Taverns
Amongst buoyant chortles
And charlatan tales
From sinewy gutters
Of jocund corruptions
The wafting jigger
And latticing clambers
Of fervent tongues brought
Nostalgia dissipated
From the clogged pores
Of the shriveling skin,
And melancholia was
As evasive as the wind
With the yearning dithering
In the echopractic reveling
Frosted eyes mounted the seams
Of barricading sierras
And you wouldn't hear
The riddance of the opened doors
In these taverns
You may rest your head
And haunt with
The phantom of the blunt
Susurrations of the floor
Clad with anguished blood
Purging the mausoleum gore
Residing in the bones
In these taverns
You may play the puppet
Stringed to your own
And play the criminal
In a sordid carnival
Botching to pilfer
The hooked gambler's
Clandestine pockets
Or somebody else's
Putrefaction
And be hailed
A hero
In these taverns
You will go astray
With the roars of
Singeing throats
And in the predicament
Impaled with grills
You shall be found
Moseying
With charred feet
And holding
A sedentary poem
Basking in the eyes
Of inebriation
In these taverns
There's a pot of gold
Swimming with the arrows
That struck the strings
Of fettered birds
And they are winnowed
By the fluent humming
Of false hopes
And sedative truths.
In these taverns
You may come
And you may go,
As everyone else will,
But you would leave
With the toll
Of a spiteful
Meandering.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Villion's Ballade Of Good Counsel, To His Friends Of Evil Life
Nay, be you pardoner or cheat,
Or cogger keen, or mumper shy,
You'll burn your fingers at the feat,
And howl like other folks that fry.
All evil folks that love a lie!
And where goes gain that greed amasses,
By wile, and trick, and thievery?
'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!
Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet,
With game, and shame, and jollity,
Go jigging through the field and street,
With MYST'RY and MORALITY;
Win gold at GLEEK,--and that will fly,
Where all you gain at PASSAGE passes, -
And that's? You know as well as I,
'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!
Nay, forth from all such filth retreat,
Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry,
Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat,
If you've no clerkly skill to ply;
You'll gain enough, with husbandry,
But--sow hempseed and such wild grasses,
And where goes all you take thereby? -
'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!
ENVOY.
Your clothes, your hose, your broidery,
Your linen that the snow surpasses,
Or ere they're worn, off, off they fly,
'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!
poem by Andrew Lang
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In church, in the taverns, and in coffins all men are equal.
Shakespeare was not meant for taverns, nor for tavern louts.
quote by Samuel G. Engel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Accountability
Cold nights outside the taverns in Wyoming
pickups and big semis lounge idling, letting their
haunches twitch now and then in gusts of powder snow,
their owners inside for hours, forgetting as well
as they can the miles, the circling plains, the still town
that connects to nothing but cold and space and a few
stray ribbons of pavement, icy guides to nothing
but bigger towns and other taverns that glitter and wait:
Denver, Cheyenne.
Hibernating in the library of the school on the hill
a few pieces by Thomas Aquinas or Saint Teresa
and the fragmentary explorations of people like Alfred
North Whitehead crouch and wait amid research folders
on energy and military recruitment posters glimpsed
by the hard stars. The school bus by the door, a yellow
mound, clangs open and shut as the wind finds a loose
door and worries it all night, letting the hollow
students count off and break up and blow away
over the frozen ground.
poem by William Stafford
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Bipolar Monday
It's ineptly Monday
And I had a swell night
Last Saturday
That adroitly stretched
Till the dawn of Sunday
With the jocund boys
Of the maladroit taverns
Though I've ruined
And maimed the effervescence
Of the last ticking hours
When I left the guffawing
For I can no longer
Hold my breathing
And the resilient wry
Wrinkled in a caterwaul
Of silence;
Bronchus' collapsing,
Ribs shrilling,
Eyes riddling
Honesty
And it felt worse
To drag a comrade
Into the dark sanguinary
Enigma of this warfare
When he had only
Claimed his deliverance
From his pathos
But it was the only
Light in this tunnel
And this light squirms
When I reveal my wounds
And he was, after all,
A comrade.
And it's only Monday
But the maelstrom of silence
And the latticing breaches
Sends obnoxious thoughts
To pace with me
In this sedentary road
And I shatter
Just to tell
Or to think of
What it is
It is the thing
Beneath the graves.
It is the thing beneath
All of our years
But it is
Here,
Malingering,
Crooning
In my ears
With the sound
Of knives lunging
In the flesh
Past the sternum,
Or the tacit gears
Of a smoldering whispering
To kiss my temples,
Or cars crashing
Into a body
Of lifeless
Tragedies.
poem by Norman Santos
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L'Envoi
We've finished up the filthy war;
We've won what we were fighting for . . .
(Or have we? I don't know).
But anyway I have my wish:
I'm back upon the old Boul' Mich',
And how my heart's aglow!
Though in my coat's an empty sleeve,
Ah! do not think I ever grieve
(The pension for it, I believe,
Will keep me on the go).
So I'll be free to write and write,
And give my soul to sheer delight,
Till joy is almost pain;
To stand aloof and watch the throng,
And worship youth and sing my song
Of faith and hope again;
To seek for beauty everywhere,
To make each day a living prayer
That life may not be vain.
To sing of things that comfort me,
The joy in mother-eyes, the glee
Of little ones at play;
The blessed gentleness of trees,
Of old men dreaming at their ease
Soft afternoons away;
Of violets and swallows' wings,
Of wondrous, ordinary things
In words of every day.
To rhyme of rich and rainy nights,
When like a legion leap the lights
And take the town with gold;
Of taverns quaint where poets dream,
Of cafes gaudily agleam,
And vice that's overbold;
Of crystal shimmer, silver sheen,
Of soft and soothing nicotine,
Of wine that's rich and old,
Of gutters, chimney-tops and stars,
Of apple-carts and motor-cars,
The sordid and sublime;
Of wealth and misery that meet
In every great and little street,
Of glory and of grime;
Of all the living tide that flows --
From princes down to puppet shows --
I'll make my humble rhyme.
So if you like the sort of thing
Of which I also like to sing,
Just give my stuff a look;
And if you don't, no harm is done --
In writing it I've had my fun;
Good luck to you and every one --
And so
Here ends my book.
poem by Robert William Service
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Piano Song
My piano is my endless song
Shes a warm and a wonderful friend
Of taverns and gershwin and a world
We woo till we end
Hey old gal may I ask you
Could no one love you more so much more than me
My piano is my endless song
Such a warm and a faithful melody
And oh all the tears we cried and weve dried just you and me
Hey old gal may I ask you
Does jesus love you more much much more than me.
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Town Types No. 22 - The Baker
Our baker, Mr Brackenby, toiler in the night,
Was a lean, tall, glum man whose face was very white;
A brooding man 'twas said of him, and mannerisms odd;
For a grunt of recognition and a rather surly nod
Were all he granted any who came strolling by his shop
In the cool of summer even, when a man might wish to stop
For a bit of neighbor's gossip. But our baker chose to mope
Like one who nursed grave illness or deep grief beyond all hope.
His chirping little 'missus' had the old town's sympathy;
For she loved to hold a customer and let her tongue run free
On stay bits of tittle-tattle; and we said, 'Poor thing,
With a dumb man for a husband, well, she has to have her fling.'
For silent Mr Brackenby, he never seemed to speak
To wife or child or anyone from week to dreary week.
There he sat upon his doorstop, and he stared and stared ahead
Like a being sore afflicted. But he baked good bread.
Yet once a year, on Show Day, some urge removed his gag,
And gloomy Mr Brackenby went out upon a 'jag.'
He visited the taverns from the morn till deepest night
Getting gradually garrulous and gradually 'tight.'
He laughed, he sang, he spent, to talked to any who would hear:
A merry man for just one day and night in all the year.
He sang of 'Champagne Charlie' and 'Where Did You Get That Hat?'
'Belle Mahone,' 'Tarpaulin Jacket,' and a score of songs like that.
Thro' the night he roared and revelled till the daylight broke the spell;
Then our baker, Mr Brackenby, crept back into his shell.
Stale the bread we got that morning; but, for twelve months after that,
In the loaves that came at dawning folk found nought to grumble at.
For he shunned the noisy taverns in the cool of summer eves,
And he squatted on his doorstep in the pose of one who grieves,
With his hand cupped in his white palm, he just stared and stared ahead
Like a man remorse had ravaged. But he baked good bread.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Meandering Lion
Latch the doors,
I want to meander
With flaming feet
Of an opulent lion
Inside my prattling veins
And in the currents
Of your thunders
If you can see them
In the condoles of the scars
And in the knot of my temples.
Let the arrows strike
With vengeance and repugnance
They do not have the heart
Of gilded susurrations,
They can nick my tawny suit
But never touch the soul
Basking in the prowls
Of a protracted and brazen
Glissando.
Stay, inside my forlorn forest
If you can endure the enigma
And if you can wrangle
With the lashing of
My violent yet pliant chains,
Not of lightning,
But of infinity
In the farcical veneer
Of the moon-kissed eaves
Dispensing all amiable jewelries
Into the sea
Of drudgery.
Hear me feign a tongue-tied roar
And rip myself with electric tongues,
Corrupt these eyes of a child
As I pretend to scamper the wiles
Of the labyrinthine riddles;
I am who I am,
A perplex cacophony,
And the dissonance of the desires
To be heard while whispering
A clandestine interpolation.
Leave and shun the scintillations
Of the lackluster stars
That would remind me
Of you and your lucidity
And wedging distraught,
And of being one amongst
These far-flung constellations.
If you cannot give me
A lion soul,
Stay away and permit me
To pretend that I am
A meandering lion.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux
The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.
There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of your little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.
We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.
It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.
Iniquity it is; but pass the can.
My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;
Our only portion is the estate of man:
We want the moon, but we shall get no more.
If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours
To-morrow it will hie on far behests;
The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours
Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts.
The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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The Value of Rubies
Virtuous woman
Valued beyond rubies
Till time and wear
and truth and tear
steals the light
Better for value are you
women of ill repute
in dimly lit
alleys and taverns
Who, when paid:
Tells you they love you
When you know they don't
Tells you to trust them
When you know you can't
Tells you this matters
When you know it doesn't
Though who tells you
they stay
by the hour
till time is up
and do
and you sit in bed
smoking
watching
her ass
as she leaves
Glowing ember
turning to ashes
flickers, fails
and finally
dies.
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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Unanticipated Legion
Once, on a hill where a rubber tree stood
A sea of clumped stars in the darkness brewed
Lanterns and chimes tinkered in the dark of clouds
And dumbfounded was the gloomy vow
Astray, a vagrant meander into the slope
Past the reluctant brambles, rummaging for hope
And into the hill where enthralling mirth flow
And the ebullient air hummed saliently low
He picked up his head, mused upon the castle
That rubber tree personified and he tousled
His hair, an ounce of ardor peeking through the coyness
His hands tracing the lines, ears listening through the dampness
And from the damp a saccharine voice spoke:
"Such black eyes—a mirror with fluent strokes"
And the orbits probed for the prying soul
Winding his knee and rubbing his sole
Reluctantly, he by retorted a trifle:
"Do you see this lion beneath your temple
If so, come down, past your vivid orbs and chimes
And give me reasons to own my time"
"Dear Lion, I am a Duck, thus I cannot go
And leave my enchanted swamp tangled in the boughs"
And the reticent boy lingered with a grin
Prowling and roaring in his body so lean
Soon, before he can reckon the sunset afloat
He had rooted himself in the undergrowth
And made a home in a mirthful trance
Relearning the varying tempo to prance
And when the comport had blended in his blood
The Duck dawned in a plummeting strut
Soused her dowry in the coruscations
And revealed a Swan for her redemption
The hibiscus possessing her seams
Blooms with the orchard of dreams
Her melodious lilt of swansong not
Tethered the boy in a gnarled knot
Such lovely soul galloping mellifluously
Dragging the Lion out of his maladies
For a night or two, lighting her lanterns
And escaping from the haunting taverns.
poem by Norman Santos
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Vagrants
Long time ago, we two set out,
My soul and I.
I know not why,
For all our way was dim with doubt.
I know not where
We two may fare:
Though still with every changing weather,
We wander, groping on together.
We do not love, we are not friends,
My soul and I.
He lives a lie;
Untruth lines every way he wends.
A scoffer he
Who jeers at me:
And so, my comrade and my brother,
We wander on and hate each other.
Ay, there be taverns and to spare,
Beside the road;
But some strange goad
Lets me not stop to taste their fare.
Knew I the goal
Toward which my soul
And I made way, hope made life fragrant:
But no. We wander, aimless, vagrant!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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From an Outpost
I've tramped South England up and down
Down Dorset way, down Devon way,
Through every little ancient town
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
I mind the old stone churches there,
The taverns round the market square,
The cobbled streets, the garden flowers,
The sundials telling peaceful hours
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
The Meadowlands are green and fair
Down Somerset and Sussex way,
The clover scent is in the air
Down Somerset and Sussex way.
I mind the deep-thatched homesteads there
The noble downlands, clean and bare.
The sheepfolds and the cattle byres,
The blue wood-smoke from shepherd's fires
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
Mayhap I shall not walk again
Down Dorset way, down Devon way,
Nor pick a posy in a lane
Down Somerset and Sussex way.
But though my bones, unshriven, rot
In some far distant alien spot,
what soul I have shall rest from care
To know that meadows still are fair
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
poem by Leslie Coulson
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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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To a migrating bird
Oh! migrating bird,
In this branch
Thy hours are limited.
Far from thy nesting place,
It is a sojourn
In search of springs and copse.
Across the plains,
And into the windy dales,
It is a long flight.
And here and there,
Where the streams meet and depart,
A few nights are spent.
And thee leave the taverns,
Thy acquaintances, sprawling meadows,
To meet thy destiny yonder hills.
Here, among the bush and alcove,
We gather a few feathers,
Casting a glance unto the trail of thy flight.
Here, within passing life and dream,
We gather a few pebbles to feel the lost horizons.
************************************ **************************
This is the sum and substance of our acquaintances too. In our office we get new acquaintances and they leave us one day on account of a transfer or we leave them on our retirement and so forth. Our life is a sojourn for that matter. We will be leaving our native haunts. We will be leaving our cities. We will be leaving our circle of friends. The story thus continues.......
poem by Ravi Panamanna
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Humble Lamb
a.m.
six o'clock
again and again
time comes back to me
definitely your buoyant dream
walks along crisis of identity of love
when you grasps those elegant emotion
I hope you can puts your illusion
into a distinctive magical box
which full of tenderness
and simply caresses
you may senses
at dusk
for a while two blind children are giggling on a pine corner
they can't turn around because their hearts are tied
with mischievous controversy and jigsaws
but when lunch time is coming
and no one is starving
suddenly
a fox's
scratching
running and jumping
never again finds doleful melodies
O leaves of June sunshine whose hands are
golden and full with sweet candies and birthday cakes
never leave us in these holocaust days and shipwrecked places
spirit's so
windy and icy
when midnight comes
no more taverns left to open
just a lonely-pale innocent lamb
which ever pursued darkened parade
who seems to go without precious jewelry
who will send love to a jealousy queen
by the way you may listen to voice
of elusive species in lush forests
and sprinkling vast ocean
May Best Wishes
to our souls
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Cold War Fifties Feb 17th,2010
i spent the Cold War fifties in Halifax, walking up and down,
On Gottington Street and Barrington Street looking all around,
In the Seagull Club and HMCS Stadacona and various ships,
Drinking beer in taverns where the waiters always wanted tips.
So I knew Halifax in the fifties like the palm of my hand,
Still sometimes locked in memories marching with Stadacona band,
Sometimes in Norfolk or Key West or Havana once or twice,
And those beautiful young Cuban girls taught us lots of vice.
Therefore we could compare Halifax with many other places,
Even many British and international naval bases,
The people of Halifax where not told about what we thought,
Nor were they bothered or in the least bit overwrought.
Feb 17th,2011
poem by James Bredin
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Holiday meals two
A woman in england is breeding mini pigs as pets
She might have some regrets.
My crabapples will have a mouth where to park
Pork so tender with meat white and dark.
Small indoor cookers will make such a come back
Mini chittilings will be just a new snack
Bagged al natural
Or bar-B-que flavored
Wont that be wild.
I like em hot
Some like em mild.
For a party of twenty
There will be plenty.
We will cook two or three
As directed.
The big bad wolf will be happy cause he has emphazima
Old Yeller could surley handle the rest.
Babe is at odds with no mini sheep to herd
So from him you will not even here one word.
Clinton upset cause not bred in Arkansas
But Hillary wants one real bad
To keep up with this latest pig fad.
Mini Razorback hogs
Will be the talk of the town.
We can train them like tunnel rats
To infiltrate Afganistans deep hidden caverns
For the pig is smarter than
Us drunkerds in most taverns.