"toasts" poems
If we were the kind of friends who unironically
raised our glasses in toasts,
I would give one to the generation too comforted by the ease
of a honeybee in the plaintively nonexistent mind
of a tulip
To the generation, or at least its subset
that wrongly feels representative, who stumble drunkenly
or maybe just tiredly out of tents
to **** in the view of their friends, who are still at the fire
because the tent was too cold
To those who did raise their glasses in a toast
on New Year’s Eve at what felt, with the ball drop
not screening in luddite protest, enough like midnight.
Beginning with “dear friends” and a couple laughs;
concluding with “now let’s get ****** up” and
a couple more
To those who proceeded
as directed, clinking their shot-glasses
and swigging them back. If only because
they were not tulips.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
The bars had opened just that morning
turned him loose again
he wandered blindly down the street
just lookin for a friend
The tombstones filled with empty graves
were drinking in the park
so he sat to quench his thirst
and lingered well past dark
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
All the barkeeps know his name
they've tossed him out before
so he cracks a pint in silence
next to the corner store
He's drank with everyone in town
they all pay for his drinks
a legend to both young and old
at least thats what he thinks
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
The rising sun must weigh a ton
pins him to the ground
inside his skull a screaming hell
that never makes a sound
He always smells like whiskey wether
day or if it's night
a bottle stashed inside his coat
the daydream goes allright
he lives a dream thats long since passed
he toasts to a full cup
the nightmare there when he awakes
he simply drinks it up
THE BARS ARE ALWAYS OPEN
EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY'RE CLOSED
THE DRUNK TANK SPINS IN CIRCLES
YOUR FREEDOM COMES AND GOES
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Tonight I flicker dimmer than most
I'm alone with everyone here
Stabbing their plates and proposing their toasts
Tonight I feel my wings but they're in cuffs
I'm alone with everyone here
Speaking their words, laughing their laughs
Tonight I bear the arrows of discreet little leers
I'm alone with everyone here
Silently goading me with their mocks and jeers
Tonight I hear whispers muttered inaudible
I'm alone with everyone here
Inconspicuous fingers pointed under tables
Tonight I write but my ink weighs heavy
I'm alone with everyone here
They pile on my thoughts, usurping the calm...
Inciting a mind full of anarchy
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
My bright princess, you inspire me to write.
How I love the way you laughs, skips and sings,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the gorgeous flings.
Let me compare you to a cute stardust?
You are more pretty, clever and caring.
Smart heat toasts the fond frolics of August,
And summertime has the fine time sharing.
How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love your beautiful eyes, heart and face.
Thinking of your happy heart fills my days.
My love for you is the warm marketplace.
Now I must away with a daring heart,
Remember my apt words whilst we're apart
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living.
Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken.
It's the difference between having a one night stand rather
than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places.
Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves
to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to
say it's not a party.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
Crisp, the fallen leaves now pile,
the times are changing, Autumn-style,
breezes rake the tippy-tops of trees,
bare branches rattle like skeleton keys.
Subtle September has come once again,
tipping its hat to the Summer's end,
makes clear and crisp the evening air,
the harvest season now sidles near,
grass and weeds will wither dry,
scythes and sickles swing low and high,
gourds of pumpkins soon will burst in patches,
fat apples drop down cider-press hatches,
so soon those sugary coats of frost shall rise,
and sharp, chilly winds will sting teary eyes,
fruit pies will bake, brown nuts will roast,
glasses of wine shall arise in toasts,
to the approach of yet another Fall,
before the stark-white of Winter blankets all.
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
Have I done enough praying in my life,
to have brought to fruition, this caring man
that God sent my way?
He cares for me and how I feel,
he pulls my chair so I can sit.
He holds me close on the dance floor,
and beckons me to follow his masculine lead.
He raises his drink and toasts to my honor,
which makes me feel unbelievably special,
like winning our own private lottery drawing.
