Bar Poems

When age comes between You and your Prospects Choose Prospects Forget your age Which may be on the high side So many elders have done a lot Written a lot Gone to many places When such being the fact Why

Beyond the gaze there is a time zone of rumored agitation when you cannot sleep. You open your eyes quietly to complain. The caretaker has prepared the shroud, . Smoke is rising on the hills. Nobody walks with you, it

The blind man covered in tattoos is being escorted across the street by a barmaid drunk on fumes her shoes leaving sticky impressions every step she takes and talks the things she’s seen all evening – fights that almost took

Roaring engines blow sand from the shoulder of a broken mirror, They scream into the night. Candy coats capture passing glances, The shine dances with a golden streetlight, Casting gilded dust over newly discovered worlds, Toledo and Boston, Chicago and

There are indigenous children in every basket surly shopping at 10:00 PM as if single parents have taken refuge from the pounding rain among the long aisles of cheap goods, undifferentiated blue-white light. They want to go home there’s not

She descends from en-suite and the balcony-shops, sways down the stairway, leather-mini concealing, sometimes revealing, lace stocking-tops; carries her bruises where nobody sees. In the hub of the foyer the faces are probing, sharp as the glare of the night-patrol’s

I had a chance meeting with a quiet fellow No, we did not meet Didn’t even share a breath Unsure if it was male, female or hermaphrodite Still it was unlooked for Rising in a predawn hour, ready for the

We’ll settle by the bar and watch the women dance, then split a likely pair when we think we stand a chance. I’ve one eye on the bridesmaid with the skirt that’s riding high, showing off the daisy, tattooed upon

They were burned alive. Most cherished to me, betraying the functionality of a system, interstitial asphyxiation took place. In the garb of a garlanded saint a gun booms. The death is rolled from tongue to tongue, flying limbs get strung

You want the girl that wears pretty flowing dresses and floral Vans. Not the girl who wears mismatched brightly coloured trainers With odd socks and jumpers that would be more suited a boy on the Nickelodeon channel in 1996. You

The sighs of loneliness Did you hear not A life without wine and women Is bored Iaid the bar keeper with A sly grin, A star winked at my window Seeing my emptiness I sighed for the nostalgia I wonder

I know where I’m going, Though I’m in no rush to get there. I have time to myself, And I will let my journey take me, To where my fate decides. I see some flashing lights across the road Which

The elevator smells like a woman I knew for a day back when I wasn’t such a behemoth could resist the mouth-temptations of savor and texture it was a bar and I was under-age but no one spotted the guilty

I am no better then anyone else, but I do know I love myself, but I did not always love me, I had to remove some things for me to see, I grew up in the slums of south Philly,

Why you so tough You make my fingers so rough The more I try to move ahead Oh my! One or two will be dead And however hard I may try You will make sure you make me cry One

Drinking frizzy drop of the sentimental smoke Absorbing rhythmic murmur of the dancing peacock Gradually and completely, I felt him in my beats Following that voice among thousands of tweets The shimmering, scarlet, feminine blood Rapidly flowing over the marble

Not necessarily a palatial edifice- it may not be a fifty or a hundred room structure, it may not come in a multiple layers of concrete steel columns or colonnades. It may not be architecturally beautiful like those in sub-urban

Her presence was like being breathless; skydiving over a foreign land you’d only seen in photos but admired, longing to visit in the cool unfamiliar majesty of a new landscape. She looked at me, and before anyone else could move,

I I don’t even know what to call The feeling in my torso, So tart and curdle. Meager me! As I keep on recalling your words “It was a mistake,” you said. But the brutal fact is, I grasped it

Love is neither optional, nor happens by choice. It just happens, you either accept or deny, Love can be at first sight or start at a goodbye plight, Feelings arise, touching the skies, A choice to act on them or

Can you hear? Can you hear his footsteps? On the highway to light, From the alley of darkness? The sky is waving her hands, The ground is raising her sands, In the stormy wind of his entrance, As it’s one,

Why do you play this trick on us each year oh mother nature dear, The vice like grip of winter chill is worse upon the ear, But first it grabs you round the sides thrust your body up, It needs

Walking on the streets near-by, saw a small pussy, Mewling, as abandoned, alone and aloof, so sad, Thirsty and hunger, I felt the need of serving and saving And took it home, to be blamed by my wife, as we

You bring fear in the eyes, You dont differentiate between truth and lies, Neither you look out for good and bad, You just make everyone sad. You come like a thunder in the sky, When there are no birds which

Images have a voice of their own. They speak in languages every mind can relate to. Images, when combined with thoughts can reach way deeper into one’s being. Images are important. They give a colorful meaning to words. So next

Well I’m a heading back to NEW ORLEANS Tonight, gotta get out of this one horse town And back to Bourbon street where the night Life is hot to trot in the big city lights and the Music keeps you

It’s here, and then it’s not. That untimely moment that we fear our minds have just ‘forgot’ who we are, and why we’re here. Why did we never reach that bar? We’re no longer our own puppateer. In the past

Im in a bar, not just any bar, a magical place that takes me any place. A couple of stellas and I’m starting to think wouldn’t it be great to go to Australia and actually not think. The banter,the bollocks

Never Do Enough You will never do enough for some people in this world cause there being blinded by sin, self & Satan just be the best that you could be you take out the garbage & fold the clothes

Every morning the moon will have regurgitated another piece of my sanity you’re thinking this will be another werewolf poem American raving lunatic pouncing upon unsuspecting prey when shadows are in highest contrast gutting and gorging on the men sniffing

How sweet is the salt of the earth, Oh Skies! The world is a lie but I love its lies, Canals of honey may be tasty and nice, How can I pay its too high price! Water of canals that

I used to be a belligerent drunk I drank each day that I woke. I would spend all my cash on a five minute dash And a packet of Marlboro to smoke. My friends said I’d die alcoholic I laughed

You are supernova star dust, remnants of a sun turned inside out; born anew. Elemental matter from swirling nebulae, drawn together by gravity to form a rocky mass, at exactly the right distance from another star, itself formed in precise

Many write, few inspire! Presenting top rated poems hand-picked by our Editorial Board that are a must read and indicative of the standards that we seek in the poetry being submitted to our site. These poems surpass the basics of

I am consumed with leaving one foot in the door and a portion of my brain the size of a doubled walnut begins to perform calculations how long a stay means eagerness how long obligation how long politeness how long

I live an ordinary life, In an ordinary home Built from ordinary bricks Made from ordinary stone. Each ordinary day I wake, Go down the ordinary stairs, Take a deep long breath and smell The ordinary air. At my ordinary

I read, I play, I live, I laugh, I smile I curse, I bless, then I feel something, and I stop and start thinking for a while, that whatever is going on, in me, or on the outside, is it

Photo by Ungry Young Man I read, I play, I live, I laugh, I smile I curse, I bless, then I feel something, and I stop and start thinking for a while, that whatever is going on, in me, or

(1) Over those houses, melts a cloud. Liquid lead leaks from the ceiling of our ancient skies. Foggy damns still come out of the land’s bottom, since a sword had ripped off Earth, which had been then bandaged by an

A sailor’s story lingers long while others disappear; its locale point is Cuban soil when freedom was still here. My tall young frame was all decked out with new tight tailored whites, with thirteen shiny buttons new, that much improved

(1) In old time, Before the sun stopped circling around us; Before it started to work as a painter of our shadows and the shadow of time over place; Before it adopted the hobby to boil sand inside a vessel

Bloodshot eyes in heads so wise, they queued outside the door The men whose work began right there, at Tommy’s on the moor. Hands thrust deep in pockets to betray the shaking bones Of weather-beaten fingers whence they laboured sand