"bitters" poems
Like burning marshmallow,
the clouds this Monday.
Thumb over the phone
& the words to you pop
& sway like gin pink
with bitters. Lily lady,
O my lily lady,
kiss me marshmallow -
sticky and tinted pink
with lip on a rainy Monday.
Green window pops
arrive on my phone,
this sweet black phone
that brings you, my lady,
over Atlantic's salt pop
& volted marshmallow.
So on this Monday
when the sky draws pink,
& clouds too are toasted pink,
I take this thin phone
and find you. On this Monday,
my Dublin lady,
under a melting marshmallow
sky, I seek out your hot pop,
that flame that's popping
in the twilight, red and pink.
Sweet as marshmallow,
you burn through my phone,
my smiling lily lady,
even on a Monday.
& so this Monday
like a soap bubble pops.
I'm inspired, my lady,
by the silken pink
thing. On your phone,
a swan's wing of marshmallow.
Yes - Monday's poem comes pink,
& pops with phone messages
from my lady, soft as marshmallows.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
The opposite of love, is indifference.
Not anger, aversion, or hate.
Accompanied by avoidant-detachment,
And a silence that never abates.
It can disguise itself in diffidence;
Depressed by misery, for score.
Sheltering who practice its persuasion,
But leaving its victim longing for more.
It looks like a promise that’s broken,
It sounds like the melody of a lie.
It tastes like a cocktail & bitters;
It feels like a passion that died.
You can’t see the damage from the outside;
The wounds that scar from within.
Until they manifest as an addiction,
Or any overt kind of sin.
Love faces the toughest of battles;
Love outshines even the sun.
Indifference regards nothing higher;
And indifference will perpetually run.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
buckeye flour,
almonds,
acorns,
tree-bark,
cacao,
wine
your only criticism is that i split infinitives and spit bitters.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
I posted this poem a few days after I joined HP. As is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions. With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked. Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week. So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.
March 2012
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
Watching the sunrise in the East,
As it says goodnight to my dreams,
Rooster crows,
Cows mooing,
Light everywhere,
Cold shower,
Gets my heart racing, with the beat of rock song,
Breakfast;
Coffee bitters, and fresh cream,
Eating pancakes with strawberries, whipped cream, and syrup,
Clock hands moving by too fast,
In spite, I'm watching the sunrise in the East,
Dropping my crumbs on the floor,
One last sip of coffee,
Put dishes in sink,
Check smartphone for calls,
Grabbing my jacket and car keys,
Heading out the door,
To find out,
What the day has in store.
Copyright © 2015 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When Infancy’s years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal’d,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal’d,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my ***** for fame
Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity’s praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath,
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion’s full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools?
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love,
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
To me what is wealth?—it may pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?—the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion?—I seek but renown.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?
2.3k
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number me this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify,
limitless.
March 2012
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
she is inescapable
fringe coefficient
a strange perfume tonight
lips to the phone
he took her on a laptronica trip
bitters and Absolut and pistachio
listening to the frightful sections of an unused movie score
and playing a new game
—studies in paralysis
no sympathy, no violins
just musette and drums
just an avalanche of images
frame-by-frame
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 6:24 PM UTC
in the weeds where the dark bees
believe in dark dreams; savoring the frostbitten
nostalgia of wet mittens and smokestacks
hacking hearth-smog and dingy bitters
against clouds from a nameless
grudge... spawn from downcast holly.
where red berries
gasp for yellow
in the crotch of a wooden Fluegelhorn
sprouting from the branch
of a hedge without
Lips.
But a mouth full of snow.
II
in the weeds where the dark bees
believe in atoms of uncorrupted joy and pollen.
where they collude with silent majorities
and swindle sunlight for a spawnsong
anchored to the beak of a kestrel...
shrieking the maniacal disquiet
of a perfect moment.
rattling the hinges -
adored.
without
a key.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 7:33 PM UTC
Have you ever
Mixed memories
With what you wished
They could be,
Creating a fictional
Reality
Blended together
Like bitters and whiskey
Vermouth and a cherry,
The Manhattan of your dreams.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
Give it to me straight,
A London Dry Gin.
No ice to chill the swig,
No bitters to alter the taste.
I want to endure things as they are,
True. Pure.
Perhaps only the bartender will ever understand.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
I didn't have bitters
I didn't have an orange peel
I didn't have a mixer
I didn't have ice cubes
sugar in a glass
splashed with whiskey
teaspoon swirl
terrible
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 2:07 PM UTC
It’s 1:30am and we were at a cute little dance club in Dublin called “The Sugar Club.” It’s a converted movie theater with tables in stadium seating rows. That night was Salsa themed, and the regulars were stylin’ - the men dressed in white Havana or Colima, Italian Linen and women in bright salsa dresses.
The DJ was mixing a gr8 groove - with music from Bassia, Brazilian Girls, Kate the Cat, with some ElectroSwing thrown in from Tape Five, Pink Martini and Doja Cat (Yes, I asked the DJ for his playlist). The tiny, darkly-disco-sparkling dance floor was crowded and refrigerator cold.
We had a good time. Irish guys are funny and unpredictable, they’ll say practically anything, “Shall I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?” and those brogues make everything they say spankin’ hot.
We all danced a few times, but Sunny’s a gwyn who never seemed to tire. Guys kept asking her to dance and she seemed happy to oblige - I would have collapsed already.
There was a dead-fit guy, Rían, throwing a strong Chris Evans vibe, who seemed completely smitten with Sunny. He seemed a real dean but he didn’t 404 that Sunny’s femme-facing and that he might as well be offering lettuce to a shark.
We’d discussed the possibility that things might come up and decided to avoid delicate public acts of disclosure (Sunny’s gay, Leong’s a communist, etc..) - we’re trespassing different cultures on this trip, after all.
We explained to Rían that we were students, just in town for the Duran Duran concert, and consoled him with a couple of “Black & Golds” (Kahlua, whiskey and orange bitters) - he was a LOT of fun to talk to.
The bartender asked me if I was one of the colleens with “Margot Robbie” - he was referring to Lisa - which Anna found amusing - but I think Lisa’s way phater than Margot.
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 3:32 PM UTC
A clique on words
when the game was on.
I was caught off
talking and stammering
of hasty puns and guns.
but it was all good,
only good as can be.
the shoes are both left
while the strings are tied.
one glimpse on bitters;
two cheers on wine.
they started on a struggle
a never ending battle.
until on the other hand
was a stroke of a genius.
and gone was it all;
almost love and almost fall.
the abstract has always been doubt.
yes, he always liked to be unsettled;
too weary to continue
yet too hungry to pursue.
a vague cause and a superstition
for reason no one can recall.
the backslashes of memoirs
take entirely the moments
of what is now and what's tomorrow.
to let and be succumbed
to being the point of what's sane.
to surrender to what's fond of
or to grant freedom of what's gained.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
prayer of hope, for young and old, who suffer from the slings and arrows sadness and the loss of love; I offer up this prayer of hope and offer you my hand around your shoulders until you no longer require it
more than once,
for lengthy periods,
by events, other people,
my self was eradicated
and limping from day
to night, and J faced
absolutes, choices choking,
alternating alternatives that
offered zero, or even less
than zero, and the inkwell
wasn't refillable, and I could
point to nothing yet encouraging a mystifying purposed existence
then came a woman
who asked nor proffered
conditionals
pre, prior post or otherwise
and
offered up the miraculous
drink, human kindly notice,
snd it
drained the bitters,
began fluid replacement,
and slow resuscitation
and then
poems rebirthed me,
liberated the angry sacred
gory sadness words devoid of glory,
with a reworded score, and
the eyes could write without
a patina filter of jaundiced hatred,
and whispered private internally
many times a beloving
hallelujah
and when ever the remembrance of
the near misses are crackly occasionally appearing, the surge dissipates intact quick
into a netherworld for suppressing
and bid "away with you," and a
thin lipped smile part sneer
for having survived
even
prospered when
then came a woman
and the self, the my self,
returned
after an absence of destructed
decades...deadening decades
and I smile when
the grandchildren tell me
knock knock jokes
and gently knock me on the head,
to make sure I'm alert,
then came woman
who had already~all ready
knocked me on the
heart
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 9:32 AM UTC
“give me your linguistic promiscuity”^ Cyrano to Roxane
trifle me not with sugar and spice,
give me salt, and everything not nice,
Campari, with a spritz of lime bitters, doubling,
the bitter sexiness of your taste buds
on the private parts of mine mind
the body’s parts held a conference,
who is the most important of us all,
all spoke, touting their unique servicing functionality,
at last, lastly, the tongue spoke
“none so powerful as this itty bitty muscle-me,
for with a chosen-few, well claimed, words whispered,
can put all of us in a prison cell to rot collectively,
utilizing my linguistic promiscuity, enticements seductive
so beware the disastrous dissatisfied tongue,
needy for 24/7 accoladed attention,
fail to worship can result in bee stinging poetry,
and jealousy
my love is bitter, my taste buds glory in this wondrous horror”
except for my Roxane
<>
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 10:48 AM UTC
Masking tapes covers cracks
yet you still broke into a rave
it's the opposite of intentioned order
unsupported barricades buckle
the town sphere makes no sense.
Barbiturates bitters the night,
strangely forlorn as inner suppression
gives no truth.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
Pantry shelves hold jars of jam
sweet spreads of life made from fruits and berries
so succulent drops of saliva
rain on each touch of tongues
Cautious people stack rows
of carefully canned fruit
preserved with small portions of honey,
sugar cane or molasses.