He puts me on his pedestal and holds me
in the highest regard.
But yet he still worries; will I always be,
the same me he sees every day.
Am I going to change who I’ve introduced him to?
Is my love for him going to change?
Are the words I pen from my heart, going to
end up hurting our divine connection?
I am here to stay for the long haul,
I am not afraid to share my feelings.
I dig this power that you emit my way.
That slow drag you had in the beginning
is still locked down inside my soul
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 2:36 PM UTC
drinking
alone
at night
with the
moon
the world is finally
beautiful
he fills another glass
and toasts with
the window pane
"Here's to normalizing
being awake at
night and sleeping
during the day!
Cheers!"
the moon
smiles back
in agreement
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 9:03 AM UTC
This champagne is meant for a wedding.
Not for me, alone at 1 in the morning.
The champagne is supposed to be used for celebration.
Not to drown in my sadness.
This bottle will never get used for its actual purpose.
For toasts to good times, and making memories.
I've wasted the life of this bottle.
It will never forgive me.
I will be hungover in the morning.
Goodnight and Goodbye.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
Well, I've written two . . . sonnets . .
first ones from the point of view of a typical twit youngish bloke . when he realises his latest conquests a bit keen like . . . He writes a poem . . . Leaves it lying around carelessly
So I'm to meet .your mum and dad ? . . .
But I thought this . a one time **** . . .
Not children planned or Sunday roasts
I dreamt no champagne wedding toasts . . . !
They're coming round for tea . . tonight ?. . .
This ***** no longer feeling right . . !
In epic terms this now's a fail . !
I think . it's time for me to bail !!
Though . . something sparkled in your kiss,
A luscious tingling of lips . .
Add alcoholic lust fuelled hips
Whose groovy moves I know I'd miss . .
So . . . If I meet your mum and dad .
Then that gets me . . another ****
She finds the poem . . And replies . . .
Dear silly boy . who left behind
His hopeful sentimental rhyme . . .
Who fancies meeting mum and dad
Just to secure another **** . . .
Well pretty boy . . KEEP DREAMING ON . . .
Since any chance you had . . has gone,
I found your rhyme upon the floor . .
Now ******* closed . . as is my door
It's such a shame . . you'll never know
How far down I can really go . .
Nor that my naughty little hand
Is worth your golden wedding band
My poet lad . . you've well derailed
All future chance . . of getting nailed
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
View from the Streetcar
[[[Come with me to the pow-wow tonight:
we will make toasts with neon shots of jello
in the Medicine Wheel circle.
we will speak in tongues & 0’s & 1’s.
the mixed hues of our skins, the mixed geometries of our bodies,
the mixed dilations of our pupils come together & nod in council
that we should take more time caring for our horses
for they will never let us down.]]]
On my way to the gaudy theme park, alone in the streetcar
I remembered how I left my mother without reason,
the aftertaste of emptiness that comes when leaving on impulse with
instant regret lingered inside me; my ego was miles ahead.
Yet I remember looking through the window,
looking into a forest where bright hammocks hung on trees
abundantly-- canopies filled with hard-covered books.
No people in sight, the books reined the woods,
hanging still like sloths waiting to be pried into.
I remember thinking that was enough
to bring flavor back to my throat.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Sita smiles as i bring her a sandwich
Two toasts with butter, ham, and cheese
And yet sita smiles as if i've made her a 5 course meal
Sita smiles as i make her a drink of my own recipe
‘Thank you pepe’ she says
And brandishes a glass of mysterious content
She hasn’t tasted it yet
But still she smiles
Sita cheers for me as i run down the soccer field
She’s waiting for me with a hug, even after games i don't play
From the bench
I can see her smile
Sita is waiting in the car i've known my whole life
‘How was school’ she says
Always with a smile
‘I'm coming home Sita’
It's been 2 years since i've seen her
She doesn’t ask when
She doesn't ask how
She smiles
‘I can't come home Sita’
It's the day after the flight i couldn’t get on
She doesn’t ask when i can
She doesn’t ask but I tell her how I missed it
I tell her i love her and will see her soon
She smiles
It's been 3 years since i've seen her
Sita tells me she has cancer
I tell her she's the strongest person i know
I love her
She smiles
‘I promise i’ll fly out to new zealand to see you’
The last time we spoke
She tells me she hates the food there
I think about how i’ll make her a sandwich, like i used to
I tell her it’ll be okay, she’ll be okay
‘I love you Sita, I promise I’ll see you soon’
She doesn’t ask when
She doesn’t ask how
Sita looks at me, the face I’ve known all my life
And she smiles
Aug 6, 2023
Aug 6, 2023 at 2:34 PM UTC
Isn't it funny when someone
gave a indirect grin,
not actual, but written on-screen.
When someone, reacts, boldly expresses.
get depicted by their cyber mess,
without cleaning their cases.
expand thy network, Make's ourselves classy,
but some emotional outbursts,
looks cheap and fancy
lovers thought, oh how solemn their toasts!
but ninety nine percent see,
that the intimacy was lost.
Cats and dogs fought in style and fashion,
their vocabularies enlightened
when they are in a mad mission
Wanted to express and hit a person.
masters of indirect strikers,
haters for all season.
Vices, come! trends easy as left and right.
Poser-murmurs see those pouts.
Oh boy, I just lost my appetite?
O
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 6:49 AM UTC
Sounds like the devil's worship
'fools' see it in the very bright of day
hate's spectrum sold so in grey excuses
with 'light and love' that has never saved
not one 'precious' going under miring mud
What is of self worth in the world of put downs
get above beyond over top with all insidious ruses
so artfully disgraced in lowly tastes into the sweetest
hearts with the most promising starts with arrogance
and the living and learning the condescending tortures
thrown back in ones face must be mastered till disguised
with the brightest pomp flashy emotional romps of starlets
Any format will do without exception there are toasts and cheers
to all of god's little children being taken under in compliant fashion
Diverge we do upon two paths one foot in each by light and by darkness
that is with the grey masters between love and hate consciously delusional
simple choices all the way agreed agreed no fire we started no hell departed
Two paths four eyes just for starters
take a flight through the hearts of all
of god's devils heaven hell commanded
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
The clash of billiard *****
Bouncing off the walls of their sheltered existence,
Echoed down the bar
Cutting through drunken laughs and senseless toasts
A man with an empty paper cup
Mumbles through the gaps in his teeth,
Asking for change
As he instinctively pushes up his glasses
And pinches his nose.
A girl with curly hair that blows in the air conditioning current
Sings at the top of her lungs,
Dancing and drinking,
Grateful that she probably won’t remember this in the morning,
And she wont
I’m sitting at the bar,
Surrounded by my fellow strangers.
Drunkards, wynos, and suicidal fathers.
Buying rounds of sadness and painful consequences,
As they Balance upon their bar stool thrones,
I hate them. And I hate humans.
But so do you.
And that is why when I walk through your wooden doors, and up your fragile stairs
I’m home
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
There is a world parallel to ours
With silver threads were bound
The souls of our departed old
In mirror image will be found
Their old become implanted
Young in many wombs
While ours are given to them
old in silk cocoons
When an old man leaves this earth
To pass over as we say
This is where he goes to
and this is where he'l stay
He arrives within their universe
Wrapped in a silk cocoon
He'l rest in there for nine long months
And emerge like a flower in bloom
The mid-life parents,overjoyed
They stare in awe at him
They tend to every need he has
He returns their love to them
Too soon his mid-life years approach
His life is rich with fun
They must protect him, from himself
He is their precious son
As he grows younger, they'r younger still
And heading for baby years
They'r young and slow, preparing to go
Confronting all their fears
The old man now full in his prime
And wishing his own cocoon
And shedding a tear, for his parents dear
He knows must leave him soon
A prayer is said for the baby souls
As they flee through the night, unseen
To a waiting womb in another earth
Not knowing where they have been
Round the bed the prayers are said
an old man departing soon...
