He’s past it
Werner is not unconscious
from drugs and liquor,
he’s past it
and a white ambulance
arrives with a flashing
red light.
He lies on the ground
in his own vomit
and urine
that lays yellow, orange and white
around him
and empty dark brown beer bottles
and a bottle of Johnny Walker
is broken
and the glass
stabs into his arm
and the man
on the label
walks past him
and blowflies
are everywhere on him
and a pot pipe
clings with vomit
to his mouth.
There’s an injection
with the needle
still in his vain
and his eyes are big and grey
and empty without life
while his right hand
clutches a guitar
as if he’s thinking
about the next chord
and there’s tiredness
and emptiness on his face.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Bottle 'O
I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job;
I drives me bottle cart around the town;
A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob --
I couldn't bear to graft for every brown.
There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard,
There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro,
And little dogs what comes and barks -- we take 'em off their guard
And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!
Chorus --
So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!"
You can hear us round for half a mile or so
And you'll see the women rushing
To take in the Monday's washing
When they 'ear us crying, "Empty Bottle-O!"
I'm driving down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes,
A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me,
An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose;
I stops the cart and walks across to see.
"There ain't no bottles 'ere," says she, "since father took the pledge,"
"No bottles 'ere," says I, "I'd like to know
What right 'ave you to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge,
If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!"
I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me
We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay.
Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea
And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away.
But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to "scrap",
There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw:
But as for me, I always says for layin' out a "trap"
There's nothing like an Empty Bottle-O!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A bottle of wolf’s poison
At dusk little Martha walks
pass the back of the old house
that is build of heaped blue Jacob stone
and her older sister who has to watch her
is a distance away in the orchard
where she is catching small gnats
with shouts of joy.
The sun glows orange red
on the horizon and the rays hits
a brown bottle that protrudes
from one of the cracks of the Jacob rocks
and at a distance
it looks to three-year-old Martha
like her mother’s kitchen knife
and quickly she walks closer
on her little feet
and she tries to take it, but it is stuck tight.
With a long stick
she digs the bottle out,
bites it open with her small teeth
and there’s pink liquid
that flows down her throat.
Still she wonders
what this bottle is doing here
and goes round the corner
into the kitchen
where she finds her mother
and gives the bottle to her.
Her mother turns white from fright
as it is wolf’s poison
and deadly strong
and her shout is so loud
that three of Martha’s older brothers
run in from the outside.
“Go and milk one of the cows
and bring some more milk, hurry”
is said to Pieter
and she takes a bucket of milk
from the pantry
and pour some in a glass for Martha to drink
while Pieter runs
as fast as he can to the stable.
“Drink sis drink, ” Martha is begged
and glass after glass is given to her
until she starts to vomit
and still they beg her to drink
while they pour some more glasses of milk
and the pink poison
comes out with the vomit
and Pieter brings some more
fresh hot milk
and pours the jug out
and Martha shakes and cries
and they beg her to drink
and still more is poured into glasses
and she drinks
until she vomits the entire poison out.
[Reference: Wolf’s poison is strychnine.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The yuppie in the grey land
I
The office door closes
behind the man that leaves embarrassed
and the yuppie smiles
and sees himself as a banker
and knows that he takes much more
than he gives.
The usury act is gone
and fifty percent interest on loans
is a nice thing
and if people want to be stupid
it fits him well
and something bothers him
and he ignores it
as silliness.
With a burning cigarette in his mouth
he gets into his shiny machine
and cut three cars of,
when his car leaves rubber tracts behind.
He blows the smoke out with pleasure
and his car stops at a red light,
where a blonde doll bends forward on the sidewalk
and he looks at two firm D-breasts
with hard nipples.
The lust froths in him
and he looks her out,
but she’s to near to forty
or maybe past it
and he grabs his cell phone
to get a number on it.
The whole time is playtime,
a lovely voice greets him
and he smiles
and ask if he can meet her
and makes an immediate appointment.
On the other side of the street
there’s a man with long hair,
a beard, t-shirt and jeans
and he snubs at him
and the man replies
Jesus saves
and when he drives away
he hears
peace to you mate.
II
a Beautiful blonde
waits for him at the door
and pushes a glass of KWV wine
into his right hand
and when the door closes behind them
he greets her with a hungry kiss.
She works alone from her house
and they go and sit
at her bar counter,
where he counts of some notes
and she pours a glass of Johnny Walker.
They chat and drink
and smoke for a while
as if he’s her boyfriend,
before they start spooning
and their clothes lie
in a line along the carpet to the bed
where he makes love to her.
His hands plays with her firm breasts
and big nipples
and they get intimate
past all pleasure
and when he showers later
she joins him and they play again.
In the lounge against the wall
there’s a painting
of a Madonna figure
and he looks at the golden cross
that hangs around her neck
and the words of the man at the traffic light
keep repeating in his mind.
They drink a few bottles of Johnny Walker,
before he walks on unsteady legs
to his car,
where she greets him with a kiss.
III
He drives through the suburb
near his house
and the car
is all over the road.
Near a school
he accelerates for the last bit
and hits a girl
that crosses at some zebra stripes.
It’s a terrible smash
and he’s really drunk
and the child lies lifeless
and he feels nauseous
and hear that the car’s engine
still running.
He knows that if the police
finds him at the accident,
he will be arrested and jailed
and the words of the man at the traffic light
hangs bitter over him.
IV
Suddenly there are people
about him
and when he drives away,
it’s too quick for somebody
to get the number
and in the distance
he hears the siren
of an ambulance getting near.
There are tears in his eyes
when he stops in his garage
and he is almost sober from fright
and looks at himself,
for the first time.
He stays in the dented car
and prays
and he doesn’t know
how to fix things,
but decides to try anyway.
[Reference: grey land=> a Place between right and wrong. Grey is somewhere between black and white.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Empty Glass
an empty glass on the table
we stare at each other tonight
and i theorize on its emptiness
is it fed up with water?
was it drunk the other night and
would not take any liquor?
we stare at each other tonight
my hands holding on my chest
i bite my lips with my teeth
something seeps inside my mouth
i hesitate to swallow it
there is still this fear about substance
something that is alienating
my heart is quenched of its fire
there is only the coldness
of tranquility
something to drink from an empty glass
something that caresses
i shall take it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Spiritual Glow
It’s life’s fault that I’m lying here in such a mess
sodden with vomit, wine, beer, and meth’s.
“Hey, I’m sorry, but I can’t remember insulting your wife;
there’s no need to hit a man who’s down in his life.
Stop! Please don’t thump and kick me any more,
my head and face is bleeding, and my ribs are sore.
You’ve broken my nose and my eyes are swollen shut,
and I vomit every time you kick my gut.
I know being drunk is no excuse for being rude
but it’s the booze to blame for my bad attitude.
I agree, that I’m a useless loser and waste of time,
and I spend all my money on beer, meth’s, and wine.
Listen mister, I don’t expect any sympathy from anyone
just because my days are all but done.
The tablets are no use and the only painkiller that I know
is from the mixture I call the ‘Spiritual Glow’.
So if you you’re going to hit and kick me again,
kick me hard around my head and brain.
Then at least you’ll do me a favour by setting me free
and you’ll go to prison for the death of me.”
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bottle
Life long bottle partner
Feeding bottle at childhood
To Ganga jal(Holy water of river Ganga)
Bottle at deathbed
Water bottle at schooldays
Cold drinks bottles
And liquor bottles at adulthood
And blood bottles at hospital bed.
Lifelong bottle partner
Lifelong bottle partner
Our life our soul is in a bottle
This body is bottle
And it is life partner.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Autumn (Tree)
The last leaf of summer falls
A tear of summer past.
Winter is coming, darkness calls.
Getting earlier, night arrives fast.
Insects no longer fly,
As frost starts to lie.
Coating the ground in blankets of white,
All bare the tree stands still in fright.
Through empty branches, the wind blasts,
The wood remembers summer last.
When all was green and not yellow,
When summer’s breeze kiss was mellow.
Only a few months, the tree must hold
For spring will make it bold.
With new leaves growing, new to old,
Summer arrives, arms to unfold.
poem by Ben Littlechild
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Winter Is White
WINTER IS WHITE
Winter is white
.......dogwood white
..............forgetfulness
......... ..........an empty slate
Winter is windy
.......windless words
..............empty words
....................drifting aimlessly
Winter is cold
.......deedless words
..............barrenness
............ ........suffering cold
What sound goes there?
What meaning fills the void?
These white lies of life
...............blown sands –– no trace
.....................................–– no path
.....................blindness––no seeking
...................................... ––no faith
No seeing here
No leading love
White and no light
White and no sight
White and no flight
- March 6,2008
poem by Ben Gieske
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stigmata
Stronger than reason
Stronger than lies
The only truth I know
Is the look in your eyes
The look in your eyes!
Just like a car crash
Just like a knife
My favourite weapon
Is the look in your eyes
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Theres a ton locked in your empty eyes
Get out of my life!
Im chewing on glass
And eating my fingers
Im not the one
Whos run out of lies
Lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of lies!
Youve run out of time!
Cutting my face
And walking on splinters
I lost my soul
To the look in your eyes
Your eyes!
You ran out of lies!
You ran out of lies!
You ran out of lies!
You ran out of time!
Stigmata!
O, you have empty eyes!...
They tell me nothing, nothing but lies
song performed by by Ministry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Drinkin' Dark Whiskey
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies
One leads to another
On a Saturday night
Don't ya cross your heart
Unless you hope to die
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies
Well, the first drop burns
But the second one goes down smooth
Then that old black label
Gets a hold of you
It loosens your tongue
But it never tells the truth
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies
One leads to another
On a Saturday night
Don't ya cross your heart
Unless you hope to die
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies
When the bottle starts talkin'
Be careful what he might say
He talks in the dark
Like he never would in the day
Then he gets in trouble
Just as soon as he gets away
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies
One leads to another
On a Saturday night
Don't ya cross your heart
Unless you hope to die
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies
Well a little white lie
Don't mean anyone no good
When it's makin' the rounds
All over the neighborhood
Next thing you know
You're all misunderstood
When you're...
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies
One leads to another
On a Saturday night
Don't ya cross your heart
Unless you hope to die
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies
Drinkin' dark whiskey
Tellin' white lies..
song performed by by Gary Allan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The city has a deadly wound
The city has a deadly wound
and on the street without a place to go,
sits an old man and his old wife
and their small white dog.
I see a blonde girl watching cars,
to buy a piece of bread
and her face tells that she has problems
and I wonder how she washes
the dirt of the road from herself?
a Red haired guy sleeps in boxes on the sidewalk
and at a traffic light there’s children that sniffs glue.
At another traffic light
there’s a couple with a baby,
that stands in the hot sun
and is dependant on motorists for their fate.
Just before a traffic circle there’s a man
with short pants,
where day after day
he sells koeksisters.
a Man with dark glasses and a hat
strokes his guitar
chord after chord and sings sad songs
and I see that his hat is empty
where he is in a small alley
while minibus taxis hoot the whole time.
Taxes are getting higher
and everybody has to bare the brunt of it,
but the poor are on the street with their pain
and wait for the misery to pass
like flowers trying to blossom in a desert
and they are surprised and scarred by life
and wait in vain for a place in the sun.
[Koeksisters=> a Baked delicacy with syrup in it.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Face With No Future
I look in the mirror,
and what do I see?
A face with no future,
stares out at me.
On the table, a glass and a bottle,
of my favourite poison.
When I was young,
I drank to be alive.
Now all I do,
is drink to survive.
My eyes bloodshot,
filled with vacant stare.
My face goes unshaven,
but what do I care?
My bottle is now empty,
quickly replace with one full.
Soon it will be empty,
just like this fool.
Family and friends fled.
My eyes were blind.
All they could see,
was another drink,
in front of me.
My legs get unsteady.
I stagger instead of walk.
A bottle wrapped in paper,
gripped tightly by my hand.
My clothes grow dirty,
as days and nights combine.
A smile is frozen,
on this face of mine.
My arm flex out,
when I stumble to the ground.
Faces look down at me,
expressions display my waste.
I just hold my smile,
as I lay there in their midst.
At least my bottle,
didn’t break,
on my fall from grace.
Time for another drink,
raise bottle to my lips.
Liquid trickles down my throat,
and still my smile remains,
as silly as it can be.
The faces disappear.
Everyone has gone now.
Like family and friends,
they all desert.
I lay there on my own.
For no one wants to take,
a drunk home.
25 Jan 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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thank you Russell Edson... great poem
The house grows sick in its dining room and begins to vomit.
Father cries, the dining room is vomiting.
No wonder, the way you eat, it's enough to make anybody sick,
says his wife.
What shall we do? What shall we do? he cries.
Call the Vomit Doctor of course.
Yes, but all he does is vomit, sighs father.
If you were a vomit doctor you'd vomit too.
But isn't there enough vomit? sighs father.
There is never enough vomit.
Do I make everybody that sick, sighs father.
No no, everybody is born sick.
Born sick? cries father.
Of course, haven't you noticed how everybody eventually
dies? she says.
Is the dining room dying...?
... The way you eat, it's enough to make anyone sick,
she screams.
So I do make everybody that sick...
Excuse me, I think I'm going to be sick, she says.
Oh where is the Vomit Doctor? At least when he vomits one
knows one has it from high authority, screamed father.
Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year
October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.
In jeans and denim shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity,
Wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.
But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can't hold my liquor either,
and don't even know the places to fish?
poem by Raymond Clevie Carver
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Celia
Cherry, cherry,
glowing on the hearth,
bright red cherry….
When you try to pick up cherry
Celia’s shriek
sticks in you like a pin.
When God throws hailstones
you cuddle in Celia’s shawl
and press your feet on her belly
high up like a stool.
When Celia makes umbrella of her hand.
Rain falls through
big pink spokes of her fingers.
When wind blows Celia’s gown up off her legs
she runs under pillars of the bank—
great round pillars of the bank
have on white stockings too.
Celia says my father
will bring me a golden bowl.
When I think of my father
I cannot see him
for the big yellow bowl
like the moon with two handles
he carries in front of him.
Grandpa, grandpa…
(Light all about you…
ginger… pouring out of green jars…)
You don’t believe he has gone away and left his great coat…
so you pretend… you see his face up in the ceiling.
When you clap your hands and cry, grandpa, grandpa, grandpa,
Celia crosses herself.
It isn’t a dream….
It comes again and again….
You hear ivy crying on steeples
the flames haven’t caught yet
and images screaming
when they see red light on the lilies
on the stained glass window of St. Joseph.
The girl with the black eyes holds you tight,
and you run… and run
past the wild, wild towers…
and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet
and little frightened dolls
shut up in the shops
crying… and crying… because no one stops…
you spin like a penny thrown out in the street.
Then the man clutches her by the hair….
He always clutches her by the hair….
His eyes stick out like spears.
You see her pulled-back face
and her black, black eyes
lit up by the glare….
Then everything goes out.
Please God, don’t let me dream any more
of the girl with the black, black eyes.
Celia’s shadow rocks and rocks…
and mama’s eyes stare out of the pillow
as though she had gone away
and the night had come in her place
as it comes in empty rooms…
you can’t bear it—
the night threshing about
and lashing its tail on its sides
as bold as a wolf that isn’t afraid—
and you scream at her face, that is white as a stone on a grave
and pull it around to the light,
till the night draws backward… the night that walks alone
and goes away without end.
Mama says, I am cold, Betty, and shivers.
Celia tucks the quilt about her feet,
but I run for my little red cloak
because red is hot like fire.
I wish Celia
could see the sea climb up on the sky
and slide off again…
…Celia saying
I’d beg the world with you….
Celia… holding on to the cab…
hands wrenched away…
wind in the masts… like Celia crying….
Celia never minded if you slapped her
when the comb made your hairs ache,
but though you rub your cheek against mama’s hand
she has not said darling since….
Now I will slap her again….
I will bite her hand till it bleeds.
It is cool by the port hole.
The wet rags of the wind
flap in your face.
poem by Lola Ridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fallen, Empty, And Broken
fallen soldier
fallen sky
fallen angel
from on high
fallen heartache
fallen soul
fallen man
losing control
empty bed
empty arms
empty dreams
empty heart
empty wallet
empty hands
cant take nothin'
from an empty man
broken promises
broken vows
broken spirit
wont allow
broken fences
broken lives
broken tomorrows
broken nights
fallen, empty, and broken
every road is the same
bent, bruised, and shaken
still numb from the pain
now you dont answer
when i call out your name
fallen, empty, and broken
walking in the rain...
fallen, empty, and broken...
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In My Childhood Days I Pick Lilies In The Marsh
In my childhood days I pick lilies in the marsh,
I pick lilies, the most beautiful that I can find
in colours of red, yellow and white
but now a tar road cuts past.
The highway runs almost to eternity,
I wonder where the dilapidation did start
see no coots, plovers calling
broken lies the marshland that I love
and I have to search into the bright blue
to cling to the untouched
while smoke clouds of white, yellow and grey hang
like a blanket that is folding over everything
while wealth increases, nature becomes distorted,
and the plain has offices that is encroaching it.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Where Are the Birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
‘The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon,
Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Deep in the afternoon?
Even at dusk when the air is still
Or the cool breath heaves from the sea,
I wait for the beat of wings then, Bei Bei
Rushing to comfort me.’
‘The birds were once when the paddy fields
Ran down by the river tides,
When the sky was blue and the air was clean
And the trees reached up to the stars.
The birds were here when the skies were clear
No buildings blocked the view...’
‘But where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Why have they gone from you? ’
‘They left when the smog came rolling in
And the insects died on the ground,
When the grass turned white and the acid rain
Caused all the trees to drown.
They left when the river turned yellow mud
And the fields died under the road,
When men built towers of thirty floors,
They left the town in droves.’
The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon.
‘The birds of Wenzhou took their nests
And travelled to old Hangzhou.
They went to live by a wondrous lake
That tales will tell, is blue...’
‘Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei...
Have they forsaken you? ’
8 November 2005
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death...
i lift an empty conch
near my hear
i hear songs and i
carefully listen
and i close my eyes
and see places
i see emptiness
i feel the fullness
barefoot i walk on the
white sandy beach
i left the empty conch
and carry something else
my heart understands
my face nods
my body is light
and the sun is bright
the air is salty
God is mighty.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Notes From the Village
Bleecker Street
just before
October dawn,
Winking
corner stoplight
flashing only red
to vacant Sunday
streets,
Old newspaper
Blowing,
unread,
down empty sidewalk
of hangover morning,
Gusts of New York
Puffing down sad alleys
Of broken amber glass,
Poor kitty,
Mad with fright,
Poor kitty,
Hidden from sight.
Hands in my pockets,
Coat collar high,
i bow into the
Callous autumn wind,
Past the frigid lights
And locked doors
Of last night’s
Cafes,
Yesterday’s
bookstalls,
Smells of impending
Rain waft through
Red brick
And hang like
Moldy rags
Above the lamp posts.
Facing the creaking
Branches of
Washington Square,
I see old friends’
Faces in
The yellow-orange
Leaves of fall,
Unseen,
Unknown,
I glide,
Wispy and ghost-like,
Sailing past an Atlantic
Sunrise,
& the rest of my
Brittle life.
poem by Terry L. Young
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