Tin lids eventually “pop”
leaving elastic bitters
for knives to daub and rub
against stale breads.
Must life endure until
only vinegary fills remain
and I am left to consume
sour roughage to sustain me?
When perdition creeps
across the sands to envelop me
what will become
of unopened jars?
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
I keep listening to time
Beating hearts and endless rhymes
And it all sounds so sublime
Much more real than the last wind
And my records just keep spinning
With the earth and every new thing
Now we're back to where we started
But it's different, clouds have parted
It made so much sense before
But every day it just makes more
Now I start to understand
As the sand falls through my hands
Making gestures small and grand
As we all keep getting older
Through the chaos and disorder
No sense pining in the oak groves
For the flowers that we once knew
At the bottom of our dark brews
Bitters floating on the surface
As I drink another purchase
And reflect upon the purpose
Of each sip as it slides down
Always forwards, never backwards
Only rising never pouring,
Twirling, twirling, twirling, soaring!
Doesn't matter if you're gripping
If you're sweaty, if you're slipping
If you're wide eyed, always tripping
We all keep trucking on
And I always feel so strong
Like I understand the song
Finally, but not for long
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 4:17 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, do you know when you can't get him of your mind???---yup I just jut that down---again:]
the heavenly blues they contain
in the hellish echoes that remain
sealed in the air bitters and sweets clicks and blinks
close the drowns let it drink
silent yet so loud for the ears to bleed
keening in question marks
on the hungry pleads they feed
a staring moment to them a second in the blur
saved in the heart buried in the soul until the other occur
is it in a charming color
is it in a warming memory
is it in a meet of fated destiny
make it stop
make it stand
let it slip out stay in the hand
not for tonight for eternity
not for tomorrow for serenity
from a contagious bit of
confusion
a whispering musing dance of illusion
put the dare in the hence
it is then to keep to fence
lies in there decomposed
so smoked so slow
lift the hem of my pillow
------ravenfeels
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 1:40 PM UTC
On a certain day,
Looking East,
I See the sunrise,
Clouds, like beautiful ballerinas dance across the sky,
Wishing a happy day,
I hear dogs barking,
Roosters crowing,
Shower, hairspray
Afraid to look in the mirror,
Coffee bitters on my breath,
Toast and strawberry jam for breakfast,
Did I forget something?
Where did I put that phone?
Not enough time in the day,
Time flies like a jet plane,
Please, no traffic jam today,
I want to be alone,
Ok! Let's do this.
Copyright © 2015 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
when you learned to blow
on hot tea, when you realized
good love wasn't an old wivestale
when your body suddenly became the
least of things to keep a man
and your ego just a badly kept
garden full of weeds and
borers
when you became nothing
dust and bitters, people began to
ask you how you saw yourself
and where humble and quiet
used to stand in you found
an empty ship, wineless drums
everything now seemed alarmingly
true, maybe you weren't more than
the sum--and how long had that been so?
how long had you been tolerable,
how long had beauty been your stand in
for a personality, how long had your hips
spelled your name, gyrating to the
songs you only wished you could sing--
I have only now started to laugh aloud
or walk knowing what's ahead and not
every inch of gravel beneath my feet,
deep breaths are my saving grace
i have traded anxiety for faith
i started dreaming again,
I opened my mouth and
not a single word came out
but i had left port
laden with
more.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
prayer of hope, for young and old, who suffer from the slings and arrows sadness and the loss of love; I offer up this prayer of hope and offer you my hand around your shoulders until you no longer require it
more than once,
for lengthy periods,
by events, other people,
my self was eradicated
and limping from day
to night, and J faced
absolutes, choices choking,
alternating alternatives that
offered zero, or even less
than zero, and the inkwell
wasn't refillable, and I could
point to nothing yet encouraging a mystifying purposed existence
then came a woman
who asked nor proffered
conditionals
pre, prior post or otherwise
and
offered up the miraculous
drink, human kindly notice,
snd it
drained the bitters,
began fluid replacement,
and slow resuscitation
and then
*poems rebirthed me,
liberated the angry sacred
gory sadness words devoid of glory,
with a reworded score, and
the eyes could write without
a patina filter of jaundiced hatred,
and whispered private internally
many times a beloving
hallelujah
and when ever the remembrance of
the near misses are crackly occasionally appearing, the surge dissipates intact quick
into a netherworld for suppressing
and bid "away with you," and a
thin lipped smile part sneer
for having survived
even
prospered when
then came a woman
and the self, the my self,
returned
after an absence of destructed
decades...deadening decades
and I smile when
the grandchildren tell me
knock knock jokes
and gently knock me on the head,
to make sure I'm alert,
then came woman
who had already~all ready
knocked me on the
heart
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 9:57 AM UTC