And the man in the parallel universe..
toasts to his own cocoon.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
Her bitter coffee is
everything she’s got
Stale toasts and a
sickening migraine bout.
Every time she chortles,
She is hiding an inept
hiccup filled with despair
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Clinging to the eternal truth
That manaña never comes
But put all faith in the dawn of tomorrow
All the eggs in the sunlit basket
Because here, now,
In the dust of the crushed buildings
The pettiness, the bite of bullets from rooftops
The megaphones screeching their siren songs across
The dredge of forbidden earth,
Here and now
We embrace,
In the dawn of mañana a mother feeds a son
Toasts are made
The Spanish smile and
Gesture to the sky;
They are undefeatable
In the face of defeat;
In the face of mañana.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
Left Brain
I am not a scientific test or analysis, a mathematician
or an algorithm. I am not a linear graph or a statistician.
I am the reason that you can colour inside the lines,
why you don't fall off your bicycle anymore and never forgot
how to ride it. I am the force behind your smiles-
eighteen different smiles. The reason you can hold a book
or ball and learn what to do when it's in your hands.
I take credit when you remember the name of your childhood
babysitter. Thanks to me, you can play with jigsaw puzzles
or cards or checkers or dominoes. And thank me too
for your vocabulary. You don't necessarily remember
just how it is you came to remember sequences like getting dressed
or driving, decoding or analysing. I am the reason
you can probably look at someone and learn their name.
I suppose you could complain about how I dictate your days.
How you get up, go to sleep, lend you the seconds and minutes
and hours and months and years. I am the one who taught you
time. I'm also there for you to know that it runs out.
Right side
I am no dancer or artist made for television. Instead,
I'm the vibration you feel in the tips of your fingers
when you make a toast and ***** your wineglasses.
Those eighteen smiles you can smile? I gave you the gift
of being able to count your crayons while you are smiling.
But it's more than box sets of crayons and toasts.
I am the reason you want to be. Everything you yearn for-
every penny you ever tossed into a fountain, every star
you have wished on, and every eyelash. I am the reason
why you prefer wearing blue to green, and why you may
fill a blank page with words for what you want, how you feel.
I am the excitement that waits for you at Christmas
or reunions. When you saw the sky full of stars, felt snow
or went in the sea for the first time, I gave you that gasp.
I am your eyes on the world. Blame me for your wanderlust.
I am not time. I am how you know sometimes
that there is no way you'll ever have enough of it.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
And each morning as she slept
I'd take her a tray of poetry
A croissant of commas warmed from the inside out
An ounce of assonance
A cup of freshly squeezed couplets
A bowlful of rhymes
That inside she might find
Our promises of forever
The memories we crafted together:
I’d take her a teapot of
The little things we’d forget
In the busyness of daily life
I’d take her a knife to spread
across the toasts we’d host
To the moments we cherished most
To our victories and our regrets
And every morning as she slept
I’d place a kiss on her head
As I placed beside our bed
A tray of poetry,
The words she so carefully, cordially, candidly
Composed out of me.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC
There it was -
Among lost flowers
And drained cups of espresso.
Among corrupt cabinets,
And torrid affairs.
Among the soldiers and the artists,
Among the philosophers,
The drag queens and the disasters,
And T.S. Eliot and his mermaids.
There, in a smoky haze
Of toasts and time,
I found meaning.
Friends, lovers, actors,
Huddled together one cold October,
Not for pay, not for fame.
Drawn together merely to drink our fill
On the intoxicating elixir of humble creation.
It was there,
In those chilly nights
Of backyard theatrics,
In the raw camaraderie
Of presenting art for art's sake,
That I found myself,
Whole and true.
So many plays and shows
I have oft participated in,
And many days have passed
Since that blissful October,
But the vivid memory forever remains
Of the perfect cast of players bound together
In the pure glee of organic imaginings
As we explored the dark against the light.
Did we know?
Did we comprehend, then,
The magnitude of beauty to be found
Within the ties that held us together?
Perhaps the rest never did quite feel the current
Of the electric wonder we evoked beneath the stars;
Not only in our karaoke-laden performance,
But in our offstage whisperings and antics -
Friendships forged in a campfire flame.
I cannot speak for the others,
But as for myself -
A girl now disillusioned
By Louisiana cynics
And toxic hometown politics -
I am nostalgic for those nights
That I spoke of Michelangelo.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
You make the twist and curdle of muscle look sweet
Hoods of flesh clench
Lines extending towards congratulating champagne toasts
Liquid turned taught
Floating like a pair of scissors
Most subtle razor to ever caress
The tissue paper lips of the floor
You wrap your heady-spice palms
Flourishing and dripping
Every pulse a dropped memory
They whisper of inspiration and dust
Licks of silver swim through you
Eyes misty rocks where dreams go to impale their masters
Commanding the lovely, forming it to fit
Frost spangles the trees that create pillars of tendon
The ease of sandpaper on granite
You make silken
Simple.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
To feel taken for granted.
To sabotage your own heart for,
short intervals of ecstasy burning through veins and arteries.
To hurt and get it in return.
To want to be missed,
yet late to every occasion,
missing the snapshots and photo frames,
sing a longs and dinner toasts.
You wanted to be pushed down,
wanted to be dirt and stepped on.
But in the end you still wanted to feel loved
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 1:52 PM UTC
She wonders who she really is.
To her parents, she is the "reliable child",
while her brother was off doing bath salts and fighting the "greater enemy",
she was at home reading books and tending to their every beckoning need,
with a smile plastered to her nimble face,
causing her features to slowly turn into a mask of perfection,
only to hide her yearning to escape,
and to taste the alcohol under the kitchen counter.
To her husband, she is the woman of his dreams,
with a graceful charm and a impeccable body,
she is the angle that awoke him from his long eternal slumber of loneliness,
and the one that is the biggest supporter of his dreams.
He never wonders if she does not love him as much as her loves her,
but the scrabble of her footsteps leaving the bedroom every-night,
are starting to weigh on his thought process.
To her work, she is the most valuable member of the team,
the one who always has the files organized by client last name in alphabetical order,
who can rattle off statistics and coffee orders as if they were the facts she learned in grade school,
and who always gives the best toasts at the yearly Christmas office party,
dressed perfectly with the smile frozen onto her face.
Little do they know, she has panic attacks in the bathroom between conference calls.
What astonishes me the most is when she needs a person to help her,
how all the people in her vicinity abruptly vanish,
and how she is able to blend in with the dark walls and floors,
and be completely out of sight.
She is the chameleon.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Some people feel like a fire
I feel more like an ember
still hot enough to
burn
if you get too close.
I can flare into a fire if the right wind
comes along, pushing me
into the sky, the kind of fire
that burns through the night
rages through forests
eats through earth
but settles down again
the kind to roast marshmallows over,
or keep a cabin warm
in winter. But
the thing about being an ember,
is the rain hurts.
Some people grow from a good soak
rising up through the earth
reaching up towards the sun
they feed, and pulse, and grow
I shrink
losing the warmth that
makes me,
me.
soggy and steaming ash, acrid smoke
curling into the sky
gradually, until I disappear
An ember doesn't like the rain.
it's scared one day, the
rain will put it completely out.
And anyways,
who could learn to love,
something that,
at the end of the day,
after it tricks you with its warmth,
after it's kind
after it toasts
your food
and
its heat kisses you,
after all the effort you put into
stoking back the flames,
will still always burn you.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:03 AM UTC