"highball" poems - Hello Poetry

Welcome to my home, oh won't you come in? Allow me to show you around, would you care for a drink? Tell me your poison, maybe a highball of gin? I keep it in the kitchen with the coffeepot by the sink, or maybe you'd prefer a tumbler of crown? Whiskey is right in the foyer by the doorstop, there's nothing like a nip right before I bounce. And if it's wine you crave, it's in the living room atop the tube television beside the VCR in it's place. But if you've a tongue for peach schnapps then make your way to the crawl space. Whilst your up there I say, would you do me a fave? Look in the attic for the bourbon, it's beside my baby pictures, and bring it down for me. I'm sure that I saved some from the last time I was up there alone with self-stricture. Oh you don't care for bourbon, then maybe some brandy? The cognac is somewhere down the basement, but ignore the rope and the candies. You're unsettled you say? Then rum's how to spend drinking the night away with me in the den. OH! Just send a beer your way?! you should've just said! A six-pack's in the bathroom, right next to the head.

0

Mar 4, 2015

Mar 4, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC

Listerineyedrops

Room and Bored (for *****

Welcome to my home, oh won't you come in? Allow me to show you around, would you care for a drink? Tell me your poison, maybe a highball of gin? I keep it in the kitchen with the coffeepot by the sink, or maybe you'd prefer a tumbler of crown? Whiskey is right in the foyer by the doorstop, there's nothing like a nip right before I bounce. And if it's wine you crave, it's in the living room atop the tube television beside the VCR in it's place. But if you've a tongue for peach schnapps then make your way to the crawl space. Whilst your up there I say, would you do me a fave? Look in the attic for the bourbon, it's beside my baby pictures, and bring it down for me. I'm sure that I saved some from the last time I was up there alone with self-stricture. Oh you don't care for bourbon, then maybe some brandy? The cognac is somewhere down the basement, but ignore the rope and the candies. You're unsettled you say? Then rum's how to spend drinking the night away with me in the den. OH! Just send a beer your way?! you should've just said! A six-pack's in the bathroom, right next to the head.

22

Considering belief, dispositions dutifully mixed Two fingers of skepticism, with ample deviation Followed by a pony of existentialism riding in Mad man's drink is bitter but, At this point all he can accept Chin deep in the highball glass Sinking amongst the buoyant Gulping down helplessness Yearning for the forgotten island Where belief was once believed

0

Apr 13, 2012

Apr 13, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC

nicholas-rew

An inebriating mix, hold the belief

Considering belief, dispositions dutifully mixed Two fingers of skepticism, with ample deviation Followed by a pony of existentialism riding in Mad man's drink is bitter but, At this point all he can accept Chin deep in the highball glass Sinking amongst the buoyant Gulping down helplessness Yearning for the forgotten island Where belief was once believed

10

friends of friends and an **** of mutuality every one ripe for the ******* until we greedily eat our own tails I find myself running low on chemistry with so little reaction left inside of me the water around the plug hole no longer spins, it only falls architectural wounds cannot heal beneath this razor’s murderous haste while the cognisant weak and a capella apes deform the silent comedy of a shared space once straight tempers and scorpion kindness highball an unhappy taste, leaving who to speak for the ordinary host? the functionaries’ short practice infects the martyr’s hurried hair between the principal route and the settling irons

0

Mar 10, 2015

Mar 10, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC

paul-sands

mutuality

friends of friends and an **** of mutuality every one ripe for the ******* until we greedily eat our own tails I find myself running low on chemistry with so little reaction left inside of me the water around the plug hole no longer spins, it only falls architectural wounds cannot heal beneath this razor’s murderous haste while the cognisant weak and a capella apes deform the silent comedy of a shared space once straight tempers and scorpion kindness highball an unhappy taste, leaving who to speak for the ordinary host? the functionaries’ short practice infects the martyr’s hurried hair between the principal route and the settling irons

17

need street just like gin time vermouth fuck blue beer man glass drink liquid shattered away bar notice feel soul right set main shadow white vodka haiku perfect match shot big mornings past saw light join edge black candy make words elephants bastard olive eyes poetic sound way long passed die motion page drain dallas yesterday martini brine passage window brand highway blank icy hills night sitting cheap carpet holding filled gulped condensation women pint quick imagine dive gripped professors stem point false self peace hardwood epiphany highball unspecified downed crystal means sting cinema percent mixing forget bukowski sifted fingers

0

Nov 21, 2013

Nov 21, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC

blake-bourland

Tag lines

need street just like gin time vermouth fuck blue beer man glass drink liquid shattered away bar notice feel soul right set main shadow white vodka haiku perfect match shot big mornings past saw light join edge black candy make words elephants bastard olive eyes poetic sound way long passed die motion page drain dallas yesterday martini brine passage window brand highway blank icy hills night sitting cheap carpet holding filled gulped condensation women pint quick imagine dive gripped professors stem point false self peace hardwood epiphany highball unspecified downed crystal means sting cinema percent mixing forget bukowski sifted fingers

