"dram" poems
~
*O Painter
with thy own eye
would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
and blemishes true
Load thy brush
with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
bethought, in deep
With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
of deep forest green
O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
and the indigo moon.
Paint me as i standeth,
prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might
Paint me in the optimistic
silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal
O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
in a rainy drizzle
Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken
Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon
O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
of a quite quaint butterfly
Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.
Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******
Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;
Study mine own dry sorrow
in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.
O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print
Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too*
~
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
1725
I took one Draught of Life—
I’ll tell you what I paid—
Precisely an existence—
The market price, they said.
They weighed me, Dust by Dust—
They balanced Film with Film,
Then handed me my Being’s worth—
A single Dram of Heaven!
9.2k
Ban flu,
Man flu.
Aching head,
Bleary eyes,
Death lurking,
In disguise,
Under the bed,
What a surprise,
**** off Death,
I’m going to rise.
No I’m not,
I flop down,
Head cushioned,
In eiderdown,
In the curtains,
Face of a clown,
In medication,
Senses drown.
I’m not dying,
I am in a state,
Snot and phlegm,
I ******* hate,
No latent desire,
To **********
No appetite,
I’m losing weight!
I’m getting better,
Weak as a lamb,
A hot toddy,
A wee dram,
Man flu is real,
Not a sham,
Getting better,
The **** I am.
The fifth day,
What a-to-do,
So had enough,
Of feeling blue,
Death lost,
So go *****
Getting dressed,
I am its true.
Man flu,
Ban flu.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
Hidden at the back of my mind
an idyllic vision
taking a trip
to span all continents.
Travel to Asia's Great Wall, Europe's Eiffel Tower
Africa's Giza Pyramid, America's Statue of Liberty.
Travel by Aladdin's magic carpet
spell-bound and comfortable, yet bewitched.
Travel for too long
for an endless trip, there it is
my destination.
A final full of dreams, a final to come true
a destination that fir altogether
a destination with that jigsaw.
I cry to reach for destination
I wait for long hours, saying myself
when I reach it - that will be it
this trip is for lasting happiness. But last destination lost
it's a dram, can't believe t'was a dream
a dream which outdistances me.
Next time, I promise
not to travel with that genie's carpet again
go to walk through path untrodden
go to climb Mt. Mayon, swim more to the Pacific deep
go bare footed in the Gobi
I promise, I promise
to live more my travel
the destination, the next stop
sooner in sight
than I expect it to be.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
I was appointed section leader again this year,
Despite all of the problems and dram that escalated during my term this past year.
I was convinced that I could not lead,
Via all of the talks I had to have with my band director.
And I still am convinced.
The first week of band camp just ended.
And with my section bugging me because I'm not perfect is tiring.
I'm so confused..
I don't know what to do..
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Govan bar banter:
Awa' with ye fankle eejits
that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw
crabbit, drookit
moanin, drouthy
yer Havers-yins!
each unto their ane
an' aye bin.
Tell markers scoured
an' crowned with glee
"alas nae blessing naw
bolt of wisdom
will er'e to
strike thee -
tis poor soil
an' loads o toil
an' broken backs"
Ach awa with ye!
Fir me the skies
an' tracks o wilds
an' winds that curl yer lugs
Hielan mountains glory
summers toty story
an' bonny lassies dancing -
a gallus stoater!
that’s fir me.
Party racket
in Da’s laden jaiket
jangle change
fir a dram
an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame -
times hae changed a wee bit no?
Seldom ventured
tis seldom gained
an' aw the while
the wee bairns wail
Still, life is yin
what yin makes of that
which drives the world
that breaks yer back
Remember love!
ma banters free to give
an' thats all the mare important when
it costs so much tae live.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC
A drunken ould sot named O'Reilly
Drank a bottle he thought of most highly.
On his way to the well,
He stumbled and fell,
And was hoist upon his own shilleilly.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
838
Impossibility, like Wine
Exhilarates the Man
Who tastes it; Possibility
Is flavorless—Combine
A Chance’s faintest Tincture
And in the former Dram
Enchantment makes ingredient
As certainly as Doom—
2.4k
My heart is a boiling cauldron stewing with
A pinch of kindness,
A sprinkling of hope,
A dash of hate,
A gram of generosity,
A dram of charity,
A tablespoon of despair,
A measure of temperance,
A teaspoon of patience,
And a shake of faith.
Now, simmering on the element,
I can ladle out bowls of love.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
Its about free love, its about frugality
Step on the bohemian bus, take a ride with me
Calling all artists, all musicians every writer
This is one journey,that's gonna be an all-nighter
The radicals, the cultured, its gonna be a ride
Don't need money, just yourself, so step inside
The bohemian bus parked down by the sea
We sit in the sunshine with a dram of whisky
Don't need no rules we need free understanding
Society is governed by a law somewhat demanding
Nouveau, gypsy, dandy, zen or beat
Whatever you are come join us on the street
Its our Rainbow gathering, bless mother earth
Bless one another, live life as it is worth...
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 5:48 AM UTC
Weighty lightness, solid levity,
Primordial soup,
Some ancient rite, draws me
To the foam.
Its celestial colour,
Its effervescent overflowing,
How it teases my buds,
Not like water,
Like honey
As an insect encased
In amber
I am within,
The tears of sunshine
And Olympian folly.
On dry days
I seek the incendiary agent,
Brooding bout,
Pint-sized, el niño
And his brews
Come soaring
After the downpour,
As high-tiding winds,
That **** contented days
And spin spirals round
Cups of complacent
Hours, the whine
Eternal,
Only seems
Like spilling
Blood.
Draw me, the dram.
The dram of what?
Ale's the thing!
Falling,
Overboard,
No drowning man was so ever
Esteemed,
Ever so buoyant.
How the vessel becomes
His captain.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
*hard skin of life to penetrate
soften that piercing stare*
1.
seems a shot spiked with kindness does the trick
that’s how we button up the moon’s sides with silver thread
to keep its seams from splitting solemn sides
and spilling all its jolly secrets: whorls of fingerprints sinking steadily into luna-grooves
like a neat domino-stacked roll on a never-ending trip into black holes
not far from Ursa Major
2.
to grant a delightful hop up and throw seeking eyes over the orb’s gentle curve
take a little look-see
the tiniest peek into Tucanae
where tidal forces push small clouds
and outstrip the western winds
towards cunning straits
to subtly tie into bows
cut ribbons of fate
drink a dram of mercy from a well-behaved thimble
yet poems don’t pay no bills now
when words tinker with heart’s mettle
3.
wonder if sagacious rue repays in full
or satisfies the exceeding cost
of the hankering in a vessel
caught eddying in giant nacred jetsam
while casting minute gems before the moon’s eyes
it’s nigh impossible to hide behind the sun
4.
best be ready with prêt-a-porter life-pennies
and be
wise to always carry a pocket full of sorrys
*stitch 'em seams together now
it all comes together
nice and neat*
S T, Moonday, 15 July 2013
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
The u-turn of uninterrupted talk
Falls short before the midnight hour
And through the remembrances
The hushed
Echoing of a printed face smiles
Among the old and new.
But only you know he has gone,
For your heart is broken
And thrown about the room
Where your old man's chair sits alone....
Where you once shared
A laugh and a joke,
A tear and a smoke,
A kiss and a hug,
A poem and a mug
Of tea,
(With a wee dram of Glenmorangie)
On a cold night
By the firelight,
Reading Frost
- 'The Grindstone'
In candlelight,
Listening to Django Reinhardt's
'Crazy Rhythm'
On the radio
As it beats out a frenetic system
Of notes that runs and parts
Into segments of your mind.
Now you are on your own,
You sit back to find
What you have lost....
©Jack Aylward,
July 2013
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
A wedding coming up, that's nice
Put some pink champagne on ice
A little son for Pam and Ted-
Better wet the baby's head
Cyril died for goodness sake
Get some beers in for the wake
Paddy says he saw his ghost
Must be worth a little toast
Rabbie Burns night guess the plan
Old Lang Syne then a dram
Talking business I've a hunch
Could involve a liquid lunch
Dear John news comes in a letter
Have a brandy you'll feel better
Internet gone on the blink
Enough to drive a man to drink
Not that I take much you see
Just a little socially
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
Sometimes I love you and it's just
Painful
Too painful for me to continue
For me to fathom what's wrong
For me to discern reality from illusions
For me to comprehend your lies.
Sometimes I hate you and it just
*****
Yeah, I said it. Hating you
*****
Because life is a lie, love is a lie,
My hate for you is a lie-
Or is it the truth?
I don't know anymore.
Sometimes I ignore you and it's just
Pure
Bliss
I close my eyes and ignore you
I clap my hands over my ears
Pretend I don't hear you
Pretend I don't see you
Pretend I don't feel you
Like I did that night
Which was sprinkled with stars like
Icing
Icing on a cupcake.
Sometimes I remember you and it's just
Horrifying
Two conflicting emotions of deep within battle
Fight to seek dominance and reassurance
Your love nauseates me and excites me
Because I remember drunken words full of poisoned love
And I recall your touch that used to heal
But now it burns and forever it will hurt
It burns and flares greater than any cursed fire.
Sometimes I love you, and hate you
Sometimes I ignore you, and remember you
And life isn't what it used to be
It's no longer a fairytale
It holds no dram of mercy
And love for you is so conflicting
So contradicting, so confusing
Like yin and yang or something more
Faded lines, blurred lies and tear-streaked whispers...
Sometimes, I think that
Me
Loving
You
Isn't that worthwhile anymore.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
Leaning back in my chair to give the crowd a scan
Outside the bar window up pulls a van
He came in with guns drawn, hands in the air!
Wallets and money liberated told not to stare
Gone now, reach into my sock for a 20 to pay for another dram
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC
For I understand, now,
That it was not love:
It was merely my mistempered;
Beshrewed list,
For what is só scarce
In this marred world:
She,
Is oft misused and no one descrys thee engrossing forfullment she gives:
Like a mantle of a paramour,
On a flesh penetrating night...
Marry!
My heart feels tossed on the abstract,
For I was overturned with the conceit
Of being Your Thisbe...
Your Trojan princess...
Your right-hand-lady...
But Sir,
My heart, now
Desires but one thing:
To be announced as one's kindred
And be loved as a kingsman
I am content, in faith!
Let us lief love
With a love, greater than love,
And may we build with flint
On the foundation of vestal love.
Let us be one another's bier
When our bodies brine;
Ghostly anchor...
Pilot in the bailful pestilence;
Crotchet in woe;
Behoveful paramour to tell aught to
Without the conceit of neither being cast by
Nor discreet;
Aqua vitae dram in languish...
When thát day abroach
I shall anon be aught...
Do aught for thy...
When thát day abroach
I shall doff
All inadequasies...
And love you
Invariably!
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
The Chinook and Monsoons have no effect.
Bring rain or snow, sleet or hail.
The Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn
Can shift or stay.
The wadi and oasis can pool or dry.
Fogs can roll, jet streams can carry their worst;
Hurricanes and tornadoes can wreck havoc.
This is my Kouri, my Oued, myTog.
All the animals are welcome to eat and drink.
There's plenty.
Migration is unnecessary.
The watering holes are wet or arid.
The desert can bloom or hide.
The skylights can shine or dim;
Moons can be full, new or in between.
This is my Nahal, and my Nala,
This is my Dry Season.
As expected,
Feast is followed by famine;
Plenty by scarcity.
Inhale, exhale.
I shoot a shot of Jamie,
Having watched it pour,
That dram of gold
Eclipsing all that shines.
That one diluvial ounce:
Then my cave calls.
This is my Akhet.
My Wet Season.
