Best Winery Poems
A beautiful ride off into the sunset, and your horse
passes through a blooming cherry orchard bordered by cedars;
your leather saddle was rubbed with high-quality tobacco yesterday.
It's a big herbal cherry sun that is setting, and you can taste it,
with a sprinkling of spices, and the satiny union of the tannins are upon you,
so subtle that you wish for more at first; you must be patient as the velvet embrace deepens, insinuating itself deep within you in a silky smooth process, until a final slow-motion fillip of astringency touches the front of your mouth.
The cork was wet and crumbly almost to the top.
Definitely time to drink this wine; wish I had more.
A great wine to drink in solitary contemplation, or quietly, with friends.
*Robert Mondavi - Rest In Peace, man, you died in 2008 at age 94, and you always believed in making great wine.
Tasting Note written in April, 2015.
Never been to Tuscany
But when it comes to wine,
Napa and Sonoma
As a substitute are fine.
Even on a rainy day,
The rows of endless vines,
Combined with endless hills
Create magnificent designs.
At every winery, you sip
And sample, sniff and taste.
What you don't like, you simply toss -
A necessary waste.
I wonder what they do with all
Those rejects in that bucket.
Of course, they say - end of the day
They take that wine and chuck it.
But maybe when the tourists leave,
They bottle what was tossed
And sell it as a "special blend"
At some expensive cost.
So think of that when next you sip
And when those thoughts appear,
Just follow my example - say,
"I think I'll have a beer!"
Paris today, Venice tomorrow
If I'm out of cash, I'll borrow
The Arc de Triomphe and Louvre
The Gondola metropolis
I'll sample every famous
Continental megalopolis
Stroll the Champs-Elysees
Marvel at glass-blown finery
Smile at the Mona Lisa
Take a tour of a winery...
And when it all has been discussed
poured over, digested
Without you there to share it
'Twas for naught
~ A full refund I've requested
'in the blink of an eye"
the camera lense inside my eye decided to take flight
upon an adventurous love affair intending to ignite
while in the midst of viewing landscapes beautiful symmetry
capturing on eternal film every earthly mystery.
in Rome , the Trevi Fountain intoxicates by bell
enticing fond admirers to cast coins in wishing well
while gondolas in Venice charm romantic lovers ride
upon blue azure waterways where gentle breezes abide.
feeling incredible power of Mount Vesuvious volcano
inhaling cathedral windows in Padua with classic staino
motor boat sking on white crested waves of the Amalfi Coast
treasured sights of Italy, to tourists, plays great host.
my lense kidnaps a winery in Tuscany's grape vineyard
absorbing growing vines of fruit in softly blowing windward
toasting wine is an Italian custom of friendly greeting
ingesting sights so breathtaking invigorates heart beating.
journeying to Positano Harbor for cool boat races
snapping photos vigrously as challengers heighten their paces
a lovely paradise exists on Florence steamy sandy beach
as twilight horizon canopy glows as pretty as ripe peach.
in the blink of an eye the mind hides memories of travel
forever encased inside the lense protected from unravel
a treasure chest of cherished moments envisioned with deep sigh
a fabulous adventure preserved within the blink of an eye.
*For SandyIvy's Viewing Life Through Camera Lenses Contest.
*Nov. 13, 2012.
The Entrepreneur
I`m thinking of the man who was clearing land
He wanted to grow cabbage, a good idea especially
Since farmers get subsidies from EU for planting orange trees
The country drowning in orange twice a year
There many stones on the ground here and looks like
The extracted teeth of giants, so the man decided
To construct a pyramid for the untrained eye the mound
Of stones look like a heap of rocks, and it has also become
A Paradise for rabbits
The cabbages his soil produced were pathetic, so he gave
It up, he didn`t have the long view as a farmer needs.
He went to Franc instead and worked on a winery there.
He saved his money and began driving a Taxi I Paris but
Lost his licence for drinking wine on the job
Overgrown by grapes
Gods’ garden fine winery
Mortals in rags toil
Overgrown by grapes
Gods’ garden fine winery
Brimful gilded grails
Overgrown by grapes
Gods’ garden fine winery
High angels crash down
I said, do you fancy a drink, Tom?
