"cask" poems
Be Lost In The Call
Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?
Reality replied: Oh prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you’ve never seen the face.
Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.
Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn’t wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.
My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?
We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn’t want a crown or robe from God’s grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.
Jesus sat humbly on the back of an *** my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ***
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.
Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
From the outside he is unfinished and grotesque
A figure conjured up by a devilish intelligence
Out to shock the world with his ghoulish antics
For who could find such glee in such contortion
But as always poor **** sapiens is off the mark
For inside this morbid cask of human digression
Lies a trove of bountiful beauty in aesthetic abandon
The beauty inside the man is the work of a maetsro
Poetry that seizes the imagination is his speciality
And music that arrests even the gods is his forte
So be not hasty to judge what you see before you
Let the scales that blind your inner vision drop off
And there before your newly-tutored eyes
Will lie an essence of such beauty as you can never imagine
Loudly proclaiming the worth of the person inside the shell
And how disability is only a layer that when peeled off
Unveils the inimitable jewel inside in its range and depth
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I'm all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask. The nauseous vault
Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.
They've changed all that. Traveling
**** as Cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift,
Fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous,
I roll to an anteroom where a kind man
Fists my fingers for me. He makes me feel something precious
Is leaking from the finger-vents. At the count of two,
Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard. . .
I don't know a thing.
For five days I lie in secret,
Tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow.
Even my best friend thinks I'm in the country.
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
When I grin, the stitches tauten. I grow backward. I'm twenty,
Broody and in long skirts on my first husband's sofa, my fingers
Buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle;
I hadn't a cat yet.
Now she's done for, the dewlapped lady
I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror—
Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
They've trapped her in some laboratory jar.
Let her die there, or wither incessantly for the next fifty years,
Nodding and rocking and ********* her thin hair.
Mother to myself, I wake swaddled in gauze,
Pink and smooth as a baby.
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A Toad, can die of Light—
Death is the Common Right
Of Toads and Men—
Of Earl and Midge
The privilege—
Why swagger, then?
The Gnat’s supremacy is large as Thine—
Life—is a different Thing—
So measure Wine—
Naked of Flask—Naked of Cask—
Bare Rhine—
Which Ruby’s mine?
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I wanna have lunch with Poe,
at Burger King,
because I'm sure he would appreciate how ghoulish that King in their commercial is
I don't want him to recite verse
while we fill our medium cups with corn syrup nectar--a giant leap
down from laudanum
I do want to ask about the Cask of Amontillado and being walled in slowly, for eternity
for to me that is creepier than all the crimson cream in the Masque of the Red Death
I want to know if he likes the fries--will he dare to dip them in scarlet paste we call catsup
mostly I want to know if he remembers the alley where he was found,
not yet a legend, consumed by consumption and delirium in equal measure
and if there were rodents privileged to hear his last whispered words--or even a gasp
I am buying, Ed, so grab that Whopper with both bony paws and tell me terrible tales, evermore
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 7:40 PM UTC
Whisky, “The Water of Life”,
******** burning all down my chest.
Opening up my mind to endless imaginations
So I can put the world to rights
Like Superman in his pomp.
Feel that glow,
Spreading like a forest fire.
Feelgood Factor
Fathomless in its depth.
Who cares what peat, in what glens
Or valleys it came from.
Or what precipitation
Bathed those golden barley ears
On Celtic hillsides.
I’ll drink any Whisky,
Single or blend
White oak cask or not.
So long as it gives me that buzz
And blows my mind.
Inspiring the best
Or worst
In me.
Paul Butters
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 10:32 AM UTC
The time in which we gathered together,
Lost in our arms and eyes,
Correctly begins with "Once upon a time..."
And does now beguile my sunrise.
-
A wasteland is wont for many explorers,
In its greed though, it keeps them forever,
But the paradise I found with you
Would light my every endeavor.
-
Were each freckle a map of stars upon,
The shining blue sky this morn,
They"d allow me to navigate your sea of soft skin,
And mend a heart, forlorn.
-
An anchor that kept my vessel afloat
While Poseidon's depression near' took me with him,
I held the key to your heart, fabled Atlantis,
In love as I could ever have been, by an Angel, smitten.
-
The tender kashmir lips,
That promised and fulfilled me to sleep,
Have dispersed long ago,
And have tempted me to weep.
-
Complex reflections of my own inner self,
Revealed the catastrophe in full,
Though you had my heart for yourself,
I couldn't find where it leisurely lulled.
-
Young and daft, I took my own risks,
Risks that transformed into sorrow,
Shielded at last, that upon my cask'
Shall be writ' "perhaps joy comes on the morrow"
-
The serene, subcontious Siren
Knows not even of her own beauty,
With eyes that could stop time and planes
Of space, she can, so truly.
-
I beg to be rid of the memories,
I ask for constant euthanasia,
I consume to forget entirely
And regret my own mistakes here.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
Lips, soft as petals, rarefied as undiscovered
Wild orchids.
Hair, threads of gold gathered, woven, mined
From secret caves.
Eyes, that fell from violet skies landing on new
Isles of azure.
Skin, so salmon flecked, subtle, delicate, solas,
Destination.
Your body is buried cask and gilded keeper
Of jewels and flame, whispers, searing cold,
Blue fires untamed—
Lush, fertile wanderings, colourful birds, sweeping
Moon, pools of sorrows and light, trees branching,
Pleasures keen, crushing delights without name.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
we cannot grasp the current situation
our hands are not quite equal to the task
and comrade lenin's at the finland station
all sense has gone from leaders of the nation
while generals have all dived into flask
we cannot grasp the current situation
but know that it's no cause for celebration
as we have reached the bottom of the cask
and comrade lenin's at the finland station
we tried to impose rules of segregation
but found that there were things we could not ask
we cannot grasp the current situation
the masses do not give us admiration
while idle rulers on far beaches bask
and comrade lenin's at the finland station
we find there is no true accommodation
they've seen the monster face behind the mask
we cannot grasp the current situation
and comrade lenin's at the finland station
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
If you get it, you lost it.
I am here
(On this platform it is evident for your reading now)
I express myself
(Heads scratching, wondering what and how?)
I share pieces of me
(A defragmented glimpse of an experience deemed ‘worthwhile')
Callous, sensuality?
(Or a traitor in sheep cosplay?)
A dead-end hi-way?
Or this pawn from yesterday?
Here, your final say
This family we never asked
Amontillado without it's cask
Dry and cheery
Heart’s are bleary
We own this laborious task
My sins are scrollable, thumbed in haste,
Wrapped in ribbons of curated taste.
A gallery of masks, all timed just right,
My shadow dances in the ring light.
What of shame when shame gets likes?
What of thought when thought’s in spikes?
I weep in drafts, but post a grin—
The world won’t wait for the shape I’m in.
So brand the bruise, then sell the hue:
A wellness tip in sponsored blue.
This self I host in feedback’s cage—
A pet, a post, a digital page.
I bare my soul (or just its shell).
You’ll never know. I sell it well.
I logged on seeking something undefined,
A tether, maybe—some reciprocal ache.
But all I found were mirrors misaligned,
Each smile too wide, each word opaque.
The comments pile like leaves, not read.
Applause from ghosts, replies from ghosts.
I feed the feed, it feeds instead—
A hunger that consumes its hosts.
I draft a truth. I dress it twice.
Add polish. Then delete.
I write in blood, convert to nice,
Make trauma fit a beat.
No lesson left. No higher shelf.
Just one more version of myself.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC
Lips, soft as petals, rarefied as undiscovered
Wild orchids.
Hair, threads of gold gathered, woven, mined
From secret caves.
Eyes, that fell from violet skies landing on new
Isles of azure.
Skin, so salmon flecked, subtle, delicate, solas,
Destination.
Your body is buried cask and gilded keeper
Of jewels and flame, whispers, searing cold,
Blue fires untamed—
Lush, fertile wanderings, colourful birds, sweeping
Moon, pools of sorrows and light, trees branching,
Pleasures keen, crushing delights without name.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
(On her canvas, brushes will cross;
he, the art of loving the loss)
At the break of her ego's regard,
invite insight --in slight, reveal
a glimpse of past, the skin of real:
the scarred survivor turned cautious bard.
Let her wonder, let her ask,
then let her outline your mask.
Let her hands combat the task
of pains that guard passion's cask
as her reach exposes chest,
thieve her strength, become her nest.
Be the moon, she: the sun,
chase the path of day and night,
****** duel outright:
bite her bullets, strip the gun.
And when your cask has been unsealed
feign fear, hesitate --be revealed.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
Tiny droplets on my window
As I look out gazing,
at the stars who light you.
(Droplets.)
Then I've forgotten,
how the sun and moon never share
the sky.
When all is cloistered
by the infinite walls each builds
Only to move forward
with wheels so round.
So I ponder.
From whence do you come from?
Others say
the rain.
From a God so dry,
to drench so sharply
a people
who refuse to even
be chilled.
But have I refused to be mild?
Others speak,
or even laugh about you
being from a wooden cask.
So simplistic a material
born of nature's *****
raised by human hands
killed by a shoe's trample.
Only to be revived
by repetitive thirst.
But have I abandoned value?
A small voice
goes so far to whisper
that you are but
a leaf's residue.
Relegated as lifeless,
you, so clear, have given life
to the colors of autumn.
And rekindled by
the same time
that disowned you.
But have I been disloyal?
Though now as I lie
staring at the snow
a crystal sparkles.
Something
from my own eye
my own bliss
my own sorrow
my own consolation
my own mortality.
Abandoned when I must go.
Or have I refused to be constant?
Notwithstanding your origin,
I touch you,
you will never be the same.
But will I?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
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I'll carve myself out of the bones of a former me,
Shave off the soft, spongy gut making my calls,
Leave a strong oak cask,
A barrel of good decisions,
Or lessons at least.
The new me, rough and cut by experience!
The sky can shape my eyes,
And the sea my heart,
Weathered like a cliff but tough like an avocado,
I'll resemble myself like a sister,
Just more me.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Lips, soft as petals, rarefied as undiscovered
Wild orchids.
Hair, threads of gold gathered, woven, mined
From secret caves.
Eyes, that fell from violet skies landing on new
Isles of azure.
Skin, so salmon flecked, subtle, delicate, solas,
Destination.
Your body is buried cask and gilded keeper
Of jewels and flame, whispers, searing cold,
Blue fires untamed—
Lush, fertile wanderings, colourful birds, sweeping
Moon, pools of sorrows and light, trees branching,
Pleasures keen, crushing delights without name.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Putting many miles in the rear view mirror
Off I left working on making my life all the more clearer.
Dragging left hand on the wall again,
This time it’s all the more complex.
In a matter of minutes I’ll be doing toe tag checks.
Fresh cadaver held me up
Out there eyes came and into a sterile cup.
Given visions to the blind
How I wish they were my favorite aunts kind.
Needle through the glass thirty eight degrees Fahrenheit
Inside you all lay and with no light.
The door was pulled losing its vacuum.
Breaking this seal was better than on a bottle of
Crown Royal Cask number sixteen!
A frozen slumber party inside yes I did see.
All but one with my two hands it took to count all of thee.
Capacity of friends allowed inside, a maximum of only fifteen!
Sudden Blast of cold air turned all my body hair into needles
Like the quills on a porcupine or a cactus in the desert.
Moving the bodies all around,
I’m looking for number one.
I trapped myself in, now look what I done.
Found the man I came looking for,
Now I have to figure out, how to get him to the door.
In a split second I shattered the games all time high score.
(CARSr.5-31-12)
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
Sixty Eight years of age
and he texts her puppy love
msgs six time a day,
in between phone calls.
long ago lovers,
high school, I think,
Facebook stumbled upon,
and the inky surprise,
that they have relearned to be,
a new shade of
a true blue tint of
the word,
devoted.
mushy is the heart that goes
soft to hard to soft,
soft by innocence, then
Pharaoh hardened by life, then,
softened by reflection,
mushyed by wisdom,
that came costly.
when relearning
the side effects of
discovering the words
that were left unsaid,
or even better,
spoke this time with
better understanding,
greater appreciation.
Now so better
After Aging Aching
in an oak cask
of finally, filly fully
fermented love.
I don't need inspiration
to clap for you,
but your confidence un-betrayed,
name omitted,
as one grandfather tips his hat to another,
all he can smiling say,
God ****
romantic rediscovery at 68,
I suspect is even better than the
first fumbled go around.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
*What fire is this?
Within your eyes
Like a ball of light
Gently caressing the ominous skies
Are you an omen to match my sign?