I enter sapien-like
And grow hair.
The animals scatter.
The cave fills with bones and bottles.
I eventually emerge
With the changing of the season,
With the return of reason,
And see;
Then hope
My dim familiar shadow
From the dry season
Will lengthen.
All I need is water.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
*Weighty lightness, solid levity,
Primordial soup,
Some ancient rite, draws me
To the foam.
Its celestial colour,
Its effervescent overflowing,
How it teases my buds,
Not like water,
Like honey
As an insect encased
In amber
I am within,
The tears of sunshine
And Olympian folly.
On dry days
I seek the incendiary agent,
Brooding bout,
Pint-sized, el niño
And his brews
Come soaring
After the downpour,
As high-tiding winds,
That **** contented days
And spin spirals round
Cups of complacent
Hours, the whine
Eternal,
Only seems
Like spilling
Blood.
Draw me, the dram.
The dram of what?
Ale's the thing!
Falling,
Overboard,
No drowning man was so ever
Esteemed,
Ever so buoyant.
How the vessel becomes
His captain.*
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
Take me away from the sharp icy heather.
Come walk with me.
Pray take my hand.
On the craggy land, may our feet be liberated.
For I want not to slide unto the land of Duncan.
May my feet be firmly anchored, upon the hills where Robert walked.
Should we focus our eyes together, as we give due regard to the fowl soaring in the firmament.
Then to the smoky tavern we shall go.
To drown our sins with a warming dram.
As the evening will stoop, fast becoming night.
We shall slumber into the morning.
Tomorrow for the loch we shall depart.
Once again shall we march.
Escorted only by the rising of the winter sun.
©Livvi
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
When I was a much younger man, I hiked the moorland,
my mother was Welsh, and the dry rolling hills spoke to my soul.
I'd trudge on through the forgotten paths, and daydream of my darling.
The wind it whipped like ethereal hands, tugging at my clothes
like a crazed lover.
But I was alone, out there on the moorlands.
Not a human in sight, such things make us feel most human.
I'd slip the flask from my hip pocket, and down a dram of scotch from the little metal cup,
and make love to the solitude. So much emptiness, so much loveliness.
The nights were especially cold, and harsh, I would spread my blanket
across the crunchy permafrost, and curl up into a ball.
Half awake, my feet tucked into my pack, I would hear music.
No instruments, just a vocal melody.
The words were unclear, but the feeling, it could only be love.
Years have passed, it seems like ages, since I walked the fields of my youth.
Now I have a family, and I find that I can still hear the music.
It is stronger, and it is clearer. In the rays of the morning sun,
with my family sleeping peacefully, I finally understand the song.
"Live, and Love my lovelies, ignore the cold. Sleep and dream,
in the morning you will wake up, the sun will be shining, and you will be loved."
This morning, dawn breaks so sweetly, and I quickly forget the insults of days past,
the hassles at the airport, and the trials of the day.
For the first time in however many years, as my loved ones gently snore
in their beds, spread out across two continents, I open my eyes, and I can still hear the music.
This melody is mine, no, it is ours, and you can hear it if you listen,
for it is the melody of love, and we all share it, whether we serve love or not,
We are loved.
A Burns 2012
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
We lay on a single bunk,
gazing at each other under African sunlight
not yet lovers, but going that way.
"You're beautiful," she said after a while
and I believed her
but wanting to give her credit
for all that was good in me
I replied,
"It's a reflection!"
Except -
Despite my tan,
despite the rainbow racket of parrots outside,
despite my travel-broadened mind,
I still carried a heart
nurtured in Aberdeen,
that grey-granite reservation in North East Scotland
where true emotion may only be expressed
after fifteen pints and a dram.
So,
by way of a padded brown envelope
in which to hand over this pure, unselfish thought
I said it
in a silly voice.
These days she doesn't even write.
Me? I'm married
to a woman who finds me
kind of funny looking
but in an agreeable way.
It's a reflection.
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 4:40 AM UTC