"guinness" poems
Ye got to Fancy this Hearty Stout, Aye,
Soot-soaked with tub-flavoured Laurels of Gold
Now bloke-haste Juggers tick your nerves on-high
And make ye shout the Trumpet-Football-Fold
Yet so, our Celtic Spirit comes to call
For you to Jig their Post-Victorious Dance
Or, if upset, prefer to keep knees on hold
And hope such Font will get you that Romance
Still, never deny those After-Glugs won't count
In palling the Bet for Arsenal's Wear
Sudden Death Match will cause the Team to Mount
And show those Charbarrels a Reason to Tear.
Raise a Swig, to where there Brave Captains be
I take me Share, and drink the Sailor in me.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
Billy loved his parsnip
He'd tend it day and night
To keep it safe from prying eyes
He stashed it out of sight
But one eventful morning
He awoke to such alarm
His parsnip had gone from puny
To the size of a baby's arm
Such growth was nigh unheard of
In a vegetable or fruit
So he bore it proud before him
Grasped expertly by the root
When he showed his doting mother
She was mightily impressed
So screamed a lot then swooned a bit
While clutching at her chest
The people at the bus stop
Shared his mother's admiration
But advised him that his tuber
Needed urgent relocation
So he took it in a taxi
Wrapped up in folded gauze
To the Guinness book of records
And he pushed apart the doors
His parsnip held protruding
With a confident advance
Like a knight atop his charger
With a huge organic lance
But security had seen him
They quickly knocked him flat
A policeman saw his parsnip
And he hid it with his hat
Billy served his sentence
For unsavory displaying
He changed his name to Danny
There's no record where he's staying
The moral of this sorry tale
Is far too dull to write
So learn your ****** vegetables
And know their names on sight
**
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
I know we won't replace,
The vacant hole you once embraced,
Our hearts were full and solid gold,
Now there’s sadness and bitter cold,
You gave us love, you gave us time,
Beside us through every fall and climb,
Words can never explain the tears,
We cry now for the wasted years…
…years…
…years…
The many times we had laughed,
The emptiness can’t hope to halve,
And yet I can’t help but reflect upon,
The days and weeks and times; long gone,
But in my memory, that secret place,
Is the joy and magic I can trace,
Those times that only I can share,
With you, myself – a connection so rare…
…rare…
…rare…
Though now your soul is far away,
We’ll have thoughts of you each passing day,
Of superman at Christmas and Guinness for a saint,
The scolding of Tim Henman, that passionate complaint,
The stories of Las Vegas, and of the times we shared in France,
Will light up all our broken hearts and the mind can have its dance,
You were a special lady, we don’t want to release,
But I know that you are with us and your body is at peace…
…peace…
…peace…
(This poem was written in memory of my Nan, An Cronin. R.I.P.)
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 5:52 AM UTC
Guinness and Milk
You can blame me for everything
However, not tonight
You cannot blame me for having this
Cold, cold glass of Guinness and milk
So come on! cheers.
Lets forget this blasted day
However, I ain't looking forward to tomorrow
**** workplace*
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
red tile roof ...
whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle ,
fridge full 'f
1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza --
clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture)
$1000/week:
(i could live on that)
lucky strike spirals in spanish summer,
bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada.
afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines)
spend
75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin )
&
typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire)
flamenco on a record player back in the house
one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there
still as death)
as she gets into the jacuzzi.
&
spend
75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand
up skirt of my carmen-du-jour.
climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa
drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves.
(feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
Your love is like Guinness.
Black.
Hard to see through.
Heavy.
and tasty.
And if I have too much
really
really
Bad for me.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.
There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.
There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.
The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.
There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.
There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.
There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.
There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.
But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Someone asked how old I am,
and this was my reply;
“I’m about as old as the dirt
that’ll cover me when I die.”
I’m the oldest dead person living,
according to Guinness’s book.
A record once held by a bible guy,
but one from him I took.
Friends who have all gone before
wonder if they should fret.
They think I’ve likely gone to hell,
‘cause I’m not in heaven yet.
I have grandkids in rest homes.
They don’t mind it there.
But when I go to visit
you should see the people stare.
Went to a senior Citizen’s club
‘til the day that I was told,
“Sorry, but you can’t come back
because you’re too **** old.”
At my last birthday party,
all the candles lit the sky
Fourteen cakes to hold ‘em all…
Three fire trucks stopped by..
So, you want to know how old I am?
Well, that’s just too dang bad
At my age I can’t remember squat,
and really….I’m kinda’ glad.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:41 AM UTC
Drinking a Guinness Extra, an empty gesture,
Beset truly by the words of Joyce,
I am sick of the turning from text
To annotation. I wish only to read
A text as it was meant,
With the knowledge not aside
But present already in my blasted skull
It's like the modern appreciation of Shakespeare
—At best an approximation. The words that were
Common, fallen out of usage.
The words then invented, now commonplace.
Thither and hither again I will look
Tracking the details
Researching the clever allusion
Trying not to miss & missing anon
what's right in front of me
D.B. Guy
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
Sloe black Guinness seeps,
Raven eye conjured in glass—
. . . Frothy and gorgeous!
