NaPM April 14th 2019
Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 

NaPM April 14, 2019

Topic: A poem about temperance.

Form: any

Line Requirement:  14 lines.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 

Three lasses sport high fashion and curls,
Their parents think they raise the proper girls– 
musicians, curators, librarians,
and stolid members of the literati.
Hope and Charity are no contrarians– 
but don’t you know, Temperance is a hottie.
Her sisters present as bright and haughty,
. . . don’t you know, Temperance is the hottie.
She’ll bogart the chianti, while you’re on the manicotti,
You’re polite to the waiter, she’s hitting on John Gotti– 
. . . don’t you know, Temperance is a hottie.
The problems get knotty to learn she knows karate,
. . . don’t you know, Temperance is a hottie.
What’s Me Temp’rance Worth, Sister?

I’ve took me pleasures mostly secont-hand–
enjoying other fellers’ seegar smoke
jest in me nose, not like them in ther lungs.
As fer the ladies, spent me quarter fer
ter watch ‘em at ther work through peepholes, which
saved me tha siller dollar fer tha deed
and from that lousy bizniss wi’ tha clap.
I quaffed me coffee, after I hed lernt
to drink tha bitter stuff, fer such is life;
but as fer likker, I hev drunk me share
of whiskey, bless tha man who thought of it.
But now tha sawbones sez me liver’s shot
so, scared jest like I was from other things
I’ll sign yer pledge, ye cleanly-looking lass.
But jest in compensation, if ye please–
a dollar’s worth for temp’rance, finally!
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
Fleeting Sobriety

Should I finish my whisky on the rocks
to fuel this poem about temperance?
Maybe, between sips, mention Eliot Ness'
brown bagged lunch
and how his wife's note
was probably a movie prop,
that the real man died
in debt, remarried, rumoured an alcoholic,
but Capone ate his wife's spaghetti-
her loyal, while someone else's syphilis
slowly ended what Ness started.
But this was supposed to deal with temperance
not dwell on the type of human folly
most prefer to blame on alcohol.
Time is the best editor.
Ill Temperanced.

I stay away from drink and drugs
on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesdays,
and just do sex on weekdays.

Though alcohol's the fire of twats
it cools a burning liver
The first shot makes you shiver.

A snort of coke keeps one awoke!
When out at someone's party
it keeps you acting smarty

I just have Sex but once a week
It starts upon Mondays
if I'm doing really well

It lasts til fucking Sunday...
Pacing, thinking, all the time
Broken propellers oscillating.

Facing tomorrow avoiding the now.
Spoken words lose strength alone.
Erasing vivid details through description

Pacing thinking all the time
Awoken by the need to express
Racing fires of redemption

Facing tomorrow avoiding the now
Tokens of distraction unnecessary targets
Basing all answers on base judgements

Pacing thinking all the time
Facing tomorrow avoiding the now

Broken propellers
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
The lizardmen built our modest party basement
on a crossroads: all the city's toilet
pipes drain here. I can't stand the smell.
I'd rather die than go back

to Facebook, Twitter, and the like.
Even if friends and readables frequent there,
the minty freshness of community
cannot overcome, and relatives

who don't know how to live
in an age where lies don't stop
at the edges of towns or by points of crowns

flush their diapers full
of shit and shame, senility's costume,
down the drains, clogging pipes to burst.

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