Best Beaujolais Poems
Vase Dream - c'est la vie
White vase with no design
Dangling there - c'est la vie
I think somewhere in Center City
Apart from everything
In an apartment rising skyward
Lingering on the edge of ledge
Standing tall atop a railing raw
Languishing over the 20th Floor
Or there about
And more - c'est la vie
The balcony did its’ best of course
Displaying the fragile curves
Morning sun light danced approval
Around bouncing beams above the surface
But nothing could stop a soft breeze from…
Poof!.....And off it went… c'est la vie
An alert French man
Pastry smile and all
Happened along
With left handed nimble fingers caressing a Beaujolais 42
The other hand stretched out with stress
As if to field an errant football pass
And in that chance encounter…Catch!...
Tumbling to concrete boundaries down
Bottle released in a wincing crash
Ground favored his mortal urgency
Pottery saved - c'est la vie
Intact
French man’s head cracked
Let’s say opened
Something like an egg
A natural death ensued - c'est la vie
A passer-by seized the moment
Lifted vase and fled
Made off down and dirty
An ally
Another fate for vase awaits
Less encumbered
In a land far away
To dream of ledges - c'est la vie
If so inclined
Or so designed
Modified on 10/21/14 for - c'est la vie - Poetry Contest
I went to a cheese and wine party on Saturday,
where huge platters of cheese were on display.
There was Gorgonzola and creamy white Brie,
I devoured huge chunks with a glass of Chablis.
Danish Blue, Mozzarella and Swiss Emmental,
of course I had to try a sample of them all!
I declined Edam and Gouda, I find them too waxy -
and the last time I ate them I was sick in the taxi!
Soft creamy Camembert and blue Roquefort,
went down a treat with a glass of vintage port.
Crumbly Cheshire and Cheddar were so divine,
and tasted heavenly with red Beaujolais wine.
I’d chomped through all of the Stinking Bishop,
our hostess had to restock the whole dish up!
Then I munched little cubes of Monterey Jack -
if my doctor saw me he’d have a heart attack!
When our host carried in a blue Stilton in a truckle,
I loosened a notch on my now straining belt buckle!
I admit blue cheese can smell like men's sweaty socks
but ripe Stilton and crackers, this cheese simply rocks!
Write a poem about Cheese Contest
Sponsored by Barry Stebbings
FICTION POEM FOR CONTEST
11/12/18
An eighteen year old sailor on the Riviera in the Spring
Mademoiselle Your smile can make my young heart sing
Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo who could ask for more
I volunteered for the USO, so on duty days I could be ashore
I held her hand and said bon jour, i danced with her that day
Looking into her eyes, Aime-moi, s'il vous plait
Stopping by a sidewalk cafe, we had a glass of Beaujolais
Then I walked her home and promised to meet another day
Two days later I returned but she was nowhere to be found
I saw her one more time before my feet left solid ground
It was a one time memory, a love not meant to be
She returned to college and I returned to the sea
I still have those memories and the wonders that we saw
But to cry, i'l n'est pas necssaire pour cela.
I think back sometimes and it cuts me like a knife
France will always be a special part of my life.
They say Cabernet Sauvignon pairs nicely with steak
Pinotage, they reckon, for cheese
Tempranillo is the choice for Mexican grub
But, I'm somewhat easier to please
I've tried a fair few "Reds", on a weekend night
While chilling to some melodic jazz
I've had the brave, the bold and the border-line nasty
But I've never had a "Shy Shiraz"
I once had a good round Pinot Noir
And I've tried a spicy Grenache
I've felt the cranberry burst through a daring Gamay
Which cost me lots of cash
I've had a Beaujolais, which wasn't too pretty
Bought from a dodgy guy named "Baz"
Found a corked Chianti - rather a pity
But I've never had a "Shy Shiraz"
I've had a monster of a Monastrell
And a beautiful Petit Ver
A Mataro, which did nothing for me
A Malbec, which made my mind whirr
Yes, I like a glass, on a weekend night
You may prefer beer, whereas
I must keep looking, 'cos it's quite off-putting
That I've never found a "Shy Shiraz"
A Zinfandel gave me heartburn hell
And a Claret once cleared my head
A Merlot can make me beg for more
Rioja sends me merrily to bed
Yes, I like a bottle, on a weekend night
It gives my mind pizzazz
Then sends me mellow, like a good old fellow
Who's searching for a "Shy Shiraz"
This earth is fine, for those who love wine
I've had the old world, and the new
But until I find a "Shy Shiraz"
I'll just keep trying - as you do.
For a bottle of red, on a weekend night
Is a blend of razzmatazz
You can find me drinking, while secretly thinking
"I hope I never find a Shy Shiraz"
He sinks further into bitterness
with each sip of oblivion.......
slurping....gulping grudges and blame
with every malicious mouthful.
He remains suspended in cynicism;
hurtling missiles of misery mixed
with murky twisted memories in an
attempt to justify his tangled truth.
Untruths in reality, but his realism
is unreal.....swishing, diluted by
the destruction of hate; imbibed with
one more beer or glass of Merlot.
How sad this man frozen in animosity.
What a waste of precious time.
Life languishing in antipathy.
Pathetic intemperance.......
Put that bottle down sir -
drink this instead, savour it,
smell the bouquet, Beaujolais...
swallow the future, and spit out the past.
FINE BE FAIR
~~~~~~~~
Rapid rhyme
Rapid that's fine
Fine I'll drink to that
Fine fresh vat
Vat fresh nouveau wine
Vat fresh Beaujolais sublime
Sublime dry
Sublime I cry
Cry out
Cry shout
Shout delt
Shout heartfelt
Heartfelt my soul
Heartfelt control
Control truth
Control forsooth
Forsooth I'm not a fool
Forsooth empathy a tool
Tool designed for the needy
Tool like sympathy
Sympathy compassion
Sympathy don't ration
Ration no
Ration woe
Woe sadness
Woe created by badness
Badness look around
Badness found
Found you can see
Found it must be
Be a way
Be staid
Staid daring
Staid in caring
Caring for peace
Caring to release
Release all
Release hear the call
Call shout it out
Out the evil
Out to save people
People suffer
People need a buffer
Buffer leaders
Buffer keep feeders
Feeders who care
Feeders who are fair
Fair to all
All...
Fair...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blitz
Definition
A form of poetry created by poet Robert Keim in 2008. It is a 50-line poem of short phrases and images. The "Blitz" poem is well-named, as the fifty short lines are read in rapid-fire fashion. “The form really relies on sound and rapid "flow”... Rob Keim.
Here are the rules:
Line 1 should be one short phrase or image (like “build a boat”)
Line 2 should be another short phrase or image using the same first word as the first word in Line 1 (something like “build a house”)
Lines 3 and 4 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 2 as their first words (so Line 3 might be “house for sale” and Line 4 might be “house for rent”)
Lines 5 and 6 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 4 as their first words, and so on until you’ve made it through 48 lines
Line 49 should be the last word of Line 48
Line 50 should be the last word of Line 47
The title of the poem should be three words long and follow this format: (first word of Line 3) (preposition or conjunction) (first word of line 47)
There should be no punctuation, except for an ellipse after the final two words in lines 49 & 50.
The majority of the examples, (if not all), are not correctly classified by their authors and as such cannot be used as references.
Droplets redder than Beaujolais
Speckled the new bone-white carpet
And glued the eyes wider shut
Froth does not cloak the glass shards
larger than silver dollars
Each sharper than a lions prong
Piercing and tearing soft tissue
It might as well have been my heart
I thought she was my haven, sanctuary
Refuge from evil gods and sometimes from good
Who was I to trust?
Sugar
It melts in your mouth
yet leaves a sour after-taste
One times two
And two times three
Shame and more shame on me
Damn Fool
Stare at those stitches
And the bare muscles exposed
I smile and grimace
She says they were self inflicted
Maybe they were
And maybe they were not
She used to have a name
It used to be Elena
Now she has none
She used to have a face
Now she has none
As she was -- she is gone
Bye her – hello tiny bubbles
Here in Central Ohio, when winter's chill descends,
We celebrate for twelve whole days, our Yuletide dividends.
Deep within the Buckeye land, where Aesculus genus grows,
We throw our hands up with delight as C-bus gifts enclose.
On the first day of the season, Columbus gave to me,
a Strader's Nursery conifer, scarlet and gray tree.
On the second day of the season, next to Scioto's run,
two bright red cardinals spread their wings and play beneath the sun.
On the third day of the season, in German Village quaint,
three bratwursts are a-sizzling, and we eat with no restraint.
On the fourth day of the season, beneath the Statehouse dome,
are four historic artifacts saying O-H-I-O's our home.
On the fifth day of the season, at Short North's gallery display,
we act like art professors while we drink our Beaujolais.
On the sixth day of the season, the Arena District's cheer,
six Jackets skate together playing in blue hockey gear.
On the seventh day of the season, at COSI's large expanse,
seven planets spin above our heads, and we join the cosmic dance.
On the eighth day of the season, at Hocking Hills so wild,
eight waterfalls cascading, are nature's art compiled.
On the ninth day of the season, in Dublin's Irish grace,
nine Celtic dancers stepping, puts a smile on every face.
On the tenth day of the season, within North Market Hall,
ten food booths are a-beckoning with salty-sweet enthrall.
On the eleventh day of the season, with carolers at the Zoo,
eleven million lights a-twinkling, we can see them from the Shoe!
On the twelfth day of the season, near Highbank's snowy scene,
twelve sleds they are a-sliding, adding to this winter dream.
In the heart call of Ohio, this season is our own,
With flourishing traditions and a spirit brightly shown.
The twelve whole days of Yuletide, and our region we adore,
In Buckeye state the holidays keep magic evermore.
Went with some folks to
Gene and Georgetti's,
they marveled that
I only wanted a plate of
spaghetti
Went to Shaw's Crab House
and it was the same,
a meal of broiled Salmon;
they said
- 'that's so lame!'