100

Slumped over again, bad posture. Running a fingertip around the edge of a highball glass. Lost track of how many times life has led to this. Drinking but far from drunk. Using and still not high. Alone and still crowded by the memories. Took in all of the empty through bloodshot eyes that hadn't been a healthy white in far too long. Thinking, lost so much. Tried everything to **** it all away. Stabbed myself and missed again. Look forward to the next fix, need something. No Longer worried about the could have beens. Dance along like a dollar girl with all that has been given. Alone,better this way. Listen to the sound of the refrigerator hum. Call this music, Frusciante. Just me and the sound of the ceiling fan whipping. Passed out and called it sleep. I don't dream anymore, the dreams gave up on me long ago. Tossed and turned, reached out and felt no one there. Laughed it off then paced the room. Went to the window and peeked out at the sacred night. Back to the bottle and filled the empty glass. I began all of this alone. The crowds demand conversation. The stammer robs me of that. Sat and drank, sat and used. I dont need the crowds. I got Demons to keep me company.

0

Feb 16, 2014

Feb 16, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC

anthony-b-perales

Forlorn And Never Alone

Slumped over again, bad posture. Running a fingertip around the edge of a highball glass. Lost track of how many times life has led to this. Drinking but far from drunk. Using and still not high. Alone and still crowded by the memories. Took in all of the empty through bloodshot eyes that hadn't been a healthy white in far too long. Thinking, lost so much. Tried everything to **** it all away. Stabbed myself and missed again. Look forward to the next fix, need something. No Longer worried about the could have beens. Dance along like a dollar girl with all that has been given. Alone,better this way. Listen to the sound of the refrigerator hum. Call this music, Frusciante. Just me and the sound of the ceiling fan whipping. Passed out and called it sleep. I don't dream anymore, the dreams gave up on me long ago. Tossed and turned, reached out and felt no one there. Laughed it off then paced the room. Went to the window and peeked out at the sacred night. Back to the bottle and filled the empty glass. I began all of this alone. The crowds demand conversation. The stammer robs me of that. Sat and drank, sat and used. I dont need the crowds. I got Demons to keep me company.

71

I watched a girl knock over a drunken man’s glass Off a fence post The highball glass didn’t wobble off There was no instance of dull fear at the Inability of prevention Simply it just was on the concrete With its shards reflecting the headlights as they passed The tattooed drunk did not get angry As some men are disposed to become under a similar circumstance He muttered in a dead pan voice -My long island

0

Aug 25, 2011

Aug 25, 2011 at 3:18 AM UTC

will-storck

The Saddest Words I've Heard

I watched a girl knock over a drunken man’s glass Off a fence post The highball glass didn’t wobble off There was no instance of dull fear at the Inability of prevention Simply it just was on the concrete With its shards reflecting the headlights as they passed The tattooed drunk did not get angry As some men are disposed to become under a similar circumstance He muttered in a dead pan voice -My long island

11

And I drank a beer for the Poet, lyrically gripped on to the stem of peace and understanding I downed a shot for the Women clutching their highball of shattered self importance I gulped wine from a goblet for the professors, the teachers holding their stein filled w/ false prophecy and cheap hopes. And I shattered my glass on the floor Just to prove a point.

0

Oct 12, 2013

Oct 12, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC

blake-bourland

An unspecified night, at some ****** dive bar

And I drank a beer for the Poet, lyrically gripped on to the stem of peace and understanding I downed a shot for the Women clutching their highball of shattered self importance I gulped wine from a goblet for the professors, the teachers holding their stein filled w/ false prophecy and cheap hopes. And I shattered my glass on the floor Just to prove a point.

17

Rings on rosewood linger from a cold glass of ice that warmed but soon after, whose contents evaporated away. My chaser became the room, matching it twice in form and temperature, Would never have stayed. So I roll the glass with a retrograde tilt, but keep it in place, but keep it at hilt such that knurls on the crystal, jagged knuckles on the base, make it thump in a path and it steps and it stilts in its own kind of track while connection with the ground through multiple laps stipples neatly on a plane— infinite curve by singular tack. And this motion is contained to the confines of the round of a bullseye-mark stain where a highball was put down. Reminds the afternoon patina, the hunching over my piano, the warmth of its shade of cocoa. And the mug I placed on its bench, where subsequently the lacquer gave way to warmer matter and a matte “O” was forever etched in print. Reminds of sap-stuck fingers that ailed us backwoods explorers, that neither the soap nor the hottest water could manage to separate. Reminds of the smell of the road that gashed through wild mint with its tire-milled dirt pounded thin, and the hazel dust that arose and managed to stay ever close when the little Sahara was traversed again. Those clouds would form and move and clove, and the dry would pinch in your nose; yet it seemed the only stretch of land to never see any rain. And now it strikes as strange, and I’d love to explain, but can’t— the green was never killed, while cleaved, and beaten, and grilled; it managed to weather the dust and ride on the cusp of the electric months after May. These things don’t peel away. Reminds how none of this strays too far from the path, or too far out of mind, and the nature of present and past, how inseparably they bind. Like the light to the glass, one moves through the next, and all the moments hug tight, each forebears another's context.