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
Drinking bottles of Guinness
"Only socially, I can't stand the stuff"
Fatality in the finesse
Of 'classiness' and *****
Smoky rooms and jazzy tunes
A cigar hanging from the lips
Fatality in the finesse
Of small talk and swaying hips.
Winehouse's drawl pours from the speakers
That are modern in their vintage style
Fatality in the finesse
Of hidden grimaces and fake smiles.
Every conversations the same
In it's lack of personality
Fatality in the finesse
Of sociability.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
You're just to good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you
You'd be like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
At long last love has arrived
And I thank god I'm alive
You're just too good to be true
I can't take my eyes off of you
Pardon the way that I stare
There's no one else to compare
The sight of you leaves me weak
There are no words left to speak
But if you feel like I feel
Please let me know that it's real
You're just to good to be true
I can't take my eyes off of you
And I need you baby,
If it's quite alright, oh pretty baby
To warm the lonely nights, I love you baby
Trust in me when I say okay
And oh pretty baby
Don't let me down I pray
Oh pretty baby
Now that I found you stay
And let me love you
Baby let me love you oh baby
(My Verse)
Your, feet must be tired you've been joggin through my mind
You're like a star, that has fallen from the sky
You're Wonderwoman, but who has lost her powers
Man I'm workin at the sushi shop I get off in an hour so
If you don't mind, would you come & pick me up?
Give me lovin' & a hug 'cause I've been strugglin' and stuff
There's no other like you so I know that I'm lucky to find
A girl so fine and kind & so explosive hot like dynamite
We can wine & dine and do it again a couple of times
I thank god, everyday, girl you bring my life to life
Twenty years old, but with you a kiddish fool
Living in the windy city I never took you for a fool
Girl you're a blessing I guess you work miracles
The most beautiful girl I know, appointed by guinness rule
Beauty like yours, is just an urban myth
Usually a cool dude but with you im a nervous kid
You're dressed to **** so your clothes are murderous
We connected faster than my internet service did
(Chorus)~
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
*yes, Yes, YES!
I think about you all day long
But must wait to call your name
You give me what I need the most
A release from my long day
Your boldness just amazes me
The coolness of your looks
I wrap my hands around you
And gently pull you to my lips
All my friends they wish they had you
They admire what they see
They want to have you with them
When they see you're here with me
Your seduction starts out slowly
Anticipating whats in store
My feeling of excitement grows
And I want you even more
The head you give it wont last long
I'll feel your wetness on my tongue
Then close my eyes and take you in
A guilty pleasure till I'm done
I think about you all day long
But must wait to call your name
And when that moment finally comes
Guinness Draft is what I'll say
Carl Joseph Roberts*
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
In Lisbon, we blended
ended the day with spectacular culinary
Shopped and hopped side to side
In Dublin, we vented
as the whisky and Guinness was **** good
Shipped the hire car to Galway
In Italy, we invented
dropped coins in fountains of love we already held
From Florence, to Milan, to Rome, to Bologna
In Paris, I rented
alone in protests and hippies at Place De La Republique
Dreamt of you as they skated
In Romania, I persisted
up on the icy Tranfagarasan highway traps
I saw a bear and it had your eyes
In Stockholm, we insisted
As the Vasa sunk on tables of *****
Pecked on the trains and shied away.
In London, we protested
It was an ordinary day and the flowers didn't bloom
The Thames was gloomy and stale
In Oslo, we transmitted
The reindeer meal and cranberry was a disaster
The gloom followed us to southern skies
In Copenhagen, you were sorted
Smiled and amused by the Tivoli gardens
The night became day and the wind withered
In Amsterdam, we did what we did
Stored the memories on the reclaimed lands
Free-spirited in love and in eternity
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
I am trying to make the book see my name in print in the next edition
for the most reads of a poem on Hp with no hearts, shares , or collection reposts , sans comments, just ignored so well it breaks the records, if
Guinness has such a thing. Or possibly the most poems wroten bad
and worst punctuations, mark, my, word!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
Alight me Paddies! Today the world is Green;
I am in a mood, alas, to gnaw crubeen,
To kiss my Irish lass, and cuddle her awhile,
To hear the Irish Rovers sing their bonny Isle,
To wear a shamrock, laboring o'er a stout:
Murphy or Guinness, to me it matters naught.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
I am but a man,
left standing in his shoes.
In the corner of my local
- drinking away my blues.
My woman asked a question.
- Then promptly threw me out.
I've yet to find the answer
- at the bottom of this stout.
So she's packing up her things,
moving back to Venice.
While I contemplate
- another pint of guinness.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
St Henry was for Finland, and before he took the land
He wandered through Uppsala with a beer-mug in his hand.
For through his understanding of the Finns and what they are
If you should serve him sahti, it must be in a jar.
St Patrick was for Ireland, and before the snakes were out
He ate a steak, and washed it down with pints of Guinness stout.
For since he was from Ireland, people shouldn't make mistakes:
Unless you give him Guinness, then you mustn't give him steaks.
St Louis was from France, and before he was the king,
He bought champagne and cheeses and he ate like anything.
