The Rye Whiskey Review
We're the Ezine dedicated to all things barroom. We are slightly off what others consider the norm and always the last to close the bar. If you prefer the local dive bar to the glitz of some overpriced club then you're our kind of people. So welcome grab a drink and enjoy.
Monday, March 18, 2024
Beer By Bruce Morton
Saturday, March 16, 2024
DRUNK CHILDISH BABY By Bradford Middleton
I sit here knowing what I want
But in a slight predicament as to how
To get there; you see, this morning
I went out to buy a new pair of trainers
Just something to knock about it when
Not at work. I went in several places,
Left empty-handed after finding nothing.
Worst of all after visiting all these damn
Places I found myself outside a bookshop
Walked in, up the stairs and found
A beautiful childish poetry book that I
Had to get leaving me with no money
For those new trainers and now no
Way to get to the pub unless I wear
My ‘shop shoes’ as there is no other
Alternative. My trainers are falling
To pieces and the clouds outside
Suggest it may rain sometime soon
Knowing my luck before I get to come home
Nicely drunk and ready to sleep a good night for
Once, just like the drunk childish baby I dream of being.
Bradford Middleton still lives in Brighton, UK but has recently landed a new job that he doesn’t hate so maybe here for a bit longer yet… Recent poems appear in Beatnik Cowboy, River Dog Zine, Back Room Poetry ‘Rebel’ Anthology, Stink Eye Magazine and Dreich. His most recent chapbook was published early 2023 by those fine folks at the Alien Buddha Press.
Friday, March 15, 2024
One Night In A Big City, Not My Own By Trish Saunders
Just as we’re licking the last salt from our glasses,
pushing depleted plates away,
she approaches, looking young
and shy, as she extends her arm
with a spotless white cuff
and my Visa card
between two fingers.
She hesitates.
Just give me a little blue to fly toward,
Lord, all I ask is to turn back the hours
to our hotel, miles from here--
Did I grab the good Visa?
or the one we reported
stolen, later found
under a towel
and never unblocked?
It will surely decline to sign for drinks,
dinner, more drinks, tax and tip.
She smiles, uncertainly.
Something crashes in the kitchen.
How far away my home seems, how very far away.
Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle and imagines herself on the shores of Crescent Lake. Her favorite published places are The Fat Girls Review, Pacifica Poetry, the American Journal of Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, and the Rye Whiskey Review.
Thursday, March 14, 2024
Days By David Painter
It makes no difference as I unscrewed the cap.
It could be Monday for all I care
I watched the amber liquid fall
and kiss the ice in the bottom of the glass
clacking some with its sudden warmth.
Looking down I thought is two fingers enough?
My mind shot back the answer as I
continued to pour.
It is early morning, but already it’s hot.
Most days start like this,
even the sun makes a bee-line for the ice
no drought to cool itself off.
I pour another hoping that
this one will last longer.
The mailman drops off the mail
a few read, past due, then he
melts into the heat of the day.
Sitting on the front porch even the
occasional breeze is warm.
I pour another just to cool off.
So it goes most days,
the sun eating my ice
and me trying to stay ahead of it.
David is an International published poet.He is a member of the Inner city writers’ group and penned in the city.His works have been published in Sweetycat Press,Piker press, Rye Whiskey Review,Clarendon House, Spillwords Press,The Writers’ Club,and Dyst Literary Journal.as well as The World of Myth,Every Writer,Ohio Bards and Academy of the Heart. He is a member of Ohio Writers Group and West Virginia Writers Group. His book of poems Thoughts Alone the Way is available on Amazon
Wednesday, March 13, 2024
Sometimes I Feel It. By Jonathan S Baker
That moment between
confidence and drunkenness
that feels like bravado.
It is there that I think
I see my father
and that place
frightens me
because it feels like home.
Tuesday, March 12, 2024
RICHARDS WILD IRISH ROSE By Larry Houston
oh mothers
when he was born,
crying,
slippery with birth
warm on your chest
feeling your heartbeat
did you think he would grow up
to stand on a corner
in dirty clothes
reeking of Richards
at 9 in the morning?
I am most happy when trying to create something of interest when writing. I started writing in my 50’s and have a few pieces published in Medusa’s Kitchen.
Monday, March 11, 2024
Midnight Masochism by John Patrick Robbins / A Review By Kevin M. Hibshman
Beer By Bruce Morton
Why is it people do not cry In their negroni or martini But they do in their beer? Beer, In its simplicity, in its complexity, Begs to be u...
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I write while I drink. Or drink while I write. It’s like entering a void To create from nothing. Wrestling in the mind. Will it come, will i...
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eat a shroom smoke a joint sing a song read a poem try to think differently today than yesterday evolve or deconstruct not sure which one...
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I am not supposed to be here. Sleep does not come easy. By 11:35 I give in. Arthritic walk limping three blocks to the bar, I arrive and ord...