"macallan" poems - Hello Poetry

a tumblr full of rocks a pour of ichiro malt and a stir gan bei and ichi to the yamazaki and nikkas i am in the land of the sun i go down to the land of the dead mei hi ko anejo casa amigo, to my brothers in arms jose, i must have my agave cheers to the alamo to the land of the prohibition kentucky yippee kay yay bourbon, spicy rye kick spur to the horse giddy up, giddy up riding off into the sun set to kentucky derby bourbon ballentines tom ford west make your mark with maker’s mark bottoms up and now i am staggering vichi patia better than grey goose aunt jiin and all the cult gin navy strength and **** juice getting rowdy like irish bloke jameson and that **** scot macallan and his gang oiban, glenfiddich, and glenlivet I am livid at that son of a ***** son of peat another round i am monkeying around monkey 47 sun set sun rise *** on the beach i see kings and queens louis thirteen i am going to sleep pappy van winkle 100 years like rip van winkle don’t wake me stir and not shaken good night, mama sweet havana neat a shot of don papa i go to sleep

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Aug 18, 2018

Aug 18, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC

timothy-chen

kindred spirits

a tumblr full of rocks a pour of ichiro malt and a stir gan bei and ichi to the yamazaki and nikkas i am in the land of the sun i go down to the land of the dead mei hi ko anejo casa amigo, to my brothers in arms jose, i must have my agave cheers to the alamo to the land of the prohibition kentucky yippee kay yay bourbon, spicy rye kick spur to the horse giddy up, giddy up riding off into the sun set to kentucky derby bourbon ballentines tom ford west make your mark with maker’s mark bottoms up and now i am staggering vichi patia better than grey goose aunt jiin and all the cult gin navy strength and **** juice getting rowdy like irish bloke jameson and that **** scot macallan and his gang oiban, glenfiddich, and glenlivet I am livid at that son of a ***** son of peat another round i am monkeying around monkey 47 sun set sun rise *** on the beach i see kings and queens louis thirteen i am going to sleep pappy van winkle 100 years like rip van winkle don’t wake me stir and not shaken good night, mama sweet havana neat a shot of don papa i go to sleep

66

It is a night like any other. The room is semi-crowded, the lights are cool, ambient and allusive. The music glides and shimmies, reflectance of electronic symphonies, with a sinuous pulse to provoke and tease. Still, you sense a creeping unease. You are on your second drink...yet, somehow, even the 12-year old Macallan is getting a little too familiar; its usual savor of spiced plum, dry sherry and salted caramel dies a slow death by a cold-water corruption -- its once robust quaff is reduced to a faint, forgettable flavor. The dreary day, too, has been flat, predictable, diffuse in focus and devoid of passion. Life has been set adrift, on trepid tides. The dissonance of these thoughts unsettle your soul and mind. You feel some kind of reckoning approaches and is unavoidable. Under your breath, you ask in fraught confusion, "What time is it? Why am I still here?" The Bartender sees the lingering trouble in your face and he provides a moment of empathy, of quiet understanding. He reaches for the bottle in response but suddenly stops and looks past you, over your shoulder. A subtle smile forms where a sober shade once stayed. He sees something that has changed the energy in the room, pivoting as if on a dime, to a sweeter wave, a smoother flow. Someone approaches… You realize you must turn to look, but slowly, friend; get your bearings... Settle your thoughts for a beat or two. You stand and turn, adjusting focus...there she is. "....wait. Whoa... Breathe, brother. Steady, soul!" Then it hits you: You realize the sensation you feel, that unstoppable, sharp, sweet, seductive suffering, is the longest and strongest Of long, lost friends. You remember why you are here. You know the time, this moment you've waited for, for so long. Your heart speaks and your eyes lock in, to capture hers: "Hello..."

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Jun 15, 2019

Jun 15, 2019 at 7:35 PM UTC

michael-briefs

Turn of the Time

It is a night like any other. The room is semi-crowded, the lights are cool, ambient and allusive. The music glides and shimmies, reflectance of electronic symphonies, with a sinuous pulse to provoke and tease. Still, you sense a creeping unease. You are on your second drink...yet, somehow, even the 12-year old Macallan is getting a little too familiar; its usual savor of spiced plum, dry sherry and salted caramel dies a slow death by a cold-water corruption -- its once robust quaff is reduced to a faint, forgettable flavor. The dreary day, too, has been flat, predictable, diffuse in focus and devoid of passion. Life has been set adrift, on trepid tides. The dissonance of these thoughts unsettle your soul and mind. You feel some kind of reckoning approaches and is unavoidable. Under your breath, you ask in fraught confusion, "What time is it? Why am I still here?" The Bartender sees the lingering trouble in your face and he provides a moment of empathy, of quiet understanding. He reaches for the bottle in response but suddenly stops and looks past you, over your shoulder. A subtle smile forms where a sober shade once stayed. He sees something that has changed the energy in the room, pivoting as if on a dime, to a sweeter wave, a smoother flow. Someone approaches… You realize you must turn to look, but slowly, friend; get your bearings... Settle your thoughts for a beat or two. You stand and turn, adjusting focus...there she is. "....wait. Whoa... Breathe, brother. Steady, soul!" Then it hits you: You realize the sensation you feel, that unstoppable, sharp, sweet, seductive suffering, is the longest and strongest Of long, lost friends. You remember why you are here. You know the time, this moment you've waited for, for so long. Your heart speaks and your eyes lock in, to capture hers: "Hello..."

61

Scottish single malts are loved by fans here and abroad. Some folks will pay a fortune for rare bottles they can hoard. Whenever a commodity becomes as rare as gold, there always will be criminals with profit as their goal. They'll find an empty bottle and forge tax stamps for it too and fill it up with Canadian Club, a far far lesser brew! Then, when the fraud's discovered, Scotland Yard is called to find the perpetrators and to hang them by the ***** A detective of a certain sort can discern what bottles hold. by looking at, in certain light, the subtle shades of gold. He'll need to know which revenue stamps are fraudulent or true. If the contents are suspicious he must taste them , wouldn't you? " I'm thinking this is Jameson's, Not Macallan's malt so pure. but I'll take another glass or two to be absolutely sure."

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Sep 18, 2014

Sep 18, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

The Counterfeit inspector

Scottish single malts are loved by fans here and abroad. Some folks will pay a fortune for rare bottles they can hoard. Whenever a commodity becomes as rare as gold, there always will be criminals with profit as their goal. They'll find an empty bottle and forge tax stamps for it too and fill it up with Canadian Club, a far far lesser brew! Then, when the fraud's discovered, Scotland Yard is called to find the perpetrators and to hang them by the ***** A detective of a certain sort can discern what bottles hold. by looking at, in certain light, the subtle shades of gold. He'll need to know which revenue stamps are fraudulent or true. If the contents are suspicious he must taste them , wouldn't you? " I'm thinking this is Jameson's, Not Macallan's malt so pure. but I'll take another glass or two to be absolutely sure."

14

between cubes of ice in a crystal glass, a pour of liquid gold twenty-one years old anesthetizes trauma, the pain of a failed love as ice melts, his new passion from the highlands of Scotland drowns her blurry image, at least for tonight.... © 2017

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Nov 7, 2017

Nov 7, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC

govind-ramakrishnan

His Passion For Macallan

between cubes of ice in a crystal glass, a pour of liquid gold twenty-one years old anesthetizes trauma, the pain of a failed love as ice melts, his new passion from the highlands of Scotland drowns her blurry image, at least for tonight.... © 2017

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