Sit and buy me a pale ale
while I regale you with
a tale written in braille
by a man stale in jail with
no avail to raise bail.
Curtail the detail ~ suffice it to say
how a frail male whale wailed when
again and again failed dislodging
a rusty nail impaled in its tail.
Not to derail but meanwhile
across the vale, a snail and quail
hightailed it but strayed off their trail ~
Once all were put up for sale,
t’was the female who tipped the scale.
It’s not much of a tale but
thanks for the ale, it was tasty.
Inhale ~ now let's enjoy an upscale cocktail.
Lineku: 3 stanzas of 5-7-5 lines ~ each line has 5 or 7 words
I met her at a biker bar
(C) 2025 by Russ Dodson
I met her at a biker bar
somewhere in midtown Monterrey.
She said she was a topless dancer,
working fifteen shifts a day.
She handed me a well-worn token,
said her name was Daisy Mae,
said if I learned to play the game right
I would never have to pay.
I placed the token on the table,
waited for the song to play.
When it started, she stood up;
I watched her body start to sway.
She headed for a dressing room,
looked back and said, "Don't go away."
She returned wearing a costume
meant to lead a man astray.
In pasties and a beaded g-string,
everything was on display.
Her eyes said, "This is all for you, love."
There was nothing more to say.
They called the "Buff Boy" to clear my table.
He winked, said I'm ready, willing, and able!
I was eating kumquats after a couple squats,
And ran screaming back home to my wife Mable!
The following week, I was doing some curls,
On the Thigh Master, was some pretty girls.
Their nostrils flaring, cuz they caught me staring,
I must have looked like a swine casting pearls.
After that, those long walks to the gym were over!
Get a new hobby, Mable said, ambition drove her.
Wasn't no conductor, so became an instructor,
Now, I own that damn gym, walking in tall clover!
I was not always this clever, this funny, this incredibly smart
But it is two a.m. somewhere, and I am hilarious; it is my art.
Weirdly, I was not in any way exciting before I got to this bar.
But now I am unbelievably witty, ask my buddy, his name is Gar.
Aren’t I witty, Gar? Aren’t I pretty? Aren’t I fabulously humorous tonight?
He thinks so, believe me, though he cannot sit upright.
I am getting younger every second, my face is clearing up too.
Hilarity is my middle name; now where is my stupid shoe?
But wait, honey, aren’t I funny? The bartender is closing down the bar.
Whiskey is improving my looks. Now where’s my stupid car?
A HONKY TONK WOMAN named ANGIE
heads out to our bar every night.
And those WILD HORSES with hombres
show up to get drunk or to fight.
Bar's sign, “RUBY TUESDAY” is red;
behind, though, they did PAINT IT BLACK.
Some sit down to start TUMBLIN DICE;
ROLLING STONES stop by for cognac.
Now, Angie and I hit it off;
Her sweet, gentle ways stole my heart.
YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT.
But kindness cements a good start.
Too soon, it got UNDER MY THUMB!
A huge fight began, as I said.
This bar gets its share of mean thugs!
I grabbed Angie's hand, and we fled!
Fireflies in my bourbon
(PART 4 OF 10)
The bar looks haunted today,
Jukebox playing requiems as long songs,
Cigarette smoke suffocating air in between inhalations,A man knows he needs air to fill his lungs.Yet here i am bending knee so you don't leave my lungs ,however I'm gasping for air as if I'm drowning in words such as you are my world.
Your name keep slipping out of my mouth as that last prayer of a man who lived recklessly without care, your eyes are Fireflies I vowed to follow in my darkest hour, however what do I do when the Firefly fell into a glass of bourbon .
Now I'm hankering a place for my staggering feet, for darkness is a firefly now
Every step a scotching flame to remind my soul what happens when a moth flies closer to the light.
Drunk man and Truth.
(PART 3 OF 10: WHISKEY BLUES)
The barman knows my demons and knows how to cage them,the bar is broad as spine of a mountain when mine is collapsing on carrying guilt.
Days pass as my whiskey burning my throat
I learnt that I was trying to burn your name off the lining of my throat so that drinking sorrows may be free of your name.
Sober thoughts are shadow boxing, I have been trying to mimic my shadow dancing, and you were the dim feature I see every time I down the whiskey.
You made a great exit while I was jamming to our favourite love song, your steps sounded like a distant storm, Thunderous but leaving.
I'm still searching for the truth on your footprints on wet sand.
100 Whiskey Shots.
(Part 2 of 10)
You warned me not to visit bars at night,
Now what must I.do after our bad fight?
The street lights are a flicker of your smile
Not as bright ,yet so subtle to moments to come.
There is a pattern of sincerity in your calm,
Yet now we are headed in different dirences by a mile.
The barman know my poison
And what numbs my pain,
First 10 shots to numb my tongue to silence.
The next 90 shots to create a pattern of things I never said that night.
The last ten shots to pour over a wound
I will scream and cry but it gets better.
By: Tshediso SEROKI
Blues and Memories fleeting.
(part 1 of 10)
I wrote suicide note on sweating whiskey glass,
Pain pleading on moments pass.
Pet names on cords of base guitar
Piano naming memories for each black and white bars,
I started seeing those memories enveloped in scars.
Fleeting but leaving behind Traces of you dancing to a dying flame of a stranger.
Whiskey tastes like your silence when I poured all the contents of my soul,
I know it hurts to l9ve a heart that loves another.
Memories made in vain are unforgettable pain.
By: Tshediso SEROKI
A bar singer asked for a request
But all he got was "give it a rest"
He said "I know that song"
"Please all do sing along"
In that moment he felt truly blessed.
He started to sing and he got jeered
His eyes then filled up in floods of tears
So he ran out the door
Was not seen any more
Till he returned much older by years.
Customers in the bar sat and stared
“His singing's out of tune” they declared
They all went from the room
Left the singer in gloom
His ego was severely impaired.
He said to himself, “that’s it, no more
I’ll ask if I can just sweep the floor”
The manager said “yes”
“You can clean up the mess
But don’t sing when doing your chores.”
He sits a shadow at the bar's dim light;
a refuge from the storm that rages through his night.
His eyes, like two wells—deep and dark with pain,
reflect the turmoil that his heart can not contain.
His wife—a nagging wind that howls and whines;
a constant reminder of his troubles and declines—
drives him to drink; to drown the din, to numb the ache.
A temporary escape—a fleeting mistake.
Glug, glug, glug—the drink flows down his throat:
a sweet surrender, a moment's peace to cope.
But like a siren's song—it beckons him to stay;
a false solace—a deadly way.
His salary—a ticking time bomb, waits to explode,
eaten away by drinks; his future to be sold.
His heart—a heavy burden, is weighed down by his fears;
a slow descent into darkness—through all his tears.
It's a "well-boiled icicle" of a situation,
Indeed! A "blushing crow" of a problem that he can not heed.
So: thinker, “personality” and actor
are looking for a drink.
If two of them are trailers, one’s a tractor.
“Nice counter-top. Real zinc?”
“Don’t ask them stuff. They memorise words
of better men, to spout ’em!”
“And his type feels the need to gather herds
of sycophants about ’em.”
“There’s zinc in every human enzyme. Fact.”
“An enzyme? Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“A catalyst which helps your gut react
a thousand times a day.”
Creators are the only ones who matter,
just them and only them.
Who grows, can know: who knows can grow (and scatter):
the human apothegm.
“The path from easy living? Slow decline
to reach death valley days.”
“Misfortunes? They’re all relative, and mine
are slight. I’m not from Grays!”
Who hasn’t done his share of Boogie Nights?
All wassail hours are zeros.
Two-thirds of humankind are parasites:
where should we look for heroes?
We have a thing now, called celebrity
that’s not the same as fame:
whatever ape forsakes the tree
can make himself a name.
The world, for entertainment, craves a schism
(Max Baer against Joe Louis):
but who foresaw the Queen of Capitalism
would be a Russian Jewess?
Side Bar
You Don't Appreciate
What You Don't Have
If You Don't Have It.
Did I Say That Right?
Whatever.
Something Like That.
Who Cares?
-Gray Squirrel
05-01-2025
They gather where the signs hang crooked,
under gaslight glare and broken clocks,
where the barkeep’s eyes are twin shot glasses—
fogged, but watching.
Gin Lane rolls in on tired boots,
her laughter sharp as shattered glass.
Beer Street hums a fatter tune,
slumped in booths of sticky leather.
They meet at the hinge of last call,
where poetry is slurred and prophets mumble.
A jukebox wails old revolutions
to a crowd too drunk to notice.
The walls are graffiti'd with regrets,
phone numbers of ghosts,
and chalked-up debts no one will ever pay.
Outside, the world is coughing up history,
but in here, time stirs with a muddler.
The bar is a church with no god,
only spirits, and the faithful who sip them.
Some come to forget,
others to remember louder.
A woman in red sings with her back to the room.
A man orders another round
and trades his name for a tab.
Everyone claps when the glass breaks.
Midnight hits like a bottle to the head—
the bouncer shrugs,
Beer Street staggers,
Gin Lane pirouettes into the dark.
An Irish Themed Limerick Poetry Contest
Tania Kitchin
At the pubs across the Ireland nights
It's a clover field under the lights
Irish men love to pluck
Stray petals with good luck
They like the pink clovers in their sights
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