"martini" poems
Hell's demons are everywhere
If I could only convince you to see
Drinking gin and tonic with style
Sipping haughtily on lemon and tea
Their distorted evil frightening faces
Are masked from human sight
As they pass you with indifference
Grinning and nodding
Moving left to right
However
Without warning
As their vicious appetites call
Growing hungry for souls
In the silence of the night
They gobble up foolish sinners they encounter
That disappear forever from sight
So the next time you have the desire to dine in the evening
Take a moment or a second or two
Remember faces are not all they seem
A demon may be sipping a martini,
While smiling and sitting right next to you
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
These streets
are home to countless
rodents
emerging for a moment
to feed
or breed
or just to breathe the sun
One by one line up
for the chance to
make something
out of nothing
Who are they and
where do they go
while the city refuses to
sleep
___
Doors to endless lands
line the avenue
each its own portal to the
unimagined
A family of four
with the yapping mutt
or a lonely cat lady
whose entryway wreaks of *****
a drug dealer
door slamming
every hour on the hour
or an empty snowbird's nest
On the surface
everyone pretends
they don't have a hole to
crawl back to
or walls that know
every night
But below the sewer grate
a world filled with
the stench
of what could have been a
good day
Many a barkeep can
shed some life
on these drunkards'
rat king
or at least a story of those who
made it out
Once or twice it'd be grand
to see the bottom of a martini glass
left with a sip or two
instead of the casually tipped
lipstick-clad cocktail,
drained of doubt and despair
until morning warms the
frozen dreams
of those retired to
a paradise unknown
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
*An upscale lounge well known,
For its ambiance and specialty cocktail,
Which includes live entertainment dancers,
On stage, in fine detail.
While a glamorous female stood in front of the bar,
With a deep sea blue martini, in her right hand,
In an ice cold oversized snifter, dipped in sugar upon the rim,
Where she leisurely stands.
With a pink orchid,
And blue twisted glow stick, placed inside her drink,
Taking rhythmical steps,
Side by side, in sync.
Dressed in a strapless dress, slightly above her knee,
Nicely fitted, in shades of purple, green and teal,
Displaying a genuine soft look,
With such great appeal.
When a young man walked in,
And gazed into her seductive dark brown eyes,
Reaching out his hand,
Asking her to dance, as he passed by.
She was absolutely stunning,
With fair complexion, short black hair, a beautiful silhouette,
And a radiant smile, reliving her early days,
An unbelievable night, quite difficult to forget.
She appeared divine,
Upon the dance floor, mainly surrounded by youth,
Dancing salsa throughout the night,
And mixed melodies, near the DJ booth.*
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
* * *
Absorbing dust and Golden heat,
living more openly than I do,
he shimmies to Billie Holiday
The year is not 1957, though
he lives in a San Francisco fog
longing to play the piano
The time in not 11:57pm, though
he orders a ***** martini & swims
in the fishbowl bay
Escaping to Telegraph Hill
to drink moonlight jazz & vermouth
he pretends to live
Way back when
* * *
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
While you’re away, I’m at play
Your responsibility, increase my probability
Your promotion, my devotion
Your neglect, my respect
Your business trips, our martini sips
Your wife, my lover
Your night in the pub, my back she rub
Your lost treasure, now my pleasure
Your ignorance, my perversions
Your children, my children
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 3:05 AM UTC
There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth--
I think that perhaps it's the gin.
5.9k
On a thin ribbon of light
unfurled from unseen heaven
direct to her parted robe
and disquieted ear
comes an angel’s voice,
the dove’s winged companion,
with words foretold in the book
now slipping to the floor.
What hunger fires
our flickering imaginations,
that require Grace come
wrapped in velvet purses-
with proof of the child’s
purity dripping from tables
and prophet encrusted walls?
I think they had it all wrong-
Fra Angelico, Veronese, van Ecyk,
and even Martini with his
gilded apprehension.
I prefer a scene without
unblemished lilies-
no fine linens, puffing cherubs,
or embroidered pillows on display.
I picture her instead
at her daily labor- pulling
on a ***** rope at the village well.
With calloused hands, she
draws her trembling reflection
skyward, when, announced
by the slightest breeze,
a stranger appears.
Before their eyes meet,
a bird’s flight distracts her-
water splashes from the bucket
washing the dust from her feet
and soaking the tattered hem
of her robe. His silent glance
holds her only for a moment.
In the distance, a voice
calls out, “Daughter!”
She turns, sets off,
bowing to her burden.
A cloud’s shadow
melts in the heat of the road.
Tom Spencer © 2018
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC
Drunken pirates sloshing along
a martini sea, looking for papers to roll some angelfish ****
Then on to Giza to gaze in amazement before we tackle
the Gates of Hell and raze it.
Swashbuckling demons we branded our feet. A duel with
the devil we had to concede
before sailing back up to our Martini sea.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:25 PM UTC
Upper East Side
The Hamptons
Aspen, Colorado
The plastic people
Follow each other
Moving in herds
Like cattle to the
Slaughter
Drifting
Floating
Shifting focus
From one charity event
To another
Whatever’s trendy
Whatever’s fashionable
Whatever’s happ’ning
Whatever’s the need
Tainted new artists
Society’s rejects
The film-maker who fits in with
The flavor of the month
The disease or the cause
That captures the moment
Stigmas overlooked
Deformities relieved
By one hyper exertion
By one pseudo good deed
Changing bedrooms
Changing partners
New alliances
Noblesse oblige
Mrs. Astor’s
Four hundred
Reinvented forever
Reinvented with fervor
On the edge
Of hypocrisy
Keeping up with the Jones’s
Maintaining the houses
Paris, Rome, Cote du Jura
Malibu, Palm Beach
Couture fashion
Madison, Rodeo
Worth avenues united
Avenues of the liege
Location, location, location
The right address unspoken
Dinner in the right places
Sporting events to be seen
Three martini luncheons
Halcion evenings
Business is business
Where money’s retrieved
Look to plastic people
For fashionable guidance
No matter the moment
No matter the need
Remember to catch them
While jetting to Santa Barbara
Saint Maarten, San Troupe
San Marco, warp speed
They live in their milieu
Can’t function outside it
Can’t follow a shadow
That others believe
It’s easy to find them
They leave behind footprints
But barely a mem’ry
Or singular creed
Other than finding
The latest in fashion
The latest persona
Or new plastic breed
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
Small and observant,
this girl child already loves her solitude.
Dark eyes taking in everything for much later,
long hair a little mussed-up, tumbling over feet pyjamas,
she stands quietly in the doorway of her little bedroom.
Across old parquet floors, into spare white rooms
she gazes at the grown-ups in their party clothes,
secretly planning that someday she will be one of them.
Plain white origami birds, suspended from the high
vintage ceilings, hand-made from her poet-mother's
typing paper, are the only decorations.
The soft, indirect lighting, all invented by her father
out of simple things, creates a perfect visual tone.
This quiet inventor has also chosen jazz he loves
to animate the evening for his friends.
These grown-ups in their party clothes,
yellows, greens and reds, puffy skirts, stiletto heels,
men in simple suits, white shirts, thin black ties,
talented painters, holocaust survivors, intellectuals,
talking, laughing, smoking too much, martini glasses in hand.
What stayed with her most was the music, and the way
it brought the whole world right to her.
Jazz from here in her native city,
Soft, sultry Bossa Nova that her soul knew even better.
Only some of what she saw that night became the life she chose.
The intimacy of observing, of silently forming words around
what she saw, talking and laughing with friends,
loving passionately, getting scorched to the bone,
and the music, the music....
The music would always stay with her, leading her across
wide expanses of this beautiful old world
to the parts of it that she would someday taste, and see.
Her life would become the stretching wide open of her heart.
To love it all, to write about it all.
to give this back, someday,
to the music, and to this big, beautiful old world.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Lunch for two,
At Metropolitan,
Two ***** Martini’s,
Cheese stuffed olives,
‘Level One’ *****
Lunch side by side,
Your birthday celebration.
‘Cherries Jubilee’,
Finished,
Our day being ‘us’.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
Again the time has come for all to gather round the fire,
"That time again", we say, while we assess the money drained,
The looks of disappointment from the ***** with stupid attire,
And truth will leak from drink fuelled mouths, with need to be restrained.
Your mum is singing drunkenly, while flirting with the vicar,
And dad is out the back sneaking a joint with cousin victor,
The dog is ******* aunt Jemima's artificial leg,
And someone just had a turkey fart,the kind that makes you sicker.
The christmas lights have fused again, so grandad's on the roof,
Sheer will power keeps him up there,and of course, martini vermouth,
Grandma's lost her teeth,and someone screams near the eggnog,
They're sent flying across the room and land in the fire on a log,
You feel your patience slipping as the pandamoniem mounts,
With thankless moans of "Oh well, its the ****** thought that counts",
And not forgetting Glenn, invited by your mum, but why?
So you and he can marry, and honeymoon in Hawaii.
With no idea that Glenn is gay, i guess the joke's on her,
I mean, what straight guy wears his y fronts entirely made from fur??
The night draws to a close,as bitter, crying family leave,
And relief is all too short, as there's still new years eve!!!
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 7:54 AM UTC
Perfected spending ideal day off
Prepared a hot breakfast in bed
Procrastinated Java or Columbia
Perused the paper cover to cover
Perplexed prayer over crossword
Pampered by bath-time bubbles
Phoned almost forgotten friends
Purchased Murakami on Amazon
Polished off a lunchtime martini
Postponed exercise with siesta
Perambulated the beach slowly
Pushed the boat out for dinner
Preferred Barolo to Barbaresco
Panicked - work again tomorrow.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
If I ever see you again
I'll spat insults and hope they
Spray on your aviators
like the bugs that squashed against
my windshield the last time
I drove away from you
If fate destroys me
and I am in the same pub one night
as your wormy self
I'll tell you how you're the most
arrogant, vapid, shallow, womanizing,
******* male mascot
I've ever had the disgust to know
I'll slap you hard across the face
Oh and not like Scarlett O'Hara,
you demon darling
No crushing kiss will follow
and I'll mean vengence
vile will seep through my mouth
instead of the sweet saliva
I let you taste
long ago
If I ever hear your voice
or see your mocking manequin
among my tele again
With disgraceful force
I will lift that 50 lb set
and propel that ******* screen
across the state
The way your black static apology
shattered the brightness
that used to reside
within
me
If I hear of you
one more dispicable time
I'll grow bombs maticulously
within my empty core
and time them so perfectly
that all of your dysfunctional doormat
confidants
will explode the second they come near me
and their manipulative cells
will burst
and be burried among the soil
of ***** words
you whispered in my ears
**** if I ever see you again
I'll shatter every martini glass around me
and down a fifth of fireball
and breath venomous fire
and burn you, you beastly boy
And I'll pretend beauty amongst you
and walk away, a tall glass of water
That could diffuse
that angry licking fire
that is swallowing you up
When I see you again
I won't acknowledge your existence
and I'll be dressed to the nines
and I won't do a ******* thing about it
Because you aren't worth a sentence within this stanza
But I know I am.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
The making of a ***** martini is truly an art,
***** and vermouth are merely a start,
But follow my advice and you can depend,
On achieving perfection in the end.
First the martini glasses should be filled,
With a little ice to ensure they're chilled,
Your next step as the martini maker,
Is to put some ice in the shaker.
Next pour in the ***** a premium kind,
For the perfect martini, use the best you can find,
Just a dash of vermouth is all it should take,
For the best martini you can make.
For a drink that's smooth and never rough,
The next step I just can't stress enough,
Grab the olive juice and begin to pour,
And if you think it's plenty, pour some more.
Put the lid on the shaker and give a few shakes,
Just a few seconds is really all it takes,
Now take the glasses and dump the ice,
And add a couple olives, plump and nice.
Then over those olives you can begin to pour,
And then start to savor what's in store,
For if you follow this little rhyme,
You'll have the perfect martini every time.
11-08-10b.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
The American said: let's drink the words.
She was so right.
A loquacious gin & tonic
An acerbic Darwinian daiquiri on ice
A French martini disrupted not stirred
A mojito muddled in abstinence
A Belfast bomber & brimstone
Love on the Rocks with perpetual dissent
*** on the Beach with a dash of chilli & lime
***** scorpion splashed in ironic ascension
Dark *** stifled by the sting of a disturbance
Love scented petals infused with tequila worms
Salubrious shots of Sambuca
Absinthe toasted in lunacy flakes
This is my bar.
Choose your poison wisely
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.
I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.
I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.
I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:45 AM UTC
Precious Metals
She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.
She’s got a smile that turns me upside down,
Inside out and every which way
And I hope I’ll get to see that smile
Every morning, every new day.
When she laughs the world’s ecstatic
When she’s angry they look out,
Cause she’s precious metals all mixed up
And here’s what she’s about:
She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.
She’s got a dynamite body that’ll knock you out
Sometimes she says things without thinkin’
And she likes a good martini,
So she’s fun to take out drinkin’.
She sets her goals and standards high,
Not afraid to chase her dreams
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And this is how she seems:
She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.
Yeah, She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.
PwL 12/06
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn
What a vision of loveliness you have become
As I watch from the wings sipping a Pimms
A one-sided love affair has just begun
She holds a martini and graciously flirts
Still wearing the fetching tennis skirt
All the boys stare as she climbs up the stair
Every one wishing she could be theirs
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn
Did I cheer too loud for the match that you won?
Was our handshake too long when I told you well done?
And now it is nineteen seventy one
What an excellent wife and mother you've become
But alas not to me
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
I saw us in that moment,
three circles interwine
in a venn diagram.
Making me dry of words,
just because in that moment
I had nothing to make me dark.
I never thought I could find
what I just had a sip of
and I have never been more thirsty.
It's tea with no need for sugar,
It's a perfect milkshake
and an olive in the martini.
Now you tell me,
for my world is lost.
What am I now suppose to write about?
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
The cannibal is thirsty
for a flesh martini
Dabs of salt here and there
On tongue and ocean groin
The ********* is hungry
To be the tender olive
Eaten very slowly
Lick the ****** pleasures
Of each other's
knife
kiss
Maternal affections
pouring open by God's rage
They are
shelter
Ignition
To each other's
demons
wonderfully delicious
as frosting or
whipped
cream
They are rare fruit, indeed
What are the odds of them finding each other?
Just goes to show, my lonely lovers
There's someone for everyone
You too
Will find
Your soul mate
Someday
just as the blood
Will eventually
Drip
from
the cannibal's
smiling
mouth
Oh my love,
you are my
yummy chicken bone
dipped in
your
sauce
"Ahhhhh...." he says
"This must be love."
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
If I knew you were a super-villain i wouldn't have cared.
I would have a rationale. A flower behind my back to tempt you from your weakness for black licorice
and white lies. I would find an excuse to love you.
If I had known you were a super-villain
I would have spiked your drink with Love Potion No.9
and finding you impervious; consider my options
and hope for the best.
IF i had known this would never work out, you and me, you being a total ***** me being a fool;
i would have stayed the course and seduced you to make you mine
my very own special pain in the *** that has bewitched me....
I would have thrown myself under the bus; sipping a dry martini with a rye smile
i would have succumbed to what i knew you could be; if only...
I'd let us happen
anyway.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC