Poem in a drunkard's wallet with a postscript
My head spins like the troubled World
And the tumbler's liquid evaporates soon.
Before it runs deep I must swallow
As I have already paid for the stuff.
I like to take one more drink
But no more coins in the wallet
And I am looking for an emergency door to run away
Before I order an another drink.
I gulped it faster but the rear door was locked
And I ordered and ordered like a fluke
Till I got drunk.
P.S.
To be purchased,
2.Foot-Rulers,2.Boxes of pastels,2.Scrap-books,6.Sheets of brown paper,2.HB pencils with a cutter,2.Stencils(English Alphabet) ,2.Erasers and few beginner books with pictures, children to read and do not forget to buy my family planning tablets.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
When my eyes shut
When my eyes permamanently shut
Oh! what a happiest event?
no more sorrows; no more happiness
(very few ever I had)
only nothingness.
debt collectors won't come to see me
specially on salary days
tax collectors never to be seen
I hated them all in my life.
spouse never say redeem the jewelry
kitchen goods empty, this, that and why?
children never cry for square ruled books, foot rulers, pencils, erasers
chewing gum and shoes.
friends will have chats
about my goodness and kindness.
How can I abandon my family?
without leaving them a copper and a shelter to live.
I must wait, I should open my eyes
and come again as a different man.
Then they all run and there won't be any trouble at all.
Wife will never grumbles and children never cry.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Experience Is God
I asked, ‘What comes with birth? '
Born and see, God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is said to be education? '
Study and see God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is knowledge? '
Know and see God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is kindness? '
Be kind and shower, God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is love? '
Share with others, God ordered!
I asked, ‘What pleasure do you get from wife? '
Marry and experience, God ordered!
I asked, ‘Who is child to you? '
Get a child for you, God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is old age? '
Become old and observe God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is poverty? '
Toil and see God ordered!
I asked, ‘What happens after death? '
Die and see God ordered!
If anyone wants to know what is life,
And he has to experience and know,
Then why are you, GOD?
GOD said, ‘O' poor man,
The experience itself is ME!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Lament For Tall People (Fun Poem 11)
The world is filled with short people,
who forget there are tall people like me.
For when they build a door of six foot,
they forget all about the poor old persons,
who are only a short six foot three.
To get in and out I have to duck,
or get a lump on my forehead,
seeing stars in the process,
while I am picking myself off the floor.
It is either that or its down on my hands and knees,
to crawl in and out the door.
Oh, now that may sound funny I agree.
However, it is not so funny if you are a short tall person like me.
So to all those short builder out there,
remember when you measure seven foot,
that your tape measure is not a foot off the floor.
I went to a fortune teller,
to have the bumps on my head read.
She said, “Avoid low doors,
as there are too many bumps there to be read.”
So all you short builders take note of what I said.
Raise the top of the door,
so I can stop bumping my head.
poem by David Harris
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Books
The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges
Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn
poem by Erica Jong
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Brown Paper Bag
Brown paper bag
Squalid incomplete
slumped to the side of the street
Like unwanted sacks of garbage
She left her track her smell
And like the brown paper bag
She had travelled well
She had a whole world in her head
Her first love
The man she wed
And the drink and the smoke
And the four o clock bloke
That returned with a bottle in a brown paper bag
And better days before
When she had carried her first round fruit
When the brown paper bag was waxed new
And he carried his bride to the door
Then the four o clock bloke
Full of stale wine and stale smoke
With a bottle in a brown paper bag
How he called her a hag
And that first punch to the floor
And the brown paper bags fell by her side
Crumpled and stained
And the liquor cans and the four o clock man
Who never spoke
Left her broke
Bones shattered in pieces
Flesh bare to the wind
Body out on the street
Skin tanned dirt brown
Hair matted locks
And two brown paper bags tied with string to her feet
yvette m smith 11.2.09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Have A Drink On Me
Whiskey, gin and brandy
With a glass Im pretty handy
Im trying to walk a straight line
On sour mash and cheap wine
So join me for a drink boys
Were gonna make a big noise
So dont worry about tomorrow
Take it today
Forget about the cheque
Well get hell to pay
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Yeah
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
On me
Come on
Dizzy, drunk and fightin
On tequila white lightnin
My glass is getting shorter
On whiskey, ice and water
So come on and have a good time
And get blinded out of your mind
So dont worry about tomorrow
Take it today
Forget about the cheque
Well get hell to pay
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
On me
Get stoned
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Yeah
Have a drink on me
Come on
Oooh
Gonna roll around
Gonna hit the ground
Take another swing
Have another drink
Gonna drink it dry
Gonna get me high
Come on all the boys
Make a noise
Chorus
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink on me
Have a drink oooooooon me
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Phobia
Phobia
Once in Paris, I was going to a venue reading poetry, the hotelier told me to take
the subway as it was easy. After being a fender for busy people I found my train
and suffocated. First stop, I ran off and found myself at a strange part of the city,
sweating and shaking like d drunk who had been on a bender for a fortnight.
Phobia! I didn´t even know I had one, my pipe dream of being a u-boat captain
had sunk in a hole of terror. My instinct, when lost in a strange place, is to find
the nearest tavern/bars, there are many taverns in Paris it was easy to find one.
I had Pernod, not that I like this drink, but after all I was in France; to blend in
I wore a black beret given to me by a relative of my wife who runs a hat factory
in Lyon, and I had had garlic bread for breakfast. But was unable to lift the glass,
my left hand wouldn´t let me, the right hand blankly refused and pretended to
be lame. Finally hiding, behind the Guardian- an English newspaper for people
who see themselves as liberal socialists-. I gulped down the horrid drink. It did
wonders. So I ordered a whisky, I was a hero, nothing could scare me
as I walked bravely out into busy streets full of people who looked at me as if they
had not seen a beret before, and looked for a taxi.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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University President Why is it that you physicists always require so much expensive equipment Now the Department of Mathematics requires nothing but money for paper, pencils, and erasers...and the Department of Philosophy is better still. It doesn't even ask for erasers.
quote by Isaac Asimov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Runs In The Family!
The uncle is a barfly and he's
Locked up in jail for jay walking on a
Holy Sunday morning to the nineteenth hole
It runs in the blood of this alcohol ravaged
Family and the father is dying of the liver
Cirrhosis but he's adamant that he won't
Give up his love of the bottle and he has fled
From the hospital to drink himself to death
It has brought shame and untold suffering
To this family but the mother is an alcoholic
Par excellence and she will drink until she
Can no longer stand and she urinates on herself
She is gang raped by the drunkards the baby in
Her arms is in danger of suffocating in the
Vomit of the soused mother from hell
It runs in the family!
The daughter is an exhibitonist who likes
To expose what her grand mama gave her in public
The girl is a public nuisance and she has grabbed
The headlines of the rumor mill for a glass of beer
It runs in the family!
And the son has been hauled off to
The mental institution and this soused drunk family
Do you think they care?
Do you run a rehabilitation program that will
Save the alcoholics them from themselves?
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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This must not be loved
The Kite....
once I peep inside
and deep shadow day
and we must
keep it like cold drink
never love it
but she hate it katee
I feel a dancing mood of you
and night
I walk out of her shadow
and want to keep you free
you steal my heart katee
and I guess it to read
and I wish to write my poem here
you drink this night and we are free...
this must not be of lov
I steal your drink and peep your door
You guess it to write.......
''What does it mean what does it mean''
Your wallet not holds my photo again
How come each place I not go
and seems to have much better if we are free
We light candles stay up late
wish to kiss and hug...
and I write this for you dear
poem by Thampi KEE
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Dad and Me
Inside our house you'll find crannies and nooks.
Crevices and cracks and fissures and books!
Books under the bed and on the floor,
Books around the table and beside the door,
Books on the bookshelf and surrounding it,
Books all over the house, every single bit!
Not a one of these books are non-fiction,
Different worlds are their depiction.
Fictional, sci-fi, dark and fantasy,
Horror and happy, more books for me!
Books belonging to my father,
Or belonging to me as I rather.
My father and I in bookworm heaven,
Until mum cleans up around half past seven.
She throws the books in a huff,
Says it's a mess and to clean it up!
Well dad and I try to clean,
But on the work we quickly wean
And in one of the larger nooks
You'll find dad and me reading our books.
poem by Lenore Lee
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The Odd Person Out
You don't take narcotics or you don't smoke tobacco
And you don't drink spirits, wine or stout
And you are what is known as a cleanskin
But at times you feel the odd one out.
You don't party till late at the weekend
At home you do prefer to stay
Still you are an honourable person
Despite of you what others say.
Some others dismiss you as boring
Because you do not partake in their fun
Your great joy in life is in Nature
A walk by the lake in the sun.
You don't play sports or go to watch football
You go to the art gallery instead
And you write poems and plays and draw pictures
And hundreds of books about Nature you've read.
To most others you are very different
You don't drink alcohol, take drugs or watch football
But 'tis our different interests that make us interesting
And no two are exactly the same after all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Lost Horizons
The last horizons I can see are filled with bars and factories
And in them all we fight to stay awake...
Drink enough of anything to make this world look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves
She had nothing left to say so she said she loved me
I stood there grateful for the lie...
Drink enough of anything to make this girl look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves
Turn summer trees to bones and ice
Turn insect songs against the night
With words we build and words we break
Im drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves...
Drink enough of anything to make myself look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves
song performed by by Gin Blossoms
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Lovely Poem For You
once I peep inside
on a deep shadow night
and we must
keep it like a cock drink
and we never love it
but once you hate it katee
I feel you a dancing mood
and that night
I walk out of her shadow light
and want to keep you be free
you may steal my heart katee
and I guess it to read and your sweet look
and I wish to write my poem again here
you drink this night and we share it... free...
this must not be of our lov
I steal your drink and peep your door
You may guess it to write.......
''What does it mean what does it mean''
you shiver at night
Your wallet not holds my slim photo?
You not come each place I may not go
and seems to have much better if we are share again
We light one candles and like to stay up night
and wish to kiss
and I write this for you dear
poem by Thampi KEE
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Locked
Children tattooed, pierced and studded, dreadlocked;
parents panicked, indecisive, deadlocked.
Mother to daughter: live as you must, if you must;
for just a bit longer, keep the door to your bed locked.
Son to father: teach me what you know,
but I won't agree to keep the door to my head locked.
Mother to father: where have you been, and where
have you kept your thoughts and all you might have said locked?
They'd come so far, and then she saw, in him,
the door to their life, their home, their daily bread locked.
One night in a fiery panic dream he ran
and found the door toward which he'd wildly fled locked.
Aging, but at long last ripe and ready,
she found the on-ramp to the road ahead locked.
They learned too late the cost of keeping that cellar
full of truths that could not be gainsaid locked.
The young return. Too many find the way back
to lives in the country for which they fought and bled locked.
Eric, old friend, as you try each door in the mind,
will you wake one day to find the heart instead locked?
poem by Eric Torgersen
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I've always loved words. I ate up all the books I could get my hands on, and when I couldn't get books, I read candy wrappers and labels on cereal and toothpaste boxes.
quote by Judy Holliday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Children will not pretend to be enjoying books, and they will not read books because they have been told that these books are good. They are looking for delight.
quote by Helen Dunmore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shes Got Rhythm
Last night I went out disco dancing
Saw a foxy girl out on the floor
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need
She came to my table, we both ordered something to drink (something to drink)
Before you know it, what do you think
The music started playin
Oo the music got us so excited
And we had to get up on our feet
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need
The place was near closing, I offered to take her home (take her home)
But she was with someone and left me alone
But I still remember
Oo I know I never will forget her
And I hope I get to see her again.
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need (never will forget her)
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need (never will forget her)
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need (never will forget her)
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need (never will forget her)
Shes got rhythm, shes got something I need (never will forget her)
Hey hey
Hey hey
Hey hey
Never will forget her
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Man
An aged man came into the bar from out of the cold,
he was wearing a monk’s habit as in the days of old.
‘Like death warmed up’ my mother used to say,
as he sat by the open fire on this winters day.
He never spoke, ordered a drink, or even showed his face,
he hardly moved at all and everyone gave him space.
The barman said, “You can’t sit there without buying a drink, ”
a stare of stone was the response, “okay, I’ll give you time to think.”
The place went deathly quiet as whispers could only be heard,
“Where did this monk person come from, doesn’t he look absurd? ”
The whispering stopped as the man turned and looked directly at me,
he pointed with his long skeletal finger and croaked, “You will be he.”
I gulped, and nervously asked, “What are you talking about? ”
“You’ll be leaving here with me, so let’s make our way out.”
“I’m not going anywhere, ” I said, “until I’ve finished my beer.”
“That’s fine by me, ” he said, “I’ll be waiting here.”
To humour the old man I asked where he thought we were going.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, and by the way I’ll be doing the rowing? ”
“I’m sorry old man I’m not going anywhere, it’s much too cold outside.”
“You haven’t got it yet have you; we’re taking your last boat-ride? ”
“There are no boat-rides until spring the river’s been frozen for a week, ”
said the barman with a grin on his face that went from cheek to cheek.
“It’s not a literal boat-ride you fool it’s a journey everyone must take
and my job is to escort the travellers across the lake.”
“What is this old man on about, there are no lake’s around here,
come on everybody sup up, it’s time for another beer.”
“You are getting on my nerves barman give your mouth a rest,
or I’ll take someone with a mouth the size of his chest.”
The barman looked quite unsettled and threatened to throw him out
unless he ordered a drink, but he refused and called him a lout.
“That’s it, ” the barman said, “I’ve heard enough let’s have you outside.”
“That’s good enough for me, ” said the old man, “you’ll be taking the ride.”
At that precise moment the barman collapsed clutching his heart,
an ambulance was called and within minutes they had made a start.
The paramedics tried in vain to revive him: alas they could do no more,
but see the barman’s spirit and the old man walk through the door.
poem by Orlando Belo
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With Kafka.
Kafka would have liked
the way you said that.
You kept his books on
the shelf next to those
of Burroughs and Joyce.
You like the painting on
the book’s paper cover.
Paperbacks are cheap
and soon worn out,
Thornton used to say.
He liked hard covered
books, first editions if
he could afford. He said
Kafka was too morbid
for you. You need a lighter
read, he said, something
that doesn’t mess with
your female head. You
take down the Kafka and
read again where you read
before, the whole drama
unfolding, the printed words
bringing a different world,
and ghostly by the window
with steady stare, Franz Kafka
in silence just sitting there.
poem by Terry Collett
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