February - Stephen A. Roberts

Dry January is rewarded 
with pancakes and Valentines; 
In leap years or other times. 
So should it be  
twenty-eight words or twenty-nine; 
In my February rhyme?

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Pixabay - RitaE

Drinking Song, On the Excellence of Burgundy Wine - Hilaire Belloc

My jolly fat host with your face all a-grin,
Come, open the door to us, let us come in.
A score of stout fellows who think it no sin
If they toast till they're hoarse, and drink till they spin,
Hoofed it amain
Rain or no rain,
To crack your old jokes, and your bottle to drain.

Such a warmth in the belly that nectar begets
As soon as his guts with its humour he wets,
The miser his gold, and the student his debts,
And the beggar his rags and his hunger forgets.
For there's never a wine
Like this tipple of thine
From the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine.

Outside you may hear the great gusts as they go
By Foy, by Duerne, and the hills of Lerraulx,
But the rain he may rain, and the wind he may blow,
If the Devil's above there's good liquor below.
So it abound,
Pass it around,
Burgundy's Burgundy all the year round.

Hilaire Belloc

Image : Pixabay - koreafreund

Dark Nectar - Tony Gardner

Through  soft  September's  early  morning  mists
I  sally  forth  in  sturdy  thorn-proof  clothes
To  face  the  prickly  blackthorn  which  resists
My quest  to  reap  her  lovely  blue-black  sloes.
Soon  I'm  homeward bound  with  hard  won  prize
The  sun  breaks  through,  a  bird  sings  merrily.
But  now  it's  time  for  work  and  methods  wise
To  tell  and  mix  the  ancient  recipe;
 
       "Pick  and  prick  the  purple  berries,
       add  the  sugar  and  the  gin.
       Then  the  almonds,  not  too  many,
       seal  it,  let  all  soak  in."
 
For  months  it's left  until  at  Christmas time 
With  carols  sung  and  turkey  eaten,  then
Before  the  fire,  our  glasses  we  all  prime
With  dark  old  nectar  sweet,  -  our  own  Sloe  Gin.

Tony Gardner

Image : Pixabay - LaMaLaMa55

Sanctuary - Diane Scantlebury

In the dreary shadows
Of the snug they lurk,
Haunting the establishment
Without their wives,
The lonely, disillusioned, disconnected,
Dissatisfied with their daily lives,
Happier in the company of like-minded others
They grumble as they drown their sorrow,
Darker their mood slips
With every sip, every swallow,
As deeper into the mud
Of their misery they wallow,
And contrary to the myth
Where home’s their comfort and hub,
They find blissful sanctuary
In a pint down the pub.

Diane Scantlebury

Image : Guernseypoets

In Vino Veritas - Donald Keyman

Did your grape expectations wither on the vine?
Were you undercut by supermarkets every single time?
Or have people changed their ways - only drinking kombucha tea
I don’t know what it is either but it sounds good to me...

Was it the lack of parking, or business acumen
Perhaps you did not cater for the beer drinking men?
Did you stock Prosecco, the flavour of the month
Or just shelves of Côtes du Rhône and dusty Crème de menthe?

Donald Keyman

Gamblin' Man - Ian Duquemin

My father was a gamblin' man
A loser all his life
He sacrificed his children
Made a wreckage of his wife
Many men would make a stand
Accuse him of a cheat
But he was more dishonest
And a master of deceit
He'd gather up the money
It was time for him to leave
Concealed were the aces
He had hidden up his sleeve

My daddy was a drinkin' man
The money served him well
Every night intoxicated
Always raising hell
He drank his pockets empty
Not a penny to his name
And come this time tomorrow
It'll be the same again
He'll drink away the evening
On the money that he wins
Thinking that the alcohol
Will drown away his sins

My father didn't go to church
He'd never sung a hymn
He often said that Jesus Christ
Had turned his back on him
And when he saw his shadow
That was crawling on the ground
He swore it was the devil
Who was always hanging round
And so he'd throw another dice
To fill an empty purse
The money spent, another bar
To make him feel worse

My daddy was a gamblin' man
A drinker all his life
He let his children suffer
Made a widow of his wife
And when he died, a funeral
Of course the devil came
To stand beside the headstone
Cast a shadow on his name
But that was many years ago
And this story's at an end
So I'll play another poker hand
And drink to you my friend

Ian Duquemin

Empty Cans - Diane Scantlebury

So that’s why I’m on the beer this morning,
Last night I had nowhere to sleep,
Rough and ragged on a hard park bench,
The stars and the cold are the usual company I keep,

So that’s why it’s beer and oblivion for breakfast
As a salve for my lost soul’s pain,
In an existence where there’s little hope or dignity,
Only crushed, empty cans on the ground remain.

Diane Scantlebury

Ding-ding, "all aboard the 42" - Tony Bradley

I came out the pub, a little worse for wear
I left the car there, being mindful of the law
I took a bus, which turned out to be fun
‘cos I’d never driven a bus before.

I thought I’d better avoid main roads,
so I went cross-country, sort of, not many stops
but, arriving home, despite my caution
TV cameras, armoured vehicles, and twenty cops.

Tony Bradley

Thirsty Work - Joan Etoile

It's thirsty work this poetry
and I forgot to ask
if it was ok to take a nip
from my trusty old hip-flask

I couldn't wait for the interval
I was parched, dry as a bone
Dylan Thomas lives in me
and makes me drink alone

I'm sorry that I caused a fuss
and my drinking was not condoned
I see it was poems that they meant
when they said bring your own

Joan Etoile

In Praise Of Coloured Bottles - Tony Bradley

Nobody else I know, just loves the empties
I just want the bottles, not the booze
the beautiful shapes, the curves, reflections
the greens, the ambers, the vermillions, the blues.

Washed well, buffed up, then placed in my windows
of course, their positioning is a pleasant task
and apart from the colours, there's so many shapes
there's the slender, the tall, the squat, the flask.

I rescue them from the skips, all my coloured bottles
and sometimes, if I'm not at my smartest
an on-looker might think I'm on the piss
“It's conceptual, darling, I'm not that sort of artist.”

Tony Bradley

Drowning - Trudie Shannon

He is drowning.
Little by little.
Hour by hour.
Day by day.
He begs no witnesses
Only the reflection
Of the man he once knew
To recognise him occasionally
From the surface of every other bottle.
He has cast himself out, is adrift
On a shattered amber sea, whiskey dreaming.
Outside it rains
And the river runs wild with white horses
And the dog pleads for exercise
And the cat chases windblown leaves
And half bottled, he sleeps
Slipping sideways, an indoor down and out
Fearful of living, angry at life.
Comatose in his leather armchair.
He is drowning.
Little by little.
Hour by hour.
Day by day.
Beside the garden gate
His woman bids farewell to silence, to loneliness.
Inside, he waits, little knowing
That Death will not succumb to bribery.

Trudie Shannon

Two Things That Should Never Mix - Kathy Figueroa

He wasn’t supposed to be born that way
But it wasn’t something he could choose
You see, his mother was a party girl
And really liked the booze

So he was awash with alcohol though,
As an embryo, shouldn’t have been drinking
Now he’s got problems and owes it all
To the fact his mother wasn’t thinking

“Fetal Alcohol Syndrome” or “FAS”
Is how the condition is commonly defined
It not only affects folks physically
It also affects the mind

Poor concentration, focus that flops
Around like a flag in the wind -
Pregnant women simply shouldn’t imbibe
Or else against the unborn they’ve sinned…

…By taking away their capacity
To have lives that are happy and productive
And ensuring a host of problems that are
Socially alienating and destructive

FAS means there’s no ability to understand
That there are consequences to actions
It also often means trouble with the law
Because of negative attractions

Being naïve and malleable, never
The master of their own mind
Their only hope is for an environment
That’s protective, structured, and kind

Some brutally hard facts,
Ones which no one likes to say,
Are that the condition is preventable
…And won’t ever go away

Alcohol and pregnancy are
Two things that should never mix
Lest there be problems that doctors
And prayers simply can’t ever fix.

Kathy Figueroa

Red, White and Blue - Diane Scantlebury

Outside the Britannia pub
Red faced, blue nosed he stands,
A smouldering cigarette dangling
From the scarred white fingers of his hand,
Ash spatters his scuffed shoes
While he reflects unseeing on a life,
Frittered recklessly away on beer,
Battered and abandoned like his wife,

With toothless mouth, he curses,
Foul and reeking of booze,
Slowly drawing on the stub
He’s nothing left and nothing more to lose,
Outside the Britannia pub
Red faced, blue nosed he stands,
Unsteady on white legs that once would swagger,
Now he can only grab the door frame
And back into its darkness stagger.

Diane Scantlebury

Random Guy - Stephen A. Roberts

In the pub I was approached, by some random guy
He smiled and said: "I would like to punch you, right in the eye"
I said "Hold on, I don't know you, what's the reason why?"
He said "it's nothing personal, you're just some random guy"

I waited for the moment when fists would start to fly
But persisted in my efforts to calm this angry guy
I said "Have you no friends, a shoulder on which to cry?"
He said "every mate abandoned me, I do not know for why..."

So we teamed up, became firm friends, I cannot think of why
Drinking buddies, thick as thieves, with a love of whisky 'n dry
We ran as fast as hunting dogs, under every kind of sky
Then we'd go to bars and pick a fight; with some other random guy

Stephen A. Roberts

Dry January - Diane Scantlebury

Missing the booze,
Eating out, without a doubt
Not quite the same,
Missing the booze,
The vision blurred,
Sentences slurred,
Reality’s too plain,

Missing the wine,
The aroma, the grapey taste
Flavours so sublime,
Missing the fizz,
The Prosecco hiss,
The tingle on tongue,
When the night’s still young,

Missing the Friday crawl,
Ritual drowning of sorrows,
Blinding headaches tomorrow,
The parched throat,
The red eye,
Life’s too bleak
When January’s dry.

Diane Scantlebury

Listening to "It's 5 o'clock somewhere" - Tony Gardner

I don't usually wear a watch
'Cos Time is time all over
All that matters is the thirst
When the thirst takes over

Half past five or half past ten
Half past twelve whatever
When the craving comes around
Then the thirst takes over

There's no stopping pouring it
It flows like the Wild Rover
And sinks so easy down the throat
When the thirst takes over

Nought nor nothing mean a jot
When I smell the odour
I'm a lost soul, doomed and damned
When the thirst takes over

Tony Gardner

Acrostic Sonnet: The Opening of a New Real Ale Pub - Andrew Barham

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in July 2012

Take us down to a grand and ancient pub
Hidden away on a lost avenue
Every soul consigned to Beelzebub
Bartered away for a drink grand and true
Each quaffer on his foaming pint intent
Sups mightily at perfectly hopped brew
These lads know from whence springs their deep content
Revealed only to the lord’s chosen few.
Eager drinkers of the world’s finest beer,
Alone or with friends, hie they hither here;
“Let’s drink up!” the lord of the land bellows!
All things end for the best of fellows!
Last orders all round while the night is young;
Egad! It’s all over! Last bell’s been rung!

Andrew Barham

The Fallen - Richard Fleming

He does not lie in foreign fields.

No unmarked grave or simple cross,
in distant lands, conceals his bones.

Life is this soldier’s albatross.

Drink’s a temptation and he yields:
booze brings oblivion.

The stones
fly up to meet him.

It’s absurd
that he should brave a war yet fall,
unmourned, in some civilian street,
dead to the world,
dead drunk,
awol.

He lies in vomit, vision blurred,
used, decommissioned, obsolete.

Richard Fleming

Jagged Glass - Diane Scantlebury

Fragrant creatures wafting past
Busy bar with harassed staff,
Eyes glazed and bald pates shining
Downing pints and shots
Unsteady drunks whining,
At thrills from an oversized widescreen
The footy fans sigh and roar,
Inebriated a punter staggers
His drink tumbles,
Spills onto the sticky floor,
With a shoulder shrug and unseeing eyes
He lurches, uncaring through the open door,
Jagged glass shards,
Now the only remnants of lost dregs
And wasted lives of those, who like him,
Have slipped and gone before.

Diane Scantlebury

Barfly - John E Blaise

Change the world whilst sitting on a stool,
Authority on life, but everybody’s fool
Sitting in the same spot every day,
Always an opinion, something to say.

Listened to, smiled at, abused or ignored,
Most too polite to say they are bored
By the barfly the authority on life
Bet he has a long suffering wife.

Ultra confident on home ground
Talking loudly to everyone around
Over and over again in case something is missed,
Trouble is he’s always pissed.

John E Blaise