"inebriate" poems
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
( Filipino orTagalog version)
di sumasapit ang pagtulog
sa isang kaluluwang
sabik at di mapakali
isang pusong ubod tiyaga
ngayo'y balisang tumitibok
sa kabila ng malumanay
na pag patak ng ulan...
sa kaunting salitang nagbibigay kasiyahan
parang simoy ng hangin, may mga dalang palamuti
mga matatamis na pangako ng
maluwalhating bukas,
lumutang sa kapaligiran
at binago ang malamlam na
lagay ng kalooban.
ang mga darating na araw
ay muling yayabong.
isang kaluluwang hapong hapo
di-inaasaha'y, napangiti
sa unang pagkakataon
mga matatamis na tunog ng mahihinang
halakhak ay paulit-ulit na tumaginting
sa kalaliman ng gabi.
itong di maampat-ampat na pananabik
aking panalangin ay
tuluyan nang pumayapa
dito sa dilim, ako'y nakahimlay
habang ang mga pangarap ng pag-asa
ay alak na lumalasing sa aking pag-iisip.
kasabay ng pagdatal ng madaling-araw,
nabubuhay na lalo ang mga bagong isipin
na lalong nagpapasigla sa aking utak...
mulat na mulat ang aking mga mata
di na sasapit pa ang antok
di na sasapit pa ang pagtulog...
::::::::::
(ENGLISH VERSION)
SLEEP DOESN'T COME...
Sleep doesn’t come
To an eager, restless soul.
A heart so patient
now beats anxiously,
Even with the gentle rhythm
Of raindrops tapping.
With just a few satisfying words
Sprinkled with whiffs of hope,
So magical,
A promise of a glorious tomorrow
Floated in the air
And altered the somber mood.
The coming days are to flourish
Once more.
Unexpectedly,
A soul gone weary
Smiled for the first time.
The sweet sound of soft laughter
Unheard in the still of the night.
This insatiable needing
I pray, to be quelled soon..
Here in the dark, I lay awake,
As visions of hope inebriate my mind.
With dawn comes new ideas,
Stimulating my brain even more..
.......my eyes are wide open........
.......sleep wouldn’t come at all……
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
A million poems seeking light, I haven't attempted to write,
Create waves and tides in my bloodstream day and night,
Demanding to make them heard blending words that inebriate,
Before I forget them and chase other butterflies in my garden.
I feel guilty about my choice of words to weave, later sometimes
Couldn't get the emotions I try to express,in my poems,right, regret,
True, there is no democracy even in my choice of poetic subjects,
Disorder could be the suited order in making my inner world speak.
It's as if I am some other guy when I write, my heart's real prompt,
I don't even insist to be perfect,an inner voice wants to speak it's truth,
I am stimulated by a creative lust and in the frenzy of inner coitus,
Forget even myself,it's a race towards ****** and strongly I *********
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
Raining down everywhere
Autumn tastes bittersweet by the river.
I want to paint the land in abstract
Subtle lines of a new day.
To delight and inebriate the few that call for courage.
But a whisper of cloud takes forever to appear.
And dead leaves are piled up in corners blown by a strange wind.
I wonder, what keeps them there?
The shallow water of the River Fen flows to impress,
But the warmth has now gone.
A heart sunk in mourning and bleakness comes without sound.
I see the couples walk by hand in hand, unaware of the bitter
sweet breeze that blows from winters harsh advance.
The old man walks alone days of youth in his heart,
But he looks back without sadness, without nostalgia.
A life simplified of images, and now he is able to
comprehend the world.
But who wants to know this?
As for me, I will keep on drifting away,
Or break up into many parts,
But I remain who I am!
Searching for you in this land of drifting souls.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 4:59 AM UTC
214
I taste a liquor never brewed—
From Tankards scooped in Pearl—
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air—am I—
And Debauchee of Dew—
Reeling—thro endless summer days—
From inns of Molten Blue—
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door—
When Butterflies—renounce their “drams”—
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—
And Saints—to windows run—
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the—Sun—
2.8k
Dissatisfaction an empty abyss
Deep in now a well known limb
Hope severed, intangible, a ghost
Screaming without a sound
Bleeding without a wound
And these strings fatuously tuned.
Inebriate and stumbling through
an ocean of nobodies, all together, unseen
Without a purpose, an insect
Abiding another nobodies law,
Rebellion restricted by a Metropolitan claw
Steel bars in my own conscience
Dreaming the escape, yet alone
Soaring through time
Captivation doesn't last
A welcome blessing and an unintentional curse, yet alone
and innocence is now grown
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
1316
Winter is good—his **** Delights
Italic flavor yield
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World—
Generic as a Quarry
And hearty—as a Rose—
Invited with Asperity
But welcome when he goes.
1.9k
When I die,
bury me under a tree,
large and spreading,
so that I may give again to life
and be a home for breezes
and whatever birds
may please to make their home there.
Then climb the battlements
of my old and crumbling castle
in the air
and appreciate the spectacle
of a speck against infinity.
Go to my oak desk
and burn all love letters,
pure and singing though they are.
Let others learn love for themselves,
as I did. It is best.
Then celebrate, inebriate.
Divide up my possessions
and sell a few to buy fireworks that burn
brilliantly and fast.
Raid my cellar, eat, drink, make merry and enjoy,
for tomorrow is unknown.
And when the revelers stagger home,
remember only that I loved incandescently and enjoyed.
Yes, there were futile crusades, furious fusillades and
wild charges against the windmills,
but I did love. Yes, desperately.
That's all.
So goodbye, my friends. Don't grieve.
Please believe that
the gift of love and
this scatter of words
is all I want to leave behind.
See - they flutter from that great tree
that stands against the blustering sky
out there, beyond the mist,
along the pathway to
forever.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 7:24 AM UTC
Petty problems intoxicate
Liberate inebriate
All I have are petty problems
And the petty people
Who began them
But let's not point the finger
Let's not draw comparisons
Let's not do these things
That make me realize
How senseless
These issues are
Because without the issues
Without the conflict
Where can the ****** be?
The exposition
That shows nothing
What point does it all have?
Give me a reason
A flow to my story
Even if it is petty
Just let me have it
The reason moves me
More than the pettiness
Disappoints me
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Hope serves the watchful eyes of the tireless observer.
Freight trains of predacious signals burn through the Western hemisphere, misfiring the neurons of walking creativity. Authenticity belongs in the unknown showers of passion. Growing out in billows of lover’s hair. Lost in translation, victories will be claimed in earnest. To failures be honest exploration.
Ignorance will not bind the bees of new springs or the birds of southern departure. I contend for further marching. Bring about the movement. Action stems from desire. To knowledge I lend my contribution, through passion we make this in-land testimony. Behold the passing of butterflies. Many ponder these chances of fate. Decisive will the what-if tragedies be if one could see the reversal of choice, but rain still falls. Events unfold with the consequences of existence.
Knowing the truthful selves of East and West comes at the even pace of diversity. Personality differs as peaceful individuals of preferable serenity work inwardly as the proclamations of the lively bodies of social intrigue light their torches. Jugs of withered grape inebriate the tongues of their mood. Unifying the tangible honesty of exuberated calm. Flows, flowing in rhymes of poetry.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC
So intriguing a woman behind a glass pane
My friends are falling one-by-one - gun fires twice -
My hopes are high, but I'm scared of the truth
My personality is much like the a-sea
Wake up to the sound of insecurity staring straight back at me
There's so much underneath, but people don't spend much time getting used to me
Oh Mr. Salty won't you lighten up, you're a bit under the weather, can't you see that? Right.
Well it's hard to find motivation, when the motives working forces against you
In a world full of angst and confusion working in circles to exclude you
Your high is mind, and everybody's a liar behind those glass panes
Your fist is punch, and everybody's got a hunch behind those glass panes, ha ha ha ha
Oh Mr. Salty won't you lighten up, you're a bit under the weather, can't you see that? Right.
Well it's hard to find motivation, when the motives working forces against you
We grow impatient waiting for others to make a move,
But.
Intoxication eliminates our impatience, when goddesses start to groove
Techno-saints dressed in neon paints, won't you groove with me now
Your glass panes, much like the Berlin wall, inebriate our minds, and separate our lives, oh no no no no
Sub-conscience deterioration, too self-aware, I'm blowing up
Arrogance, a cultural virtue now, let's breathe it in, and inject into our veins.
Take your substances - a liquid, or a crumb if that's the only way you know out.
Breath it in, and blow your vapors out, cocoon until you bleed out.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC
Hope serves the watchful eyes of the tireless observer.
Freight trains of predacious signals burn through the Western hemisphere, misfiring the neurons of walking creativity. Authenticity belongs in the unknown showers of passion. Growing out in billows of lover’s hair. Lost in translation, victories will be claimed in earnest. To failures be honest exploration.
Ignorance will not bind the bees of new springs or the birds of southern departure. I contend for further marching. Bring about the movement. Action stems from desire. To knowledge I lend my contribution, through passion we make this in-land testimony. Behold the passing of butterflies. Many ponder these chances of fate. Decisive will the what-if tragedies be if one could see the reversal of choice, but rain still falls. Events unfold with the consequences of existence.
Knowing the truthful selves of East and West comes at the even pace of diversity. Personality differs as peaceful individuals of preferable serenity work inwardly as the proclamations of the lively bodies of social intrigue light their torches. Jugs of withered grape inebriate the tongues of their mood. Unifying the tangible honesty of exuberated calm. Flows, flowing in rhymes of poetry.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC
Pieces of us were breaking off from our consciousness,
And scattered into the daylight mist.
As we let our bodies dance among the forest clearing,
Our souls turned into fireflies,
And our hearts like lions,
Sun slipping past the horizon,
Rainbow clouds overhead,
It was then that we let out the tears
We never got to shed.
You are a teacher.
You came with many stories to tell,
And from a whole different world,
Bearing fruits of patience and the ability
To read and free my mind.
Because inside my head lives this stubborn creature,
And with it, there's no such thing as peace.
You saw the turmoil my mind puts me through,
How such troubling thoughts can inebriate
How it wraps its chains tighter than any metal alloy in the world.
And so in my times of worry,
I'd always see your hand held out to catch mine,
Eyes steady to meet mine,
Mind ready to penetrate mine.
"There's no sense in feeling those emotions."
I loved and hated how you'd always find a way under my skin,
The first time I got close to you,
I was drunk and filled with aimless lust,
Lips set out on a mission to kiss,
And that was when our mouths first danced.
Under the fluorescent flickering bulbs of our friend's garage,
I kissed you.
With the smell of stagnant beer,
And the static T.V. blaring,
I. Kissed. You.
And I did it harder than I ever thought I could.
The dynamite set off between the softness of our lips.
To this day I can't remember what could have possibly been the trigger.
Just another act of Mother Nature.
I know you felt it too, don't you dare lie.
Some beautiful sunny days and starry nights passed by
Before we entered the eye of the storm,
And then after that there was nothing but hurricanes and droughts
To lose and hate ourselves in.
Misunderstanding hung in the air like a bitter stubborn fog
As we both witnessed something that was once new
Turn old.
Within a flick of an eye
Our souls grew light and weary,
And drifted apart like seeds into the sky.
We became daises, wildflowers,
Nothing more than little weeds
Growing skinny and tall
On two separate ends of the prairie plane
That have yet to be pushed back into the earth
For another shot at loving.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:00 PM 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
Quintessence of beauty, you rule every heart,
Queen of my dream you are, my loving partner,
Your quixotic gestures create stunning energy,
When clouds are thundering to strike our love.
Redolent air surrounds you ecstatically,
That inebriate the soft heart of many lovers,
they go crazy, when your ravishing beauty,
Hurt their aspirations when dreaming.
Sweetheart, your sanctified love I always wish,
You are the sassiest, sexiest spice in my life,
You are sempiternal desire of the universe,
And have always been a shining sun of my life.
Tantalize me no more, for your tender touch,
I find your company, a talisman for my love,
Destiny sleeps in the shades of your curly hair,
When the night halts in the lap of nature.
Unique relationship and unique understanding,
Bring two souls close together for love making,
And to bring sensation in the every heart,
When flora enjoys rain dance in the valley.
Vibrant smile on your face, always very cute,
Dimples on your cheeks, sign of deep love,
Your emotions are so virtuous and vestal,
That stars are twinkling wishing the good luck.
Wondrous woman, crazy heart worships you,
Because you are so pretty, cute and sweet,
And your devotee wanders in search of you,
Chasing your shadow in the scorching son.
X-mas tree in my garden, so are you in my heart,
With decorations on Christmas, smiles as you,
My patience is curious to make love with you,
When cool breeze is blowing in winter nights.
The Yummiest person, you are in my life,
Yearning for your lascivious and lewd acts,
Aspire my ***** desires, to learn art of ******
When Cupid, god of love, enjoys in the spring.
Zephyr is blowing, in search of his lost love,
My darling, my perpetual efforts shall never end,
And endless journey to hug you, shall continue,
Until the sun and the moon stop shining.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
der Spegel: A Commissioned Poem
commissioned by Megan Spegel
Spegel
- a mirror; a smooth reflecting surface
- something flat and smooth, resembling a mirror (e.g. the surface of a lake)
- a (moral) guideline, used for correcting errors, similar to a mirror
Busted.
You.
Busted.
96 poems.
19 years young.
That's about 5 poems per year.
What's gonna happen when you chill,
Turn
A ripe old
Twenty?
Will you grace us with 365 individual
First Thoughts of My Day?
I suppose falling in and out of love weekly,
Steamy teen kisses
Will inebriate you plenty,
Into writing more plenty.
Truth is I am jealous-angry.
**My clocks can't fall back
Because I've fallen for you**
And the simplicity of your loving
Poetry
In two lines, you get done
What takes me half a dozen
Long winded poems.
I love the brevity pure
Of your youthful loving view.
For when I look on the
mirror of poetry,
I see, not me,
But the rising tide of the younger ones, poets,
Rising up faster,
Surpassing us,
Correcting our errors,
Who say so much with
So few words.
P.S. **"Good morning dear
I hope the sunrise found you well."**
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
Yes, I am waiting for the cold,
for it is far too warm here as of late,
and this is not how it’s supposed to unfold.
I left home when I was not quite so old
and my choice they all berate.
But I am just waiting for the cold
as if this worry can be controlled,
with that which can inebriate.
Isn’t that how it’s supposed to unfold,
when often I see him and it takes hold?
Wishing I had the words to elaborate,
but he left me waiting in the cold.
It is a story that I rarely have told,
for to him I am the true expatriate.
This is the way it’s supposed to unfold
though its unclear if I could have foretold,
that we would be two separate schoolmates?
On this day, I am still here, waiting on the cold
to freeze the warmth that should not still unfold
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
I keep it closed and locked,
In an imaginary, leather binding,
With its many pages compressed,
So that memories far apart
Are easier to retrieve,
Like scooping pearls
and shells on the sand.
There are stories of great adventure,
Tiny incidents like crystals
Shivering in the sun.
Lovers I knew in ancient times
Sleep among the pages
But come to life as I read,
My eyes caressing them as
My hands once did their skin.
Colors of eyes and hair remembered
Leap to paint the air around me:
Yellow sunlight and bodies moving,
Both electric and languid
In tangled sheets or long grass
After passion passed.
Some flashed like fireworks,
But others burned long and slow,
Not ready to love, nor to let go.
Smiles across a playing field,
Surprise midnight visits on holidays,
Costumed for Halloween with tiny stars
That shimmered on the stairs next morning,
Or inebriate feasts on the Fourth of July,
Tanned in the water and soothed at night.
There are short liaisons with friends
And long affairs, living with lovers,
Imagining it lasting forever
And battling the serious and inane.
Thinking everything will say the same.
And underlining all these times
Is the solidity of just one true love.
Finished November 14, 2021
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 10:06 AM UTC
Pretty little pantomime
I'll give you a nickel
if you'll give me a dime
For what it's worth,
an infinite junk -
a plausible answer to the
poison you've drunk.
Creation to me,
without your denial
could never create
your inebriate child
But hush, dear heart -
the moon's been low
Forget the nonsense
here begins my show.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
Dylan Thomas, drunk-ass poet,
uncorked nouns, imbibed the verb
downed six pints and thought about it
sitting unsteadily on the curb:
“Winds of word unleashed in drink
will fill to the full my poem’s sails…
though it may totter on the brink,
my drunken boat defies the gales.”
Floating on wreckage to distant shores,
our ***** bard beheld the deep
where whales spout forth their lyric stores
while the inebriate muses weep.
This postwar lush and lyrical fad,
was the biggest pint in the bar called Wales.
While not the worst, his verse was bad…
(but better after seven ales).
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
A mountain dweller clung the livelong
day...rank and nude...fuschia skies sequenced.
Surrogate family to ram, serpent, eagle--
inebriate of consciousness, holy spurn.
Of rubble and dappled shadow, G*d's
wayside seed sown...severe eyes, Witness expressly.
He could crowd fire, latch to it--rocking in
orange flashes.
A swarm of chants uplift and pivot him...
flying a thousand names for not this, nor that...
as That.
A haunting inheritance whole--ascendant
body of mind...transfiguring locus of
whitening white...there pardoned of nature,
supernatural panache.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
flourish, thrive, feel alive, lithe
your i, inebriate of the everyday
simple simplicities
dare pirouette through danger, confident not cocky
empath and convey other's anger to solid ground
become the stream
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC