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Boarded up Pub My locals run it's taps
old men walk by with dogs, sigh,
and it all comes flooding back
Their stories, small glories
and indeed their way of life.
What better way for us to
understand it, than to have it
poured into the pint
that stands cool in your palm
or to hear it in the aged
creak of polished floor-boards
or woven into the faded fabric
of the stools and curtains.
Just how many beers
how many years have
drained into those beer mats,
my locals run it's taps.

Now people pull up by the traffic lights
and witness the distressing sight
of a boarded-up pub being soaked
in the sad rays of battered sunlight.
It stands there ashamed
forlorn and unamed.
Just there to tease
crackling memories
visualising the smoky scenes of
old men spreading mustard
over their cobs, long retired
from industrial jobs,
tentative young lovers
and strange irish music,
Ironed striped shirts and funky cologne.
And the pints and chinese menus sent
flying in the mad football atmosphere.
I remember the
birthday girls half asleep on stools
and the birthday boys collapsed in cubicles.

Also the low,
low,
low,
points,
the unappeasable dullness of those overcast
weekdays. The outcasts, the henpecked,
the retired, the vagabonds
leaning up the bar with shop-
ing bags, engaged in querulous
conversations centred on
stingy relatives,
hospital appointments,
job-centres and stale marriages.
Frittering away ephemeral time
and cadging cigarettes
on them mind grinding giro days.
Those haunting and desolate sights
of grizzled men playing dominoes
soft eyes set glazed in haggard faces
and slumped figures worn by age and Jamesons.
The foggy racecourse on the television screen
with the ambulance taling the straining pack
pleading eyes fixated and fists held to lips.
I remember sympathetically,
deep inside those dying final furlongs
the familiar hoarse and anguished
pleas of desperate indebted men.
Gambling away their wifes shopping money.

Title

Topic

Associated Topics

abstract	ambiguous	AmericanTragedy
AngryPoetry	anguished	AnniversaryPoems
BirthdayPoems	ChildrensPoetry	ChristianPoetry
CongratulatoryPoems	DarkPoetry	dedicatedpoems
DreamsandWishes	drugabuse	EmotionalPoetry
Event	FamilyPoems	fantasy
fictional	FriendshipPoetry	goodbyepoetry
Grief	group	Haiku
hbadday	Holiday Poetry	HumorPoetry
insomniac	InspirationalPoems	InternetLove
limericks	LostLove	LovePoetry
LoveRemembered	MiscPoems	MothersDayPoems
mythology	NaturePoetry	news
Nostalgic	obsession	oops
PetPoems	PoemsonBeauty	poets
political	psychoticpoems	SadPoetry
schoolproblems	scifi	SecretLove
secrets	self-harmpoetry	selfstruggles
SpecialOccassion	spiritual	StoryPoetry
Suicide	surreal	Test Topic
toughstuff	Tributes	war

Language:

Authors Notes

Poem Text (html)
DO NOT remove the line break <br /> html coding at the end of each line break, these are needed to form the correct lines.

My locals run it's taps<br />
old men walk by with dogs, sigh,<br />
and it all comes flooding back<br />
Their stories, small glories <br />
and indeed their way of life. <br />
What better way for us to<br />
understand it, than to have it<br />
poured into the pint<br />
that stands cool in your palm<br />
or to hear it in the aged<br />
creak of polished floor-boards<br />
or woven into the faded fabric <br />
of the stools and curtains.<br />
Just how many beers<br />
how many years have<br />
drained into those beer mats, <br />
my locals run it's taps.<br />
<br />
Now people pull up by the traffic lights <br />
and witness the distressing sight <br />
of a boarded-up pub being soaked<br />
in the sad rays of battered sunlight.<br />
It stands there ashamed<br />
forlorn and unamed.<br />
Just there to tease <br />
crackling memories<br />
visualising the smoky scenes of<br />
old men spreading mustard<br />
over their cobs, long retired <br />
from industrial jobs,<br />
tentative young lovers <br />
and strange irish music,<br />
Ironed striped shirts and funky cologne.<br />
And the pints and chinese menus sent<br />
flying in the mad football atmosphere. <br />
I remember the<br />
birthday girls half asleep on stools<br />
and the birthday boys collapsed in cubicles.<br />
<br />
Also the low, <br />
low, <br />
low,<br />
points, <br />
the unappeasable dullness of those overcast<br />
weekdays. The outcasts, the henpecked,<br />
the retired, the vagabonds <br />
leaning up the bar with shop-<br />
ing bags, engaged in querulous <br />
conversations centred on<br />
stingy relatives,<br />
hospital appointments,<br />
job-centres and stale marriages.<br />
Frittering away ephemeral time<br />
and cadging cigarettes<br />
on them mind grinding giro days. <br />
Those haunting and desolate sights<br />
of grizzled men playing dominoes<br />
soft eyes set glazed in haggard faces<br />
and slumped figures worn by age and Jamesons. <br />
The foggy racecourse on the television screen<br />
with the ambulance taling the straining pack<br />
pleading eyes fixated and fists held to lips. <br />
I remember sympathetically,<br />
deep inside those dying final furlongs <br />
the familiar hoarse and anguished <br />
pleas of desperate indebted men.<br />
Gambling away their wifes shopping money.

Please note in this textbox below that this poem has been edited, do not put your name, please put as the following:


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