"tippled" poems
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
4.4k
Amazing what
Never cleansed
Dirteous skews-
Appall us
Appealing-
Glurveous revealing-
Tippled *******
Cinched
A lack
Unnerving
Loves
At you.
✊
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
The first time I saw
Betty Grater swoon
and heard Ms Arnault sigh
in expectation
I knew I had found the answer
that all young men seek
Instead of good looks
and the scent of money
I realized that the tippled sound of Thomas,
the piston drive of Cummings,
or shroud and mystery of Rimbaud
could accomplish what fumbling
postures never could
They could make a button come
undone and stay that way
part a leg and have it
remain languid
see an arm brushed
and not pulled back
Ah, but women are not
so easily wooed
You see, poetry is but a beginning
once is never sufficient
and Cyrano found
he was forced to return
and return
to keep those fires burning
Soon you discover it is not enough
to merely sing another’s tune
and you must learn the art
whose muse is not so
easily tamed
So the new poems to Emily or Mary Lou
are steeped in ignorance, stumbling tongue
and emotion that knows only extreme
a Dickinson hodgepodge of flowers,
spring-rain and metaphor trampled
by testosterone expectation
And as these women grow
you discover the magic is fading
that they have learned these lures
and their virtue will not part quite so easy
Ah, but art is ever inventive
and for those hard to dissemble
there are the more obscure songs
of Baudelaire, Jefferson and Yeats
these will free even the firmest
of corset-strung objections
But to truly reach the promised land
there is need to create one’s own
to wrestle the evening with nature’s muse
and tease a line between the sheets
Then, if you've still a mind
you can glance to see
if her clothes have been shed
But the sad and beautiful truth
is that poetry’s muse will suffer no others
rarely will that graceful form stay the course
she will leave to find yet another
that can keep them
coming
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
A sadness fell about these eyes
This was another day
Another wasted life
One look into the mirror as the old man
Stared right back
A glimmer of a past in life
Now hardness be in black
All clouds now full of thunder
No sunshine on my back
Memories dulled as day falls
Over
Another night of lost
Leafed clover
Had seen the best in days
From nights not sober
Be friends lost to frosted haze
Blurred Pints of cash in tippled over
My eyes remember as crippled
Shaken hands
Show suns age wine
Body all bent to a bend to the
stick
Mirror look the other way
My world is in a spin
Fall into the earth
The time to reach up high
New life beginning
Reaching for the sky
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 5:49 AM UTC
arthritis tippled wooden relief plugged in a bed of mud
the leaves that decay to its side
compliment the carved ones that feather the face
but it is creaked crevice and sinuous
a kind crumpled face or maybe a stern yet approving parent mask
two seasons of weathering
withered saturated and withered again
this self unearthing
worth moulded from
the decaying green man
reapplying for a creative birth
for a visit on the Autumn hearth
filling in its ****** details with broken and discarded
school yard pencils scudded over litter and mud
soon to be worshiped again...
would settle for a respectful gift from a child
for all his wonders in spring
he has envied the witness of harvest
but attention goes to other gods
he pouts out of season for no one here greets him
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 2:55 PM UTC
Plip, plip, plop,
Drip, drip, drop
over and over
it never did stop
From the top of the tap
To the top of the bath
It tippled and drippled
And every drop dripped
It landed in ripples
Rising up to the top
Reaching the lip
The over it lopped
A Cascading flood
From a little drip drop
Jan 11, 2023
Jan 11, 2023 at 11:40 AM UTC