Or mere bones to cast in an empty cask?
I only ask because so many heads
Have turned away from this overcast
Just because of your fire
That hopeful passion
Which pulls each sailor slowly on
To survive another night until the dawn
To wonder if this your purposful fire
Is meant to bring us back
To the very thing which we ought to desire
Away from the devouring grave of the sea
To a house made of stone on the inland maybe?
Where are bodies would find the true solace of earth
And just might be at peace far away from the sea
Perhaps Saint Elmo
That is exactly where you wish us to be?*
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 10:31 PM UTC
**Full of charm, 'The Old Kings Arms'.
appendage of my home
a smiling face, a friendly place
a venue that bids welcome.
Ales on draught, cask or keg
Irish stout or cider
a glass of wine, from the vine
all for the connoisseur drinker.
Or should you fancy dining out
for daily brunch or luncheon
served while two, upon the menu
you'll find a wide selection.
Charm is seen, composure serene
a smile by far the sweetest
since time was rang, her name Joanne
your Hostess with the most-est.**
... ... ...
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 5:01 AM UTC
Oh, woe! Oh, woe! Oh, woe, my girl has died!
Her funeral's tonight, oh, how I grieve!
I knew this day would come, I would not hide,
yet as the news has come, I can't believe!
A strong and faithful servant she had been,
who carried me when I was found alone.
She promised to stand by my side till in
the course of time my flesh would leave its bone.
In white attire she'll lay within the cask,
as my old marriage laid within the same.
I'll pour my soul as spirit from a flask,
upon her sleeping face and call her name:
Oh Hope, dear Hope, you've left me far too soon,
and joined my former wife in honeymoon.
(C)2013, Christos Rigakos
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
Sleepless dreaming, framed by screaming.
Is she breathing?
Take the time.
One. Two. Three.
I wonder…
Four. Five.
Is death kind?
Six. Seven.
Will she make it?
Eight. Nine.
Never mind.
Marble eyes roll in their pockets,
Arms and legs seizing their sockets,
Groaning breath sends lips aquiver,
Her tiny figure writhes and shivers.
Ten. Eleven
How much longer?
Twelve. Dear God!
Let her be stronger.
A Toneless voice of mock assurance,
Won’t deter these pulsing currents,
Tongues detained by ball and chain,
Massage the air to ease the pain.
Thirteen comes.
Now slowly, easy.
Fourteen.
The sound of gentle breathing.
Dimple-drawn, her mouths sweet boarders,
Pull that weak smile from its cask,
Inhale relief, a hard won nectar,
Her limbs all leaded from their task.
One nod from death,
one swift departure
and for the moment, all is fine.
The clock's cold hands
continue turning,
So don't forget to take the time.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
They got dressed that morning
to go out and protest,
though whilst running
a bullet entered their back,
split their spine into shards and out spilled
blood as wine flowing from their oak made cask.
Now they lay and lie and cry silently
in a room where a man counts the corpses
and wraps them in linen,
hiding faces from families making them hidden.
Close their mouths with tissue bows
tied at the forehead for purchase and extra tread,
cover stomachs of starvation up
and say words that shouldn't be misread.
Photos of the deceased to send around the globe
from camera to probe, back down to internet villages and news room towns.
Outside the demonstration continues with howls
and flags made from sweet cotton thread
and the march continues being walked by
those with barbed wire legs.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
**** near me
with perfection talking blues,
caressing crystal drinks,
promising future sneak,
and blanketed romance,
**** near me
with hissing tape violence,
milking the moment,
snagging the attention of the suit
and the tie,
**** near me
blowing every ambition in the room,
plunging into whiskey,
head first and lonely,
**** near me
sha-la-las and oooh-la-las
slither into my forked crypt,
staining my funeral garb,
plastering my cask,
**** near me
brothers looking for to see,
while sister ***** the poison,
I dare her to keep pushing,
**** near me
the kissing and the clowning,
the nightgowning I soon to go a' drowning,
cockroach in the corner,
**** near me
Miranda owes me fifty,
the filthy ******* creature,
draining me of chatter,
**** near me
hustling for the saddest rent,
sleeping with the butcher,
under Martha's tent,
**** near me
the crows collect seed,
the know-hows bashfully reread,
while I **** near wearied, worried;
bleed.
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC