"julep" poems
implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.
again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham.
we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.
but regret This.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
~
Raspberry crème
Delicious delight
Wild cherry lips
Find me tonight
Mint Julep fingers
Soft on my skin
Marmalade whispers
Pleading me in
Hard candy passion
Caramel dreams
Milk chocolate motions
Lemon drop screams
Marshmallow whispers
Cinnamon eyes
Love me so sweetly
Neath sherbet skies
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
557
She hideth Her the last—
And is the first, to rise—
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes—
She doth Her Purple Work—
And putteth Her away
In low Apartments in the Sod -
As worthily as We.
To imitate her life
As impotent would be
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep—of the Bee—
1.5k
Life is not a hammock
Between two palm trees
It's not a sweet mint julep
To sip on in the breeze
It's more Mount Everest
A steep or steeper climb
It asks a lot of you
But it's a chance to shine
Sorry, no fat plum
Will tumble in your palm
I hope that deadly truth
Will rouse no great alarm
If you thought life a picnic
It's a good assumption
You need a bigger pair
More substance and more gumption
Copyright Louis Brown
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 12:17 PM UTC
Nature adorns her vacuums:
Eden, in lieu of Gardener or Keep, overdrives the breach;
garland wreaths, julep leaves, Clover carpets
the well-dint of the fleeing heel,
just as Vitality, from Lushness, deserts to humbling Humus.
I bargain that We will
be survived by teeming hosts of white Chrysanthemum.
Our grim miracle resembling, so, fish and loaves;
of Manna eked of Woe.
Staid amatory shall cater the craving of a brood;
from our tears rich elixir brewed,
our tender flanks yielding stew.
Scarcity is Her own aphrodisiac,
abused in company of more than two.
But sure as Man, worms lapse at their hour
and they, their own kind, must consume
giving back Space, where is room.
So, must we, our own Passion’s devour,
that made manifest they replenish their expanse,
as when a hand replenishes a glove--
it first breathes upon the absence of Absence.
Let us, then, dine. Let us then, Love…
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
resting upon porch
swallows sipping pond's still glass
She brings mint juleps
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
I’ve lead this nation through its greatest
Civil unrest,
Like the last hand left clapping at
Curtain call,
I stand tall, a little too tall, stove pipe
Black hat,
Huzzahs and here here’s, I’ve had
My share,
And my critics would rather load
Their revolver,
Than blow buckshot with their brains
And tongue,
Which is why I’m stuck inside my own mind,
Comatose, near death, and all I can think of is my
Little boy.
White walls, white women, and **** in my
Bed pan,
Through my shattered cranium, I can still see
And think,
Slack jawed and glaze eyed, this isn’t right on
My son’s
21st birthday, who will be there
To buy
His first beer, or cool glass of
*** punch,
Mary Todd abstains from the savage
Fire water,
So Edward, knobby kneed now, please tell
Me who?
To share a malted Schlitz, or fine Pabst
Blue ribbon,
To teach you the proper way a man sips
The foam,
How to crush the julep leaf before crushing
It in,
Your table will be full of well wishers and
Whiskey drinkers,
Your belly will be full of well whiskey and
Sour mash,
Your woman, how beautiful she will be,
Glossy eyed,
Your brothers, yes, your companions will
Be there,
Alas your dear ol’ Dad will not be present for
The speech,
As I have addressed so many
Times before,
But you can tell the story, of fore score and seven
Beers ago,
Your father lay vegetated, weak, tired
Of dying,
With the thoughts of honey hops and
Bitter barley,
The sweet wheat, and your transformation
Into manhood,
You’ll be as lonesome and lost as the
****** Confederacy,
Child, know that your father can not tell
A lie,
That on that day, I will be tapping
A barrel,
In the land beyond the sky, stirring the foam,
Humming happy birthday.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:44 AM UTC
Six pregnant cigarettes later
a mint julep poured and tasted
fingers licked while lips drunk sting
and sweat beads and rolls on upper lip.
A lean on outdoor table with
feet raised on outdoor chair and
grass greener than the impressionists
while the sevens and eights dance
with awkward hair and chocolate stains
a look from picture window
and ribeye steak and butter in the pan.
Fish and gills in the air and salt
drops on tiny blue eyeballs
so squints make their way gracefully
into every last family portrait.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
I am sharing this opus
It's more of an onus
Of just how things went
But were not really bogus.
I earned my life lumps
Racing over speed bumps
Trying to outrun cards dealt
That were not quite trumps.
Still I made it this far
And while I’m not a star
I suited and showed up.
Things are what they are
And I can debate them
But I can’t dispute them.
It would be a big lie
If I tried to refute them.
So my doddering totter
Gets odder and odder
Telling me loudly
I am Grim Reaper fodder.
Some bridges burned,
Another corner turned
Dealing with the effects
Of the lessons learned.
Now an irascible rascal
Far too frequently wrathful
Warring with too-small print
I am the long-retired radical
No longer marching around
Supporting causes I found.
No longer a crusader, I am
A kind of sad circus clown.
I never expected to have it made
Like a grandee in the shade
Sipping my iced mint julep
Rich from making the grade
But with youthful short sight
I never saw it in this light
That I would fall so short
Of playing things just right.
Still, I have to cut some slack
When I sit here looking back
At where and what I was.
The view is not so black.
While superstars never came,
My lottery dreams were lame,
I feel I did all that could
To honestly play the game.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 1:03 AM UTC
the deepest of green lies below his forehead
waves of emerald and evergreen laced around his pupil
they are the kind of eyes that tell you it will be all right
enchanting,
mesmerizing.
the kind of beauty you want to be the last thing you see each night and the first each morning
he holds the kind of eyes that posses the power to change your mind
assuring,
promising.
somewhere between the specks of argyle and the streaks of julep
his eyes tell you to stay
compassionate,
soothing.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
thyme is a mint julep stirring
in my deep hand between
heat and laughter and the cool
cool
cool penumbra
of the enormous stiff
hot softly becoming
loose with Spring
C I T Y,
carrying a warm shawl
a vapor like
breath of smoothly etherizing
evening coils around
limb and throat
neatly;
the alleys are alive with
old dirt
bent through
a thousand years of sifting
and grip thrifty of
bums
doused in becoming
night (they grouse
and grumble to
find some body
of shelter ,
stealing into the
weave of
can-liners
old breath and
stale coffee );
life is drunk a little
me with remembering
remembering the
sudden coo of
the city to watch
it grow dark and
ribbed in shadows;
i am a splinter in the quick of the night.
burning with just the tonic
of vital nothing to be between
grass and dirt forever worm
pursued and forgotten of
lip and finger
(it makes me alive to know i will be dead ) someday.
my hands mix and jingle – i feel their blood and course with them.
And the City
is big
it
feels
like
so many daughters
apart and full of
my tongue:
i eat
and
become it;
my mouth is a silent crescent,
it eclipses sound
and does not say a thing.
i sip of the body of my hand
(who is thyme;
who is a mint julep;
deeply )
.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
Χάρων is a nice fellow
by some gate
on the bank of a slow river
in the summer
his mouth
hints at
a sliver of
crisp mint
julep sweating on
the table next to my hand
occasionally a girl
between my lips
and the small body of
the city stretches
'round with
creeping dapples
of caressed heat
(and the slow bank of a long river is
waiting next to some gate i can hear
the boat creaking without weight and
all the darkness of forever at the backs
of my eyes.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC