Sleeping

Sleeping in the gentle summer rain along the road
into the place where I park my car
sleeping as I unlock the door and reach for the light
sleeping into the chair by the table
lighting a cigarette in the opening of the last beer of the day
an intermission between the light and the night

Poetry: Fueled by Alcohol

The White Horse Tavern where Dylan Thomas famously drank himself to death.

The Bar None Group has been on a literary bender this week highlighting poems with an underlying theme of alcohol. This week there was: a one night stand; a song of bourbon; a toast to a brother; an alcoholiday in Ireland and; the determination of sobriety.

Over the years the Bar None Group has served up some poems with a twist of alcohol. Here are some poems and poets featured within our pages. We serve them up Old Fashioned (classic) and Cosmopolitan (modern).

Me and My Bottle

Touched him
He was cold
Looked at him
He was old

One evening, not too long ago
Before all these happenings
We kissed — under mistletoe
Had felt his heart faster beating

Another Way to Get through the Day

Smoke another cigarette out on the patio
The day is breaking and I keep taking the drugs
That make my heart pound
I need another cigarette poking through the ashtray
Hoping to find another way to get through the day

Drinking up the dregs of all the beer bottles
From last night's party 'cause I don't wanna go down
To the hook-up for another hook-up
I got another hook-up I just need to cook up
Another way to get through the day

A Poem and a Toast to a Famous Dark Beer

What's more Irish than Guinness?

Today is Arthur's Day in Ireland. Celebrated on the last Thursday of September to honor the founder of the Guinness brewery, Arthur Guinness Day has come under fire as a manufactured alcoholiday. But how different is Arthur's Day from Alexander Keith Day in Canada or Cinco de Mayo in the US? (I've been in Mexico on many a May 5 with nary a celebration.)

But this isn't a forum for debate, this is a poem and a toast to a famous dark beer.

Patron Shots With My Brother

 Tools of the Tequila trade: El jimador and his coa de jima.

Patron shots,
with you,
brother.
Our road smooth and rough
our journey sweet and sour
when did we get so old ?

The Ballad of Whiskey Straight

Let dreamers whine
Of the pleasures of wine
For lovers of soft delight
But this is the song
Of a tipple that’s strong
For men who must toil and fight.

Now the drink of luck
For the man full of pluck
Is easy to nominate
It’s the good old whiskey of old Kentuck
And you always drink it straight..."

I Wish I Knew

Where did you come from, who are you?
Where do you live, what do you do?
Did we share a bottle, did we share a drink?
Did we discuss what each of us think?
But you're lying next to me all the same,
I just wish I could remember your name.

We Aren't What We Are

Doggerel and nonsense drawn from a New York lamp post.

What shall we be, When we aren't what we are?
Shall we pretend that we aren't what we are
People need to stop telling us that we aren't important or we aren't what we are
When we are what we aren't; when we aren't what we are
We aren't what we are; we're what we do.

We aren't what we are perceived to be
Culture struggles to make us think that we aren't what we are
In fact, we aren't what we are; saying we are doesn't make sense
But we aren't what we are; indeed seeing that is just the opposite
No, we aren't what we are, afraid of the consequences
Relax. We aren't what we are.

First Lines Second Thoughts — The Sot-Weed Factor

Rodin's Thinker at Columbia University.

First Lines Second Thoughts is a look at the first lines of well known literary works.
On second thought, do these opening words stand alone as poetry? With a new school year well underway we look at John Barth's The Sot-Weed Factor. Published in 1960.

Occupy the Poetry

Occupy Wall Street placard. September 2011.

On September 17, 2011 a group of people got together in the heart of the world's financial district. New York City's Zuccotti Park. A movement was born — Occupy Wall Street. Looking back through the lens of history what was the legacy of Occupy Wall Street? To some it gave a generation a voice, to others it was a waste of time. The legacy of Occupy Wall Street is probably best expressed through poetry. It is the poetry of Occupy Wall Street that encapsulates that moment, that fervor and the passion of poets living and dead.

Water, Wings and Alliterated Wishes

¡El 16 de Septiembre!

In the town’s center lives an artist
painting silhouettes. “Everything
you do in life reflects in how you dance.”

Families and friends walk past a fountain,
the sun sauntering their backs through
sporadic, silent shade; balloons and flags
lilt in the breeze

I Reiterate...

Feel like I’m slipping away, slipping back to where I've been before but left just to come back one day. Can you call it destiny every time you end up at a place you so desperately wish to leave? Left to wonder if you're meant to be a you that has no place in this life you were dealt, yes it's your mission to go further and accomplish more than you or your circumstance could ever envision, but when you have to come back to the beginning just to begin once again, is it really part of that said mission?

Lest We Remember

Reflection of New York City.

Today was a good day
A baby missing a mother smiled
Art was hoisted on a wall
Art was toasted by a wall

A long life lived had passed
News of an upcoming birth
Filled a distant heart

Cranky Old Man: The Poem as Urban Legend

There is a poem trending through social media that purports to be written by the titular character in Australia. This is the first instance that the Bar None Group has come across a poem as urban legend. Needless to say, there is no cranky old man from Down Under.

Hobo's Lullaby

Did hobos ride the rails along Walden Pond?

Go to sleep you weary hobo
Let the towns drift slowly by
Can't you hear the steel rails hummin'
That's the hobo's lullaby

The Dragonfly

Winged duty since dawn
The wait continues past noon,
years in insect lives.
Does he wish for a cigarette
to pass the time?

Does he imagine a sweet morsel
buzzing in the breeze?
Does he imagine a separate entity
seeking its own prey?
Or simply the necessity of hunger
for a single drop of blood,
a microgram of flesh and lace.