0

Sep 21, 2018

Sep 21, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC

John-PB-Miller

Still A *******

Rings on rosewood linger from a cold glass of ice that warmed but soon after, whose contents evaporated away. My chaser became the room, matching it twice in form and temperature, Would never have stayed. So I roll the glass with a retrograde tilt, but keep it in place, but keep it at hilt such that knurls on the crystal, jagged knuckles on the base, make it thump in a path and it steps and it stilts in its own kind of track while connection with the ground through multiple laps stipples neatly on a plane— infinite curve by singular tack. And this motion is contained to the confines of the round of a bullseye-mark stain where a highball was put down. Reminds the afternoon patina, the hunching over my piano, the warmth of its shade of cocoa. And the mug I placed on its bench, where subsequently the lacquer gave way to warmer matter and a matte “O” was forever etched in print. Reminds of sap-stuck fingers that ailed us backwoods explorers, that neither the soap nor the hottest water could manage to separate. Reminds of the smell of the road that gashed through wild mint with its tire-milled dirt pounded thin, and the hazel dust that arose and managed to stay ever close when the little Sahara was traversed again. Those clouds would form and move and clove, and the dry would pinch in your nose; yet it seemed the only stretch of land to never see any rain. And now it strikes as strange, and I’d love to explain, but can’t— the green was never killed, while cleaved, and beaten, and grilled; it managed to weather the dust and ride on the cusp of the electric months after May. These things don’t peel away. Reminds how none of this strays too far from the path, or too far out of mind, and the nature of present and past, how inseparably they bind. Like the light to the glass, one moves through the next, and all the moments hug tight, each forebears another's context.

63

The glass clinks A stack of highballs lean like the drunk next to me Red faced, nose as hard as the oak bar he’s been drinking at his whole life He sinks into a bourbon, gurgling "God must be a woman, because life is a ***** Well, **** Tennyson. I'd rather never loved at all.

0

Apr 15, 2018

Apr 15, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC

christopher-mellon

Highball

The glass clinks A stack of highballs lean like the drunk next to me Red faced, nose as hard as the oak bar he’s been drinking at his whole life He sinks into a bourbon, gurgling "God must be a woman, because life is a ***** Well, **** Tennyson. I'd rather never loved at all.

6

The tower climbs in periodic orange, lung-like patterns above the slate run, casting evening in long frequencies as I run the face of century rows. A hilted moon cuts swaths through clouds of interior peach, piercing a gin-muted sky. Blocks of night advance across the blue golf course & empty highball glasses clink like bells in the porch dark. Broad curves of street rise in the humid trees, then sweep and glitter toward the hospital. Four and a half miles bring me to the train station, under the black water circuitry. You arrive in your night-soaked dress, walking me home. The streetlamps are aching yellow. Rain never comes. As a we drift home I feel so lucky that all my runs carry me home to you. I draw a shower, & a charcoal horizon tilts, tilts, tilts.

0

Aug 1, 2019

Aug 1, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC

EvanS

August Night Run

The tower climbs in periodic orange, lung-like patterns above the slate run, casting evening in long frequencies as I run the face of century rows. A hilted moon cuts swaths through clouds of interior peach, piercing a gin-muted sky. Blocks of night advance across the blue golf course & empty highball glasses clink like bells in the porch dark. Broad curves of street rise in the humid trees, then sweep and glitter toward the hospital. Four and a half miles bring me to the train station, under the black water circuitry. You arrive in your night-soaked dress, walking me home. The streetlamps are aching yellow. Rain never comes. As a we drift home I feel so lucky that all my runs carry me home to you. I draw a shower, & a charcoal horizon tilts, tilts, tilts.

43

Remember the wine that was stirred with cherry red words in a highball glass that looked back at us lazily with one eye winking seduction? Remember Paris and London where the pages turned slowly and the tourist buses zipped past the Champs D Elysee and London Tower and Soho framed in a window of opportunity never undressed before? Remember the postcards with glossy pigeons and castles and 'nights' in shining amour that balanced long lances and ladies and charged on steeds of grey metal four poster beds that creaked and groaned under the weight of many escapades? Remember that we are poets who play with words rousing and rustic, that embark on the imagination and course through the heart searching for ventricles and valleys that glisten and glow with newly discovered meanings each time we lift the skirt of its greater idiom and chuckle with laughter at being caught out? Author Notes Just another poem for DML who makes the nicest comments and meets me on a level playing field - all the time. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ag

0

Apr 16, 2014

Apr 16, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC

marshall-gass

Another Poem for DML.

