"casks" poems
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
20.5k
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
After the whipping he crawled into bed,
Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.
How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!
He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping
A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before
In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,
Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor
Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.
Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light
Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth
Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,
The crooked constellations of the South;
Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,
The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.
Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,
Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold
Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,
Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,
A black chest bore the skull and bones in white
Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames,
Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,
Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,
The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.
"Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"
2k
Storms of oblivion cloud my mind
As I battle to moor my inner conscience
Life was once an abundance of hope
Defeated & beaten by reckless dreams.
Embittered storms that ravage seas
Darkened clouds that strike with fear
With lowered heads we fight in vain
But waters always find a flaw.
-
Deep inside and further down
Visions of guilt burn through my mind
Release the pain in a barge of gold
But left to sail these waters alone.
Confused I wait upon my berth
Entangled doubts that weave my mind
Careless I drift alone and forlorn
As I battle the waves that engulf my soul.
-
Thursdays child was marked from birth
But shoes of stone have held him back
In a struggle of life that ponders deep
Where waters flow and never cease
Desperate times bring wish well friends
Brazen words and reckless deeds
Consume a passion that passes time
Yet plates lay bare & casks run dry.
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 1:06 AM UTC
You say I love not, ‘cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can’t devise
Some sport to please those babies in your eyes;—
By love’s religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are never found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak but little, ‘cause I love so much.
1.3k
Old wood and brick walls made it
seem like the place called home
and we met a few strangers. She
wore a floral patterned dress and
me a combination of smoky greys.
The jukebox caused feet to dance
as musky bourbon casks ran dry.
The days blur together: fog
and moisture run off of the docks
with sunrise providing a flash
of hope that something will change.
But sunset rips change from
our callused hands that
don’t even blister anymore.
Algae green waves crash onto
the black rocks of the ocean,
the sea foam caps inviting my feet
to dance into the unknown depths
of the sea. A petite fishing boat
cuts through the fog and we meet
face-to-face.
Flowers blowing in the wind
give me a flash of hope something
will change. She offers a weak smile
and is gone as fast as she appeared.
Gone - it happens so quickly; the
wind picked up and my feet decided
to dance. Fall down, never get up again.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
Appalachian Alchemists
Weaving Gold from farmer's grist
Whiskey Stills
and Copper Pills
Magick Wyrm cools vapor mists
Shine down from a Whiskey Moon
Silver Gift and Nature's Boon
Corn Cob Wands
and Thumper Pots
Mountain Spells from Summers' June
Lightning flash in jar of White
Burning Soul, distilled delight
Mountain Streams
yield Moonshine Beams
Corn-fed Wizards, dark of night
Wisdom cast in Silver hues
Blessing born of Mountain Dews
Love's Desire
from Smoke and Fire
Ancient kin-folk's hidden brews
Inspiration Distillate
Poet's Draught, inebriate
Charcoal Casks
and Secret Flasks
Of this Spirit, Celebrate
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
I am a cube in a dark chocolate bar
seasoned with a milky white
continent of courses
collision of cultures
chili and chill wind season
in overcoats of global ambitions.
Born in the barracks of colonial masters
who took their women from tribal backwaters
of empire. These beauties succeeded
in conquering their Masters
in the art of warfare in bed and beyond.
say what you will
I carry the cost of all completion
and show the combination of colours
on my skin
burnt in the sun of these wars and conquests
all six of us soldiers.
we took his language and her complete
abandonment to beauty grew in the night
of knowing the white ruled the rainbow
and hard liquor while the dark bred the boldness
or so. (Mama said)
we, as children of different cultures
in a potpourri of pertinence
got licked, kicked, bruised and burped
cooked and laid as chocolates always do.
But we grew in mamas wonder of the world
at large, while Dad knew all the blends of single malt
maidens from the highlands of his birth.
as happy children, aware of hard work and toil
we rose faster than the fumes of spirits
and set about travelling the shores of net profits
and university empires instead.
Mama laughed when we told her
of the worlds and wonders we had conquered
and how the colour of our skin spoke for us.
Dad knew all about peg measures
and pork chops, fork, spoon and gunpowder conquests
as hollow as his casks of wine
and maturing as slow as his wisdom.
Mama only knew the meaning of knowledge
with no degrees.
God bless them both
as they sit around a table
in that great place in the beyond
and discuss chocolate bars
skin and colourful wrapping
of all six cubes!
I am Anglo-Indian.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
The Politician
Has he kept his word?
Kept to promises you heard?
Are you satisfied? Let down?
Waiting to see what comes round?
These choices voiced, unvoiced
From voters of the officers new crowned.
To those who vote by rote or call
To those who vote at all:
Has he or she distorted vows
To overpower and devour:
Double thought through double-think?
Misconstruing and misstating,
Skewed with bias filled with hating.
Stinking skills to sell and buy,
To peddle lies which sink a country –
Even if potentially –
Are the aides, incomes denied,
Who stand to profit on the sly,
Men in masks, men in power
Hidden men, men of the hour,
How will tasks now basked in
At whose call flasks, casks are drunk from:
Will affairs of state be slunk from?
This a call to politician;
Call to listen;
He or she just person
In the end.