He said where the hell is that stink from?
My dog cocked his leg
We smelt rotten egg
Because he had eaten my stink bomb
*
My cat swallowed my whoopy cushion
He can’t get it out but keeps pushin’
But each time he squeezes
He makes noisy breezes
My mum holds her nose and keeps shushin’
*
They stroll the prom in their best finery
Some stop for alfresco China tea
Silly, not brave
With one big wave...
They look like they’ve come from a winery
*
She gracefully ambled the prom
I’m sure somewhere posh she was from
She patted my dog
Who ‘issued a log’
She left with a lot less aplomb
She is eighteen and tattoos are the latest rage." I'd like a tattoo please" she asks. I see a young girl in a messy ponytail and wonder if she'll pick something gaudy, then I will have to oblige.
The boldness of youth
can appear so uncouth
yet reveal so much truth.
"I want a tattoo of a winter vine. One that won't fade with time" As the machine begins to “buzz” the armature bar hits the coil and I begin to work. Stretched on her upper arm I notice the discoloration of skin, a slow petering bruise.
Eyes color of snake
she is all heartache
I take a break...
"Why did you choose a vine?" I ask, as the coil tattoo gun soothes her ears. "Last memory of my mom is from a trip to the winery. She told me the sap sinks into the roots and the vine falls asleep until the next year.
the tendril climbs
this is her time
not mine
From her handbag, fifty old crumpled dollar bills. " How much do I owe?" she asks. I say " No charge." She smiles and then leaves, as if on cue...
Lady in violet
let us venture to Venus
the planet of love plant a vineyard
open a winery
becoming the axis of the universe
under purple skies, in a bed of purple violets, drunk off purple wine
Written by Keith Edward Baucum aka The Green Poet aka Mr Seven aka The Poetic Philosopher
Our oath is our soul keeping
our joys are from smoking and drinking,
from the cannabis we cultivate a seeing
a laughter from the suffering
a tear for the living memory
from the raw uncut winery
We feel the flesh more keenly,
our trophies include skull cap revelry
imbibing the blessings of the enemy
from the roof of their mind's sanctuary
a treasure merrily grisly,
the scalps of our competitors a salary
making for cloak and horse bridle history,
from the trauma we make victory,
From the trauma we make victory
we showed the world how to whip and ride
how to love liberty,
paper and stone do not decide
the way in which we remedy
iniquity, only in Truth do we confide,
as our kin conquered steadily
from Kushan to Hispania's Atlantic tide,
Rome relinquishing the keys to Destiny
from Atilla to Theodoric's tribe,
the nomadic warriors and traders remained free,
Visigoths vanished as their independence atrophied
the Ostrogoths succumbed to sedentary treachery,
our songs remain sung strongly,
Our songs remain sung strongly,
as Christ was cruxified
for crucibles carried by the Family
we gave sanctuary to many a preacher stigmatized,
Toaists tasted the terror of our primal domain
Buddhists bathed in butterflys' blood
as the Jews jumped on the caravan coin,
Hindus knew Indra lived in the Aryan Hood
while the Nestorians never questioned our sin
and the shamans ate the shame of life,
Mohammad's ginger genetics made him kin
and his Jihad made us grin at the strife
his armies hired us and paid better than the Byzantine,
sometimes faith lives on the edge of a knife,
J.A.B. 2020
May England be
a enormous ship called:
"Queen of the Seas"
And that doesn't sink ...!
May Portugal be
a grand winery
in Lisbon or Funchal,
live on wine and
Codfish...
No ... it is not true that Italy is, just and only ... Pizza, a boot and a
crooked tower ...!
Brazil, Brazil ...
It's not coffee, and football
nor wonder beans ...
It is not true that It is
only that ...
It is not just corruption ...
Only actions, and ...
and gasps ... Petrol and
soya ... also
water and car wash ...
But, O mother, you are further ...
You are a manly homeland ... and
your son doesn't run away
fight ...just fight BRAZIL ...!
On a dry, summer day,
ridin’ back from the Laundromat with Reneé,
she’s got words in her mouth
that she’ll choke on if they don’t come out:
“Something died when you came west –
your malcontent, your empty threats
had me awake watching you sleep,
both of us dreaming ‘bout who I used to be.
You’re in pain; you’re not alone,
But you aren’t who I got to know.
Something changed. I’ll set you free.
Please don’t pretend you still love me.”
Took the air right from my lungs
like God takes youth from the widowed young.
I never was the sort to cry
before I watched my life die.
And she asked me not to leave
until she had what she would need
from her new friends at the winery –
the sort of support to help her get over me.
She made some calls and began to cry.
Said she loved me and said goodbye.
And she told me when I grew up,
she’d have me back and return her love.
But words don’t match the heart;
not when it’s prying itself apart
from an undetected affliction;
from a dark and lonesome addiction.
We switched roles. I took her pain.
Melded it with sorrow and shame.
I recreated the angel of my dreams
so that her sweetness could haunt my sleep.
Took the air right out my lungs
like God takes youth from the widowed young.
I never was the sort to cry
till I watched my life die.
My friend tells me she’s fine;
lives in the city, still sells wine.
She had a view of our favorite bridge
an hour south of where we used to live.
I was that bridge; I had her eye -
engrossed with me no matter who passed by.
But as the fog lifted and disintegrated above the bay,
she yearned for the mystery, and, at last, looked away.
Peaceful morn,oodles of dawn,
Reflecting light,the brown sleek lawn;
Dried,cool and winery gale,
Made a way over dale
The northern wind.
All the forests and flowers,
Dance and crack cheerfully all over the dried bowers:
Out of mind;my pains,
It sway's to drains
Dettering northern wind.
Take;share my pain,
Let not in vain;
Go,share my love and care,
Back rends theirs here it is rare
The charming and cooling northern wind
From thou I'll fell every kisses and love,
Blow wind blow,ceaselessly sans rest,
Thou art messenger,could bring zest
Cease not Lord! The northern wind.
Copyright © Dawa Zangpo | 08/08/2018.
THROUGH A LATIN ROCK HAZE!
Grupo Pagan
gave a Latin/Rock clinic: driving rhythms,
complex melodies, sweaty adrenaline, and
earthy vibrations that plowed through the
crowd at the Greenwood Winery on a perfect
summer evening like a long-haul, fast freight
thundering through the night!
No! No! I mean like three god-damned diesels
and a hundred forty-four ing fully loaded
freight cars doing seventy miles per hour
through the middle of your town, through
the middle of your soul!
Among the diners and dancers and the closest
of friends, were two serious distractions,
which, like merlot and dark chocolate, served
as further proof that God really exists: Out on
the dance floor, a full-bodied, middle-age
woman with light brown skin, thick white hair,
a long black dress, thin-soled flat black sandals,
and very red lips; and sitting at my side, the
silver-white moon that looked like my wife,
a woman succeeding on the impossible
journeys of looking better every year and
somehow transforming more of me every
moment, every day!
There were volcanic eruptions in the back
of my mind but through the syncopated
throbbing of the Latin percussion, the screaming
guitarist, the sexy lead singer, the seductive
waa-waa of the keyboard and bass, and the
provocative experience of the music of life,
I said to myself: “Now settle down, Jack!
These rhythmic vibrations stay with you for days:
the white hair / black dress for a minute or an hour;
but the orbiting moon, waxing and waning and the
light of your night, the shadow of your days, and
the whispering subtext of your spirit and soul,
is a life-giving force and forever
with you!”
There is a small town called Egg Harbor City
situated in central Atlantic County.
It is in the east coast state of New Jersey.
Within is the renowned Renault Winery.
Makers of wine for more than a century,
Their products possess the utmost quality.
They produce champagne flavored with blueberries.
This unique product possesses qualities
that allow the wine to compete with the best.
Its flavor makes it stand out among the rest.
The state’s best blueberries gives it a nice hue
It’s naturally sweet with its color of blue.
Wine has been bottled since 1864.
When you’re there the first time, you’ll be back for more.