Another Drink

Visiting grandma smelled like fresh baked cookies,
Cookies I would sneak from the back room freezer.
Her husband found comfort in bottles of vodka,
Vodka hidden behind curtains throughout the house.

Living with my mother felt like indifference,
Indifference I felt in my teen mind of mistrust.
Her several husbands lived in dank bars,
Bars where shoes stuck to floors drunk with beer.

Living my life with my own fresh baked cookies,
Cookies I bake with memories of her surrounding me.
From the back room fridge I grab an ice cold beer,
Beer to relax the body and let the emotions engage.

During my life I have felt fear,
Fear of being out of control.
She would nag him and he would drink,
Drink until he was expressionless and dead.

Life is completely different now,
Now that we’re expected to be invincible.
So I work and I bake and I clean,
Clean out my mind and have yet another drink.

by Phenix JiRa
Written August 4, 2012

Prompt: (from allpoetry)
Gone are the days where girls used
to cook like their mothers.
Now they drink like


5 thoughts on “Another Drink

  1. Jira, I would put this in the dark poetry folder ass well, good poem. My grandmas house smelled of earl grey tea, and real butter…My other grandma's home smelled of white shoulders, old spice. and stale booze…every time I go into a bar frequented by geezers it smells of comfort



  2. I've never heard that bit at the end before, and it made me sad. As did most of this really. I think there are still some girls out there who bake like their mothers, but yeah, it's a sad world. The poem was still good though, I liked how you said something, and then went in to a more personal side about it on the next line. I don't really know what to call that.


  3. Good idea… it is rather dark if not just a vision of truth to so many lives. Funny… my grandmother drank Earl Grey tea as well and I love the stuff to this day. Oh… lol… and my father always smelled of Old Spice so if I ever went on a date with a guy wearing it… ya… the date was over!

    My poetry, just like others I assume, is a mixture of truth and fiction. This poem has much truth to it regarding my own life although I am not much of a drinker based pretty much on the line “fear of being out of control”. I saw a lot of drinking growing up… some it of blatant and some of it closet and none of it especially pretty. So… I fear my own reaction to drinking too much of it.

    Would I be like my grandfather and become addicted to the point of hiding it throughout the house? Like my grandmother having just a glass of wine once a day? Like my mother working in bars and dating the men who hung out there? Like my father… although his was and will always be marijuana… smoking in the bathroom and hoping the incense will fool everyone? Like my youngest brother who drinks until he can't remember anything and ends up arrested for walking into a strangers house and sleeping on their couch. Or my other brother for getting drunk and going on a tractor joy ride in a local farmer's ranch.

    And after typing all of that… all I can do is laugh… wow… what a family. LMAO!! But I'm mostly sane and that's what counts. 🙂


  4. Thank you Mark. Most of this poem is autobiographical… except that I don't drink much for fear of being out of control. I've seen a lot of people drink way too much and I fear being like them. My grandfather did hide bottles of hard liquor around the house and as a child I would find them behind the long curtains in the front window. I remember taking it to my grandmother once and that was the last time I ever did that… tattling on my grandfather did have it's consequences… for him. And my mother… I love her greatly… went down plenty of wrong paths taking her children with her.

    So… I often analyze things to death. It's why I write… helps me know myself. 🙂


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