The Politician 2.28.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
The ants wave their antenna in anticipation
the bee's do their work in the name of propagation
and as the steamed cake is taken out of the oven
on hilltops the witches hide in secret caverns
The Jackdaw sings to the four winds
thrones are toppled of ancient kings
all the cities slumber ready to wake
when the topping is poured on the magic cake
Toadstools of tales will pop up from the soil
kettles around this aged land will start to boil
the children that have never grown old
will grow with mutuality beings so bold
All the casks from sea wreaked ships
will cast mariners *** onto their lips
for all that do dwell here so await
that wondrous sweet, the magic cake
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
___Autumn pours her vintage, red
and rippling, into casks
of rough-hewn oak;
smokey avenues damp
with the exquisite balsam
of the gleaning season.___
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 3:34 AM UTC
rosetta spoke like a lucent pharaoh;
deciphering decree's decadence
into bronze skin heiroglypics
a body like a mastaba - corchis lips locked
with burnt up flesh remains
and worms and umber sand
mixed in nectar drank from ancient artifacts
she **** beetles and they drink my blood
we find ourselves
stored inside casks for eternity
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Half the day wasted in dreams,
Fines to pay,
Night spent looking for sense, it seems,
Everything has changed but routine is the same,
Late at night on my way home
Dogs bark like guys act out dominance, adding depth and tone,
Egos seem bottomless,
Time lapse of mishaps,
Right and wrong, lost deep in my sub conscious,
Write all night long, streets full of alcoholics,
As they stumble past,
In the parks echo’s of humble laughs,
These are,
Shark infested waters,
Most decent fish in the sea have already been hooked,
Some controlling like borders,
It's been more than twice since I've looked,
Frogger got squashed on the road
Tried to cut the corners,
Lead dagger pierces my mind,
Thoughts spill out like the blood of a tragedy,
Snap back to life,
Junkies stabbing at my reality,
Notes over my apathy for change,
I drop words like a rock off a balcony,
Needles in the back lanes,
Wine casks lay, as empty as my wallet,
Real hunger, no games,
On the search for dollars,
But don't want to be locked in chains,
And living in the complete squalor.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
They're the burning coal
In the satiated winter morning
With snow falling on the ground
And the fire burning with vigour
They're like the veins
On the creepy swollen leaves
Falling down from trees in autumn
Being crushed beneath those dreams
They're like the casks of wine
Left open on the street
Flowing into the sewer
Dissembling people's thoughts
They're like grains of sand
In one hourglass
There for each other
Together Breaking the ravages of time.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
We went to live in Smuggler’s Cove
Near a cave, right on the beach,
Where once they’d hidden ill-gotten gains
In the cave, and out of reach.
The locals said two hundred years
Since the smugglers came ashore,
Carrying casks of Spanish wine
And a chest of gold moidores.
Led by a man called One-Eye Red
For the only one he’d got,
He’d lost the other, the locals said,
To a random pistol shot,
He wore a patch on the missing eye
For the wind blew in at the hole,
And froze his brain till he went insane
When the winter winds were cold.
He hung with Sally, a thatcher’s wife
Who would meet him in the cove,
And he would sample her plain delights
Till the time came round to rove.
She kept lookout on the cliff top there
For a glimpse of Revenue Men,
And would fire her flintlock pistol where
She had thought she’d sighted them.
My wife, her name was Sally too
And I’d rib her there in jest,
‘You’d better not hug a smuggler, Sally,
Dressed only in your vest.’
We’d laugh back then in those early days
As we worked to settle in,
But sensed some dread foreboding there,
In the air from old past sin.
It came on strong in the winter time
When the cove was filled with mist,
The mouth of the cave was grim and dark
It would almost seem possessed,
Then Sally started to walk at night
As the waves crashed into the shore,
She said she needed to beat the fright
That she’d suffered from times before.
I’d watch her walk to the darkened cave
Then halt to stare in the mouth,
It opened onto the northern shore
Then she’d turn, and wander south,
She’d come back shivering, pale and wan
And would warm up by the fire,
Then come out with the strangest thing
That it filled her with desire.
She’d strip right off by the glowing hearth
And I’m not one to complain,
She’d not been so very down to earth
Since the Lord invented rain,
Then one night when the mist was thick
I could barely see the cave,
When a ghostly figure stepped from the sea
And walked all over my grave.
Then Sally turned and she spoke to him
As my stomach churned inside,
They walked together into the cave
Like a bridegroom and a bride,
I left the cottage, the door ajar
And I ran down to the beach,
But when I got to the mouth of the cave,
Sally was out of reach.
Sally was out of reach that day
And has been each day since,
The phantom that walked her into the cave
Was One-Eye Red at a pinch.
I called and called for her to come back,
I even tried to insist,
But all that I’ve seen on a winter’s night
Are their shadows, abroad in the mist.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 1:53 AM UTC
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
I age my poems
in dark musty cellar
'till they mellow and moan
begging to be brought to light
I bury them there
in oaken casks, stained purple
flavoring them full of
funky terroir
Abandoned on a shelf in
old green glass
imprisoned by cork
unlabeled
I age my poems
banished 'till rhyme ripens
in dim hopes one day
they'll tickle someone's tongue
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
Look around you,
A world of fraud.
All these lies
Deserve an applaud.
You hide yourselves
With thick fake masks,
Dropping the ensemble
In the safety of your casks.
You plead for reality
Yet do so cloaked.
Open your eyes,
This fate, you've evoked.
To the few
Vulnerable and bare,
I have a favor to ask
If you truly care.
So those of you
Free of feign and guilt
I ask that you tear down
What we have built.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
.
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC