Oils of Whiskey

When we spend time in forests
Facing the sparks of the fire where we feel best.
Sizzling, popping of meat
So sweet, oils of whiskey.

A quartet of laughter.
Bubbles rising from our stomachs
And descending with the dripping of warm comfortable liquid down our throats.
Coats hanging on the branches to dry.

A bed of grass for the night,
Facing the sparks of the calm night sky,
Silent but for the breathing of steam
And the beating of hearts.

And I wonder why.
Why do we have to stop?
Why close up shop
And sell out to be a lawyer or a cop
When the pop of bacon and bottle caps
Yields a better mental crop?

Author's Note

Pure Irish life man

Reviews

[Ted Kniffen]

Not just Irish life, Daniel. I've spent many a night with a good fire in a northern wood. Oh, yes, and with more than a dram of the oils of whisky. It helped keep away the chill.
That one long line in the second verse throws the look off a bit, but that's just me.
Good write. Keep at it.

[Mrinalini R]

Fantastic ending. And I appreciate your longing to not leave the shore of your "Pure Irishness" & swim away along the wave of modernity

[Daniel Duffy]

Thanks man that means a lot!