Whisky in the Jar (Quadrille)

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dVerse~ Poets Pub Challenge: Quadrille#14

If darkness hit me first,
I’d creep in silently

knocking dust off shelves
with fast breathing. If the

smell hit me next I’d look
for a black hole, moonless;

whiskey from the broken jar
danced with urine on the floor –

before he hit me.

Challenge: Write a poem on your blog in exactly 44 words (excluding title) where at least one of the words has to be jar, remember to link back to dVerse. Visit and get inspired by the other poets, have fun and remember to come back throughout the week to check out if there are any new entries. We will select one of the poems to be included in our upcoming anthology, and if you are selected we will contact you to get your acceptance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Proof

Night-whiskey-projector5933

Hold that smile,
hold the pose
in these weird days
that hold our breath the most:
awkward posture, selfish guises,
bulging eyes strung out on technology.
With our free hand
we raise a glass to future’s past
toasting
the ghosts that couldn’t
make it.

Downed in one
tenuous gulp
makes cheers last longer,
to smooth over doubts and fears
as froth dribbles down the chins
and glasses
set to rest on crisp
white linen’s
cracked sneer –
all aimed at the ghosts
who fake it.

Toasts drown
out the background noise
of irony
as we drink to our health;
it’s part of the game –
we drink to drown our sorrows.
Intoxication is such
that we need it so much.
In limbo we stand bereft
and shaking;
all acceptable,
and very appealing
since life can be unbearable
with little consolation
in healing.
We drink by ourselves
and ogle ourselves
in full fascination
of ourselves –
the future ghosts
that won’t make it.

Cast adrift among
the bubbles –
we are remote and detached
in its liquid
arms to brew animosity
and anonymity –
cast adrift only a short time
before we collide
and we burst; spewed out
but still trapped inside,
we become the toasts
oblivious to the ghosts
who can’t take it

 

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