For since he was from France, I must say it once again:
Unless you give him cheeses, then there must be no champagne.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 6:34 PM UTC
I sit here contemplating altruism.
I wonder why I get frustrated when there is no reciprocation.
Teach a man to fish, he will steal all your business.
Give a beggar coins, he can only buy a pint of Guinness.
I'm ******* tired of this **** Somebody is living their dreams by taking mine away. I'd rather be beaten and hit than give up one more day.
Like trying to play guitar for others, just to be told "You ****
I try to ignore the deterring phrase, "You'll never make a buck".
Teach a child love and tolerance, he will be abused and stepped on.
Give a loser a second chance, he will steal from you when you're gone.
Altruism doesn't exist. It's in my nature to share this exhibit.
Too bad it hurts me, feels like my belief is somehow complicit.
I hope I can see what I should give, and what I should prohibit.
Judge my charity, my gifts, my intentions, these words from my lips.
You call me an altruistic ******* But you're just a selfish piece of ****
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
While reading an article last night about fathers and sons, memories came flooding back to
the time I took me son out for his first pint.
Off we went to our local pub only two blocks from the cottage.
I got him a Guinness. He didn't like it, so I drank it.
Then I got him a Kilkenny's, he didn't like that either, so I drank it.
Finally, I thought he might like some Harp Lager? He didn't. I drank it.
I thought maybe he'd like whiskey better than beer so we tried a Jameson's, nope!
In desperation, I had him try that rare Redbreast,Ireland's finest. He wouldn't even smell it.
What could I do but drink it!
By the time I realized he just didn't like to drink, I was so feckin ********* I could hardly
push his pram back Home.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
i never understood the concept of
intellectual ************
coming from people with more than three
children.
personally i found it more economic
to sell the theory of relativity
than i cared to see three *****
telling red from blue apart...
the concept of intellectual ************
had me lost...
i could only understand the worth
of ************ intellectually
had i the capacity to breed 3 or more children...
i found that intellectual ************ always
existed in people who had the capacity to breed
Irish families... and did so... without discouragement...
inclusive of some ulterior prompt,
or some Amazonian whim.
or a potato famine.
as paddy always does: move to the whimsical
care for strata.
intellectual ************ only makes sense
if you come from large investment familial circles...
or rabbit libido. who cares?!
none of them will ever build a Coliseum
what's the bother? a pint of Guinness?! why, i can pass
that one modern bother...
i rather ********** intellectually,
than fulfil my biological obligation of a catholic
family... paddy oats.
what do you get when you scratch a potato
long enough?
CHIPS!
squatter mckenzies! limp *****
kilt prone! chequers & cheese!
cheap joke... ha ha... hmm ha:
you got to load up on the romance
to **** off what's never bound to be funny.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 1:06 AM UTC
Two Frenchmen,
One newly retired,
One still a few years out,
In high back leather chairs
Beside an empty fire place,
Guinness & coffee & conversation
To bring closure,
And to think how to begin again....
"I'm burned out!"
Mssr. Rivere declares,
"Away with books;
Away with the horn!"
He says, and I can tell,
That he feels worn.
Is this how we come to our ends;
Spent in years and worn of halls,
Chalk and marker memories,
And the clattering of chairs....
Old opening lines, closing remarks,
Grading done and logged,
And now it's out we're turned
To walk upon the parks,
Once quicker steps now trudging
Up and down the eternal stairs?
Memories' mellowed now,
And sometimes failing;
Shall we go sadly sighing,
Or do we go out flailing?
At these crossroads,
Care-worn teachers,
Revert to old philosophy,
To faith, and to our friends...
Ancient lines to lead us
Too soon to be old men....
Must look all ways, we,
Then venture out again
To see what lies beyond
The pasts we leave behind;
Take pause this afternoon
Upon the marge
Of journeys new
We must begin.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
should she have
thrown her wish at the stars
or down a well?
her hair in cigar smoke ringlets
her eyes were the guinness
the journey, her passion
the boy, her poison
the liffey winked with antidotes
black glass with white lights
why do rivers mock the sky?
her hair in her vision
her voice in a bird cage
a swan on a sailboat
not a soul on the ferry
on another coast
amid the day before
and the one that followed
seafoam clashed with clouds
came full circle
as her favorite dead end
she raised
then rolled
her eyes
blue waves with gray wisps
why do skies mock the river?
she didn't go over
nor to the end
she just went against the grain
of the rainbow
only she could spot
and then
she stuffed her hands into her pockets
and
she threw her wish
away
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
.
Meet me for a pint after work.
Take me through the days, weeks, or months
We've neglected ourselves -
Overworked and inebriated respectively.
You've never been without a job -
But don't neglect a word.
Take utmost care through the moments
That define your time: The trials, troubles,
And metamorphic events which reframe
Your view of the world, or your relationship with it.
Tell me about the ones who make it easy.
We'll allow time for the detail.
Your moments constitute a vicarious roadmap;
A means to improve my world.
In return I can offer up a Dublin dinner:
The best advice I've never followed,
My sincere admiration,
And a proper pint of Guinness.
.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC