Ode To The Best Medicine

Robert Louis Stevenson once said, Wine is bottled poetry, and John Keats said, "Give me books, French wine, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know."

To the masters, I would defer. It seems alcohol and poetry go hand in hand. As a tribute to the intoxicating power of poetry, dVerse (the poet’s pub) has asked us to write a poem about our favorite drink or one with a drinking connection, whether alcoholic or nonalcoholic, to live up to the pub's name and spread some cheer. "Drink to the goodness of words flowing," says our hostess. So, bottoms up!

Olive Aficionado

I’ve been found out.

I knew I was in trouble

when he started counting

the beers in the refrigerator

and I started hiding the empties.

He roots through the garbage

like a pig after truffles.

He doesn’t know how lucky he is

I don’t drink martinis.

I only wanted the olives.

We once had a row at a family reunion—

the grand dame sipping

her martini all afternoon,

shading her complexion

and saving the olives

plump and replete.

Me, on the fringe of conversation

waiting for the distraction,

the sly sleight of hand.

Anticipation is everything.

Martinis aren't my favorite, but they were my dad's. "Gin," he said, "is the world's best painkiller."

 I will end with a Bukowski quote the Pub served up because it made me laugh, and I think that's the next best thing.

"That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen."

Happy Thanksgiving!

Graveyard Hierarchy

  

My son asked how much a tombstone costs.

Depends if you want an angel

 to watch over you.

We trace ancestry through the graveyard

and calculate dates—how common it was to bury babies.

 

Some lucky souls merit saintly companions

who guard their tombs with outstretched arms.

Or even a wrought iron fence to ward off vagrants.

But look how the monied died just as young.

 

At the rear of the yard are the stones we can’t read,

their shallow etchings mildewed and faded.

Bare of epitaph, they lean against each other.

Even their stones are tired.

 

Then there are the markers that only bear a number,

Like the tattooed at Auschwitz,

like the burial ground at the asylum.

One straggler is off alone and we wonder

if he wanted it so.

The rounded stone juts white from Earth like a tooth.

And what of those who couldn’t even get inside the fence—

separated from the gilded, even here.

 

Inspired by  the poem someone read about a cemetery during, Open Link Live at dVerse  I decided to post this one.  I wasn't prepared to read, or to put my messy self on camera and I was late to join but loved listening and putting faces to names.  This is an inspiring, fun, and diverse group. 

Election Day Eve

The phantoms of disorder

dance across screens

but from whence they were conjured

no one can say.

On election day eve with naysayer cries

they'll don placards like

cheerleaders outside

a car wash brigade.

They walk along byways

like bad actors

on the dole,

whisper and hiss

intrigue and lies.

The republic is under siege

with three days to go

by jackals that feast

on the leavings of fear

while the acolytes of the lie

with their camo and guns—

        as fungus grows best

        out of the sun—

repeat what has spewed

from the maw of the king.

For Shay's Word Garden List Poem.  The challenge to compose a poem using words she has taken from the lyrics of Jim Morrison and his poetry collection "The Lord & The New Creatures". I'm a huge fan of The Doors and everything Morrison so this one I could not pass up. If you are likewise a fan of the Lizard King check her link. Also, linking up the Poets and Storytellers and the power of three. And won't we all be glad when this election season is behind us and we can relax with a cold one, or hot, as the case may be. Cheers!