No cocktails before dinner,
no bottle of Bordeaux,
no Beaujolais or Chianti,
just eat dinner,
then go
No cheesecake or cobbler,
not even creme brule,
that stuff doesn't tempt me
I don't care what
you say
You can take me to
Morton's, HyeHolde, Trader Vic's,
I'm sure it would've been
the same at Monsieur Ric's
Give me protein and veggies,
some carbs and 'good' fat
some seasoning, some water
and leave it at that
Sorry, can't help it
it's all only fuel,
even back in Dicken's time
when they ate all that gruel
Thankfulness
I treasure those heartfelt moments spent at the dining table
With Dad and Mom and us siblings with our own offspring to rear,
Engaged in an eating and conversational atmosphere
In the traditional family gathering festivals.
From the tinkle of the glass, echoed by a spoon on the rim
(To draw our attention), when Dad said grace, and then we’d dig in.
First, a basket of rolls would be set out, served with a fresh, tossed salad.
Then, plates were passed around, laden with steaming vegetables
And turkey meat with mashed potatoes covered in a rich gravy,
And a fine choice of Beaujolais wine to drink and milk for the children,
Followed by Mother’s homemade pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream,
Ending in chatter and laughter, then the clearing of the table.
As I reflect, I cannot help but wonder, where does time go?
And as I look at my brother and sister and our children growing,
Sharing their love, and enjoying freedom from want, I reflect back on years past,
With food always on the table and clothes to wear (hand-me-down or not);
Through Mom and Dad’s example as parents, and with their blessings,
We were taught to be thankful, and now thankfulness comes easily.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98eIW6CN62k
Those Parisienne days of love beneath the Champs Elysees
I remember Paris 1949, drinking a glass of old Beaujolais wine
And I recall that summer when we kissed and you were mine
In those Parisienne days, you were always `Ma Petite Poupee``
`
Looking back at photographs, summer days warm as honey
corner cafes with creme brulee, pretty eyes a shade of rum
sharing penciled love notes and paragraphs, you ma tres jolie
together we did taste the wine, beneath the Parisienne sun
We toured La Tour Eiffel I must admit you were tres belle
with a french berret smile I guided you towards the lake
Bassin de la Villette, where you were happy picking shells
In those Parisienne days we were always wide awake
I recall that summer when we you promised to be mine
in the petit cafe, where we shared a bottle of wine.
People are aspired to be desired, so they erase.
People aspire to their 20's, so they erase.
People are deluded for immortality, embalming themself as they still draw breath.
People erase their facial expressions.
Frozen expression.internal neglection.
Shiny gift wrap with a big void inside.
People are changing their skin.
Like an advertisement for their character, boost for the charisma.
Like an eternal testimony for failures and wrong choices.
People are running from time.
Running to an illusion at another life.
Life of eternal youth, endless beauty, to be wanted, needed, desired.
Your waxy face belongs to a droid, your heart made of plastic.
You are easy to shape as per society's wishes.
You send your poker face to play for life with an empty hand.
Ease with this self-passion, you are a vinegar dressed up as a Beaujolais.
"I am appalled," the administrator said
..."I am appalled by your recommendation."
yet utterly correct, it soon proved to be
for years anonymous, the implied accusation
Challenger "slipped the surly bonds of Earth"
and surely those scientific souls perished
to "Touch the face of God" was said henceforth
but always, in all ways, their memory cherished
Roger Boisjoly*, and a few who knew the truth
also, felt smacked-in-the-face by appalling
as guilt and horror were revealed through proof
let "only the facts speak" was the higher calling
when timetables are allowed to tip the scale
without regard to even more profound losses
we could learn to let probable facts prevail
and overrule overbearing bosses, whatever the cost is
foregoing of foretelling, is unfortunately compelling
© Goode Guy 2012-02-07
* pronounced: (Fr) Beaujolais
http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2012/02/06/146490064/remembering-roger-boisjoly-he-tried-to-stop-shuttle-challenger-launch?ps=cprs
http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=146490064&m=146483712
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Space_Shuttle_Challenger_disaster
Mr. French poodle sips a Beaujolais
Snubs a nose at the bourgeoisie
So middle class with a café ole in glass
A puffy bulbous tail wags in approval
Groomed to perfection at the salon
It purrs at the proletariat’s amusement
Smiling at the working class
An upper class agenda will not prevail
Is this a pussy cat transgender at last?
Is this man’s best friend about to mate
Or make a puddle by trade or mistake?
Oh what a tangled web we weave
When once we practice to deceive
If God is alive in all His devices
All men would be turned to mice
How nice!
Asparagine
Is ever so mean
Spreading breast cancer
All over the scene
Researchers said
Asperagus fed
Cancer cell spread
'Til patients were dead
Forget the greens
And fill up on beans
You know what that means
So map out latrines
Vegans like Susie
Are known to be choosey
Beans make them woozy
& Hops are too boozy
Harken to doctors
Our Grand Concoctors
Whose bank account soars
When you open their doors
Now Mardi Gras
Is one day away
Asparagus passé
Enjoy Beaujolais!