and Coke
Seemed a biological
Tequila with beer chasers
Was more than a
And apple juice.
A mat on the bathroom floor
To blot the
Juices of others.
Of university passion;
A PowderPuff halfback
In a Devonshire universe.
Of garbage can liquor
And toga party chasers.
Staggering Spadina senseless.
Sex in communal showers,
Sex in dorm room bunk beds,
Sex in restaurant washrooms,
A merry widow of straps and
Handcuffs and fellatio.
Teddies and Clancy.
In the darkness,
Lips and tongues
A Skule education
A pre-med major
On my back
University of Toronto.
Unknown title by Billy Bunks
The ancient and weathered cobblestones
Upon which I piss tell no tales,
From the tavern I’ve stumbled, to myself mumble
Unshaven and scented of ale,
On the wall sir, I lean, a drunkyard unseen,
Spare the lonely moon’s silvery glow
And what of me next? What curse Sir, which hex?
I admit I’ll be damned if I know.
Beers by Motown Writer
With so many flavors
in dark or light
you’ll find a few brands
that tastes just right
With kegs, draft and tap
and even microbrew
there’s so many choices
try more then just a few
An iced cold beer
no doubt, is such a winner
there’s even been nights
that’s all I’ve had for dinner
Beer loosens inhibitions
and releases your fear
but sometimes too much
can make you unclear
So drink in moderation
when you drive and have to bail
because they won’t serve you beer
if you get caught and go to jail!
Burns Night by Abby Boid from the weblog Cogito Ergo Mum
I don’t much care for jelly shots
I’m drinking, I’m not eating
I don’t much care for alcopops
Quite frankly, that’s just cheating
I turn up my nose at Irish Cream
I’m not here for a milkshake
You want me to down abysnth?
I’m not making that mistake (again)
I’m rather partial to the vodka
Though it’s not very refined
As I mature, to act my age
I often stick to wine
But, ditch the ice and bin the coke,
The drink that my throat yearns
Is a large neat Scottish whiskey
I love the way it Burns
Small Talk with the Devil by Gilles Fabien Dogbo from the weblog Vitrine de Poésies
He told me: Beloved son, what’s your desire?
I looked in his eyes and said: A whisky first!
I want to spend my life burning life with fire,
Drinking all world’s poetry to quench my thirst…
Take a Drink by Adrian Holman from the weblog Coolest Warf in the World
Black bottle, darker liquid … but white lace.
Splashing at the bottom of the glass, brown cascades to black.
Something evil? No. Something heavenly.The first sip – a surprise of flavor.
Was it ever this good before?
The first mustache of foam – a lingering reminder of experience.
Do I ever want to put it down?Put away that lock and key.
Doors open, never to close.
Guinness – my gateway beer.
8 thoughts on “Poetry about Alcohol and Drinking”
Reblogged this on hocuspocus13 and commented:
Poetic justice not far off from reality.
True that! 😀
Ironic with the post I’ve written today. But, I am not against it. One must know their limits and be educated if it lies hidden within the genes.
When I drank and had to drop the kids off at the pool
To my shame I barely ever claimed a solid stool
I go back to the pool sometimes
With gifts of desperation
I now have a less sloppy end to bouts of mastication
Reblogged this on Zone Noodlect! and commented:
Now I know where my words want to lie, and take in the ‘bed spins’…
LikeLiked by 1 person
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