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My father was predisposed to drunken rages. I would hide under the bed. My sister and I were talking just the other day about the terror a drunken man in a rage can create in a child.
quote by Antonio Villaraigosa
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who can’t stop drinking may get drunken three times a month. If he does it more often, he is guilty. To get drunken twice a month is better; once, still more praiseworthy. But not to drink at all - what could be better than this? But where could such a being be found? But if one would find it, it would be worthy of all honour.
quote by Ginghis Han
Submitted by Simona Enache
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Frog Sees Tara
A small and green but drunken frog
sat in the evening on his log.
He contemplated there on life
and wished he had a green frog wife.
He'd interviewd a thousand frogs,
kept diaries and detailed logs.
But never did he find the one
who'd rest all day out in the sun
and dream with him at night in bed
so this green frog was never wed.
One day he saw, down near the trees
a British subject. What a tease!
She was a trifle big but, well,
we cannot all live in a shell.
She chatted with the folks and then
there was a silence among men.
They looked at her, so did the frog
he sat, quite drunken, on his log.
He dreamed that if he ever were...
this was the girl. If frogs could purr! ! !
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Shes My Kind Of Rain
Shes my kind of rain
Like love in a drunken sky
Shes confetti falling
Down all night
She sits quietly there
Black water in a jar
Says, baby why are you
Trembling like you are
So I wait
And I try
I confess like a child
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes the sun set shadows
Shes like rembrandts light
Shes the history thats made at night
Shes my lost companion
Shes my dreaming tree
Together in this brief eternity
Summer days, winter snows
Shes all things to behold
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
So I wait
And I try
I confess all my crimes
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes my kind of rain
Oh, rain on me
Shes my kind of rain
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By your side
I stand watching you throw away your life
you are wearing a wedding ring
yet you have lost your wife
because you look around the room
and you cant find your pride
I stand by your side.
What do you have?
you say you have nothing
but you cant see what you have lost
and you say you will stop
but the drink is all you have got
you look around
and you cant find your pride
I stand by your side.
Your face is cut from a drunken fight
and every morning is a drunken night
the poison you persist must take your sight
leaving you with not one brain cell left
the alcohol has gone to your head
a park bench has become your bed.
I stand by your side unlike your health
but I cant help unless you help yourself
what do you have? Look.
See you cant find your pride.
Understand I cant stand by your side.
poem by Daniel McCann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
Gather round you people and a story I will tell
About a brave young indian you should remember well
From the tribe of pima indians, a proud and a peaceful band
They farmed the phoenix valley in arizona land
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed
Now iras folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weeds
But when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white mans greed
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
They started up iwo jima hill, 250 men
But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again
And when the fight was over and the old glory raised
One of the men who held it high was the indian ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Now ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he was just a pima indian, no money crops, no chance
And at home nobody cared what ira had done and the wind did the indians
Dance
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
And ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home
They let him raise the flag there and lower it like youd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where ira died
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Keep crushing...
How can a crash and a crush happen here in the carpark
i'm supposed to clench my fists in the dark
But now i'm intrepid, ever as much
Holding hands are safer, something between lovers
Inside the private car sitting a human and a shadow
When they're drunken,
a crash happens in an instant moment, involving only one car
When they're drunken,
a crush happens all of a sudden;
even
i haven't even start the engine.
poem by Garland Jodie Jeen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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O What Shall We Do With These Drunken Men?
1
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
Last night
I picked him up
from outside the pub
where he'd been drinking
with his mates
And in the car
almost near our home
he says: I love you
And I say to him:
Is that you talking
or the beer?
And he says
like lightning:
It's me talking.
I'm talking to my beer.
2
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
I locked him in the car
doused him with effluent water
let him sleep there
till he turns sober
But it's 11am now and hot
and sober or not,
he's still asleep
in the car
and when I try and wake him up
he's still mumbling about love and beer
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
Maybe I should dunk him over a hill
car and all
till he turns mature, till he's sober
poem by Raj Arumugam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Drunken Cow Hand
A Drunken Cow Hand
a drunken cow hand
is going home
in a pickup truck
with no shock absorbers
or whatever is left of them
he likes it that way
bouncing up and down
on the lone country road
as if riding
a demented horse
as if riding
an old demented horse
farting
backfiring
boom
bang
-Epiphany Magazine-
poem by Suchoon Mo_
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Drunken Lullabies
Must it take a life for hatful eyes
To glisten once again
Five hundred years like Gelignite
Have blown us all to hell
What savior rests while on his cross we die
Has the Shepard led his lambs astray
to the bigot and the gun
Must it take a life for hateful eyes
To glisten once again
Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess
Singin' drunken lullabies
I watch and stare as Rosin's eyes
Turn a darker shade of red
And the bullet with this sniper lie
In their bloody gutless cell
Must we starve on crumbs from long ago
Through these bars of men made steel
Is it a great or little thing we fought
Knelt the conscience blessed to kill
Must it take a life for hateful eyes
To glisten once again
Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess
Singin' drunken lullabies
Ah
song performed by by Flogging Molly from Drunken Lullabies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inspired by Issa - Spring Butterfly
spring butterfly
that drunken dance
spring too much for you?
spring butterfly
the only time that matches up
to your colours
spring butterly
this party, such a colourful spread
i would too be drunken
spring butterfly
every colourful cup
a drink from heaven
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Laugh song
(it's just a silly song, please sing with your own melody)
Drunken man: The bottle is empty
I’m still thirsty
What can we do right now?
Crowd: Let’s steal some wine!
Bar owner: It’s the time up now!
You must pay and go
Crowd: Why is she so cruel?
We’re just having fun
Bar owner: The wind goes strong
I’m afraid storm comes
What can I do old man
With drunken men and fool?
Crowd: Our friends with us
You are warm and nice
Bar owner: No more drink tonight
Go home, goodnight!
Servant boy: The rain goes heavy
The bridge is down!
Crowd: Lord has mercy
We can’t go right now!
Crowd: The road is dark
Hard storm around
What can we do right now?
Bar owner: Sit and wait sad clown!
Man: Thunder sparks wild
Do we have some bone?
The dog still barks
Crowd: Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark
Drunken man: The bone is gone
Tomorrow we’ll mourn
What can we do right now?
Crowd: What can we do right now?
Man: No feet dance here
No music I hear
Crowd: Let’s ask our dear!
She can cheer we here
Man: The fiddle’s asleep
Her cords are curling
Crowd: Let’s just sing a song!
La, la, la, la, la
Drunken man: Your song is bad
My ears are ache
Crowd: It’s the wine not song
Your sense goes wrong
Servant boy: The rain still falls
It’s not safe to home
Crowd: We own our fall
It’s not safe from fight
Drunken man: The bottles mad and fly
Too pity they’re empty
Bar owner: Play set in my rest
You’ll be kicked and wet!
Man: Let’s close to the fire
Till words are over
Crowd: Tell tales and stories
Till the world’s over
Crowd: Only wise can say
We crazy laugh and cry
In the middle of flood
The last laugh will shout!
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Money mad. My wife says I spend money like a drunken sailor. Wonder what she'd say if I spent it like a sober congressman.
quote by R.W. Plagge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Drunken Stupor
In a drunken stupor
I wonder what I should create
From the back my mind a light goes off
They say its part of the creative process
But I wonder if I'm actually making any progress
Or am I going backwards tripping all over myself
I drank tonight to make an unending headache go away.
Buzzed I hope does deteriorate my writing ability
That probably sounds kind of silly
Of course it does
It must
For my vision get kind of blurry, so my thoughts must also
Remembering what I write from word to word is kind of absurd
This is my drunken stupor
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Broken Images
The Morning
Avalanching
Fast And Furious:
:
Temperature Rising To 45 Degree At 8 AM
The Sound And Fury Of The News Vendor On TV
The Angry Clanking Of The Utensils
At The Hand Of The House Maid
Yes, The House Maid Bashing The Utensils
Just As She Was Bashed By Her Drunken Husband Las Night;
The Mood Multiplying
With The Wife Hurriedly Packing The New Tiffin Box
Bashes The Boy For Forgetting The Old One In School
Yes, The Wife Too Forgot To Go For A Blood Pressure Check Up
Returning From Office
Or Was She Too Busy Spying Her
Husband? The Husband...After
Reading The P M's Tribute To
Kamala Das
Was Frantically Searching Her Book
'My Story ' To Grudgingly Devour It
While On Tour.
The Morning Died Down
Tired
Like The Repeated Calls Of The Beggar
For A Penny Worth Of Sanity.
Ends.
Manoj Rath
02.06.2009
poem by Manoj Rath
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Peter Gunn's Gun
by Michael Leonard, Bobby Weinstein & Jon Stroll
Throw a penny from the window, watch an old man play a song
On a twenty-dollar violin he bought before the war,
Though he screeches and he scratches and the notes are always wrong,
But he plays like he's in concert on the street outside my door.
Tunes to suit your fancy,
Are there any requests?
I'll play them for a penny,
(Play them penny music, play them for a penny)
And not a penny less.
He's the local virtuoso, it's his only way of life,
Plays ninety-seven overtures and goes home to his wife,
In the quiet of the evening while his frozen fingers bleed,
He counts pennies on a blanket to supply his meager need.
Tunes to suit your fancy,
Are there any requests?
I'll play them for a penny,
(Play them penny music, play them for a penny)
And not a penny less.
When there's frost upon the pumpkin in the weakness of the sun,
People stand there in the cold until his symphony is done,
In the early gray of morning, he's sure to come around,
You can hear him through the window when the pennies hit the ground.
Tunes to suit your fancy,
Are there any requests?
I'll play them for a penny,
(Play them penny music, play them for a penny)
And not a penny less.
They're playing penny music,
Playing penny music,
They're playing penny music,
Playing penny music,
Playing penny music.
fade out...
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ode To My Penny
Ode to my penny
That shiny little thing
Not much of value
Oh, but wait, stop and think
Put that old penny
In a little glass jar
Save it for a day
When happy thoughts are far
Shake the little jar
And hear the small jingle
But that little bell
Can't always be single
When penny has friends
This are better
What I mean to say;
Is Penny's quite clever
Do you see it now?
Penny is always 'round
When your feeling down
Penny's here, so be proud
He pulls you out of life's dark cloud
And puts you in light's bright crowd
Ode to my penny
Whose always there
Even when
No one else seems to care.
poem by Jordyn Averitte
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Gardener XLII: O Mad, Superbly Drunk
O mad, superbly drunk;
If you kick open your doors and
play the fool in public;
If you empty your bag in a night,
and snap your fingers at prudence;
If you walk in curious paths and
play with useless things;
Reck not rhyme or reason;
If unfurling your sails before the
storm you snap the rudder in two,
Then I will follow you, comrade,
and be drunken and go to the dogs.
I have wasted my days and nights
in the company of steady wise neighbours.
Much knowing has turned my hair
grey, and much watching has made
my sight dim.
For years I have gathered and
heaped up scraps and fragments of
things:
Crush them and dance upon them,
and scatter them all to the winds.
For I know 'tis the height of wisdom
to be drunken and go the dogs.
Let all crooked scruples vanish,
let me hopelessly lose my way.
Let a gust of wild giddiness come
and sweep me away from my anchors.
The world is peopled with worthies,
and workers, useful and clever.
There are men who are easily first,
and men who come decently after.
Let them be happy and prosper,
and let me be foolishly futile.
For I know 'tis the end of all works
to be drunken and go to the dogs.
I swear to surrender this moment
all claims to the ranks of the decent.
I let go my pride of learning and
judgment of right and of wrong.
I'll shatter memory's vessel, scattering
the last drop of tears.
With the foam of the berry-red
wine I will bathe and brighten my
laughter.
The badge of the civil and staid
I'll tear into shreds for the nonce.
I'll take the holy vow to be worthless,
to be drunken and go to the dogs.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Drunken lines
this country once passions reigned
barbarians and moralists
galloped into the fray.
its multi-faceted poets'
drunken lines echo
heartfelt cries of builders
who carried slabs up mountains,
crafty empress tying ropes
round people's bellies to stifle revolts,
and palace butchers who
devoured manhood
for the king's womenfolks,
female infants' unkind fate with mother's towels.
yet this record it shows
with pride of birth numbers.
the verses of drunken poets
that lent a paradise for
a moment's escape from these dungeons of madness
the gifts of Li Bai, Su Tong Po...
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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To Whom; It May The Wind Blows You
I saw the drunken man on the 16th street
used the dark red raincoat
He was drunk without a head
(but) riding his heart
Walk into Glen-arm
Blinded his words
There was no wind blows
But the words always stuck in an old Oak tree
(from) A distant land
The pieces of memories
Powerless into sound pieces are now
in the country that everyone should speak
Even to speak on his own
In the wind, even in passing by people
who do not know
I see the drunken man,
sitting in a pushed wheelchair
grumbling about love
It's not belong to the wind but
to whom I will never know
I am just a traveler, traveler
who recorded all not by malice
I promised the cool breeze of the mountain
(16th Street Denver,21 Oct 2010)
poem by Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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