LACKING GUINESS STOUT BLUES….

Here it is 17 March and there is no stout, no whiskey, no porter,
Just anthems of old Eire playing on the stereo while I sit and thirst,
It’s giving me a case of the blues instead of celebrating the green,
Drank a pot of coffee strong enough to sober anyone, now if only I were drunk,
It’s enough to break your heart this condition most pathetic,
I remember nights in saloons when the roar of my poetry nailed down the floor,
And I drank Tullamore Dew from the bottle until the dawn came creeping,
With comrades whose friendships I thought would never die but
Ultimately even they were lost in the shifting sands of times vagaries;

There was a time at seven thousand feet where I went to hide from
The world but the world found me out and there was days and nights
Where the booze flowed like a river of tears across beds of lust, of passion,
Women came and went, and one shockingly handsome state trooper whom
I loved in the shadows with kisses and bourbon and dreams that could not
Be except in ripples of illusion that blended with slivovitz and hopes lost,
Then that chapter closed like a great iron door and I traveled south to
The border country of burnt desert and scrub where I tried to study but
Again love sought me out and he and I played like young lovers at the party
Of life, with dinners, movies, dancing, and long nights of unbridled carnal
Pleasures that had no ending nor beginning merely was until spent sleep
Found us out and nestled us in dreams tinged with ouzo and sweet kisses;


Now it is the 17th of March and the memories choke me deep and the longing
For a drink as deep as a raging river tears through my soul and leaves me sad,
Lost among the detris of my memory and my dreams and my fallen hopes…….