Remember the wine that was stirred with cherry red words in a highball glass that looked back at us lazily with one eye winking seduction? Remember Paris and London where the pages turned slowly and the tourist buses zipped past the Champs D Elysee and London Tower and Soho framed in a window of opportunity never undressed before? Remember the postcards with glossy pigeons and castles and 'nights' in shining amour that balanced long lances and ladies and charged on steeds of grey metal four poster beds that creaked and groaned under the weight of many escapades? Remember that we are poets who play with words rousing and rustic, that embark on the imagination and course through the heart searching for ventricles and valleys that glisten and glow with newly discovered meanings each time we lift the skirt of its greater idiom and chuckle with laughter at being caught out? Author Notes Just another poem for DML who makes the nicest comments and meets me on a level playing field - all the time. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ag

27

They paint red She is happy She is a great artist She draws a pattern She thinks it is the finest Gaza's streets are filled with red It may be surrealist You must blind your heart And say as the world told Thanks thank God As you created like that Israel killed these animals As they do not deserve to be lived You must solid your mind And dance, dance very fast And drink barrels of highball To see the world's talk To see how it is so having tale that Israel is doing well it may paint of realistic it reflects a view of fact telling Israel is the master Arabs must bow and worship her more It may be line And see how Arabs are awful They don't deserve a1ot to be wonderful **** , **** with your powerful To destroy Arabs at all It may be a cartoon they tell Arabs doing as Tom Who looks stupid and will fall Doom to undeveloped persons ****** over that world Which encourages the unjust And she will **** **** As the baby does with his doll

0

Nov 15, 2019

Nov 15, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC

mohamad-taha-safan

They paint red

They paint red She is happy She is a great artist She draws a pattern She thinks it is the finest Gaza's streets are filled with red It may be surrealist You must blind your heart And say as the world told Thanks thank God As you created like that Israel killed these animals As they do not deserve to be lived You must solid your mind And dance, dance very fast And drink barrels of highball To see the world's talk To see how it is so having tale that Israel is doing well it may paint of realistic it reflects a view of fact telling Israel is the master Arabs must bow and worship her more It may be line And see how Arabs are awful They don't deserve a1ot to be wonderful **** , **** with your powerful To destroy Arabs at all It may be a cartoon they tell Arabs doing as Tom Who looks stupid and will fall Doom to undeveloped persons ****** over that world Which encourages the unjust And she will **** **** As the baby does with his doll

36

She told me everything powerful always remains hidden. I remained silent when she reached across the candle lit counter and exposed her arm past the wrist as she topped off her glass. I showed no emotion as she unintentionally exposed the flesh beneath the sleeve of her knitted second hand sweater. She told me how the pills and the ***** had replaced the priest and the sacrificial wine. I kept my eyes on her drink as the ***** quivered from the surface tension along the rim of the smokey highball glass. She told me she was too fast for love but too afraid to be alone. I took my time with my own bitter drink as she continued on. She said she wanted more sedation and less acceleration. She wanted ice cubes for her drinks that didn't melt so fast. She wanted Winehouse back and for the butterflies to come to her. She wanted to light up the darkness like Goya did. But most of all she wanted everything she wrote down to leave her forever. All I wanted was to help get her through the night. I started by tucking my fighting knife away and by really listening while ignoring the marks on her arm. Those hurtful jagged scars of a Cutter.

0

Aug 10, 2015

Aug 10, 2015 at 4:46 AM UTC

anthony-b-perales

One Less Painful Night

She told me everything powerful always remains hidden. I remained silent when she reached across the candle lit counter and exposed her arm past the wrist as she topped off her glass. I showed no emotion as she unintentionally exposed the flesh beneath the sleeve of her knitted second hand sweater. She told me how the pills and the ***** had replaced the priest and the sacrificial wine. I kept my eyes on her drink as the ***** quivered from the surface tension along the rim of the smokey highball glass. She told me she was too fast for love but too afraid to be alone. I took my time with my own bitter drink as she continued on. She said she wanted more sedation and less acceleration. She wanted ice cubes for her drinks that didn't melt so fast. She wanted Winehouse back and for the butterflies to come to her. She wanted to light up the darkness like Goya did. But most of all she wanted everything she wrote down to leave her forever. All I wanted was to help get her through the night. I started by tucking my fighting knife away and by really listening while ignoring the marks on her arm. Those hurtful jagged scars of a Cutter.

46