There are so many things I am mad about.
Take sunrise with red clouds and soft rays
Penetrating through the water-laden clouds.
Rain is imminent, thunder threatening afar.
It matters not, for I love to stay cosy indoors.
Soon, it will rain, and with impulsive haste, I’ll
Sit at my beloved baby grand and play
A few tentative light-hearted arpeggios
Followed by a mesmerising, uplifting allegro
But never finish with some sad dirge.
By noon, the weather clears into a soft breeze
And I proceed to have a meal made up
Of my favourite shellfish and rigatoni
With shredded truffles and a glass of chilled Chablis.
From that terrace, I could see the turbulent sea,
Its waves roll nonchalantly towards the shore,
Rising and falling, always transient
And showering us with a froth of salty spray,
A sweet caress that tastes so pleasant on my lips.
There are so many things that give me pleasure and satisfaction.
And you, Madam? I still remember your sensitivity.
Your glossy lips met mine: It was the best thing I loved.
There's winter magic taking place
I see it on each young child's face
going on sleigh rides, throwing snowballs
and making angels when fresh snow falls.
There's excitement in the frosty air,
sledding down hills without a care.
Anticipating presents kept under a tree
hot chocolate for kids, adults get chablis.
Snuggling with a loved one to keep her warm,
knowing you'll protect her from every harm.
In Winter we find magic each night and day
when the wonderland season gets underway.
Wild rambling roses of a pinkish bloom
dance in the breeze down by the sea.
Roots grasping deep in the tall wavy dunes.
Pussy Willows growing in a grandiose plume.
Cat birds cry from a tall shimmering tree.
Wild rambling roses of a pinkish bloom.
Summer is now here, so we all assume.
white gulls soar in the blue sky above me.
Roots grasping deep in the tall wavy dunes.
Nocturnal shadows creep into my room.
I fill my cherished cup with a green tea.
Wild rambling roses of a pinkish bloom.
Essence of lilac, such a lovely perfume.
Soon to be autumn and the wonderful jubilee.
Roots grasping deep in the tall wavy dunes.
Strong winds blow-up a sand simoom.
I sit on the deck with a glass of Chablis,
Wild rambling roses of a pinkish bloom;
Roots grasping deep in the tall wavy dunes.
There flows in the blooming fields of Master, Claude Monet
a tulip river that springs to life with each impassioned stroke
A painting into which butterflies would be tempted to stray
where flowers waft in currents, making oohs and ahs evoke.
A Don Quixotic windmill and an old farmhouse in succession
short strokes of crimson, muted greens and boldest yellow
blended on canvas, the artist's Impressionistic expression.
Landscapes in natural light was the genius of this fellow.
I would snip a fresh bouquet of tulips to adorn a crystal vase
and capture their scent from the canvas for perfumed potpourri.
If I could climb inside a Monet painting, in my arms I'd embrace
you beside his tulip river and then sip a glass of crisp Chablis.
Sit atop my wings
I'll fly you places
Show you things
I've been around the world
Just come along
I'll keep you furled
I know just where to go
We won't be rushed
We'll take it slow
I'll first bring you to France
We'll nosh on brie
Maybe even dance
As long as you're with me
You'll sip the finest French Chablis
Wild rambling roses of a pinkish bloom
dance to the winds down by the sea.
Roots grasping deep in the tall sand dune.
Pussy Willows growing in a grandiose plume.
Cats birds cry from tall shimmering trees.
Pheasant strut in their feathered costume.
Spring is now here, so we all assume.
A white seagull soars in the blue sky above me.
Sunshine’s bright chasing away winter’s gloom.
Nocturnal shadows creep into my room.
I fill my cherished cup with a nice green tea.
Colors fill my mind as twilight now looms.
Essence of lilac, such a lovely perfume.
Soon to be May Day and the wonderful jubilee.
Cleaning the kitchen with a sweep of the broom.
Strong winds blow the sand like a simoom.
I sit on the deck with a glass of Chablis,
lost in thought as my old cat grooms.
The last of the sun’s rays do heavenly illume.
One pint of sherry wine
says the recipe
which finds me asking
can I substitute a gallon of Chablis
or even quarts of Scotch or Bourbon
pretend I am wallowing in my past
quelling my misery
while waving my alcoholism in Death’s face
One pound of macaroons
It says
They’ll place their calories under my nose
add pounds
more than the mere seventeen
I gained when the doctor told me not to walk
creating this newest morbidly overweight me
not trifling with death here either
One quart of cream whipped
will leave me more than sedentary
stiff
actually
and one whole egg flaunts current conventions
thumbs its nose against my clogged arteries
and helps me laugh at the second
or third
helping of those air saturated
cream calories
standing tall over that
custard basted, wine soaked,
pound of Lady Fingers.
Reality is never what it seems
when trifles say they serve 12.
Queen of Trifles, The Settlement House Cookbook, page 372
Charlie
That's Me
Detects
Suspects
Here's Clue
For Flu
Veggie
Suey
Ban Food
No Good
You Do
Flu Through
My Fee
Chablis
Glug Glug
Chug Chug...
So Long
Drink Gone
A packet of seeds arrived in the mail last week
with no hint of what they were, or how to be grown.
With curiosity aroused by their mystique,
I wondered just what I would reap from what I'd sown.
The very next day, there appeared weird little sprouts,
wiggling like fingers, rising up from rain soaked ground.
That these things were edible, I was having doubts
when I heard from deep inside one, a gurgling sound.
If this was a prank or some sort of wicked joke
someone was making a mockery out of me.
My heart nearly stopped; thought I was having a stroke.
I needed a drink, or a bottle of Chablis.
Suddenly, tendrils grew into a climbing vine
with blooms of white flowers, overflowing with wine.
August 16, 2020
Mystery Seeds Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
Her Love Colored Soul
A masterpiece of delight, that shimmers
in musical moonlight.
In its swirls, the mystical tales that disclose
tales of her delights.
The steamy crimson kisses, no, you will
never feel.
Her curvaceous body under finest lace and
satiny teal.
Her almost divine, angelic intervention,
That makes you bloom in a summer night's
passionate resurrection!
Her soft hands, to never touch your skin.
Because you are afraid that passion is a sin.
And thus, the moon surely doth take flight.
And you? You missed your Adonis night.
The scent of summer's evening flowers,
Overtakes you, in your lonely room.
Not even a chilled glass of Chablis,
Can replace her voice whispering, "I love you."
July 12, 2020
8pm PST
The sun will come out
for it’s your birthday
The winds will cease
for it’s your birthday
There’s a smile on my face
for it’s your birthday
But you are not here
even though it’s your birthday
Cancer took you too soon
so all your birthdays stopped
But even though you are not here
I celebrate your birthday dear
With a poem
and a card
and a nice glass of Chablis
The sky is so blue
on this very special Sunday
Oh to see your smile
and to chat for a while
I will tell the whole world
they can sing the birthday song
Happy Birthday
Happy Birthday,
Happy Birthday to you
My darling dear Frank hear me sing all day long
17th March 2019 – Frank’s Birthday…
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
In my most endearing reveries, I journey once more
where monoliths of stone rose from the rocky shore
reminiscing the joyful days we spent along the quay
as sunrise painted pastel hues over waves in the bay
We gazed at the blush on the horizon, both enchanted
It was though Chablis and rose' were being decanted
generously poured into the sea in front of our eyes
as dawn was birthed in morning's Eastern skies
Barely older than innocence, on love's fragile verge
Emotions were undisguised as passion began to surge
Hesitant touches, clumsy kisses, awakened fascination
That summer was so much more than a mere flirtation
Haunted by the memories of the towering Cornwall cliffs
my heart will always wonder about those "what ifs"
What if we'd not parted. What if we'd let love prevail
Magic and mystery linger, much like an Arthurian tale
Amazing days we shared, leaving footprints on the coast
But it wasn't just geography that held me so engrossed
but the beauty of a woman and the spell on me she wove
in our romantic morning trysts, along that sandy Cove
The question itself begs interpretation,
The word 'where' concealing so many implications
Is this 'where' a physical place, or state of mind?
Perhaps it's with a higher consciousness aligned?
Boston, London, Paris, or Rome? Cairo, Lisbon, Moscow, or Gnome?
Were you abroad? Were you at sea? Were you in space? --Or just at home?
Perhaps you were in Timbuktu, or basking in the ambience of Xanadu,
Sailing away on pink Chablis, sipping winter-blossom chartreuse tea.
The word itself is a siren, inviting by utterance unimaginable peregrinations
Of connotations, demarcations, gesticulations, imprecations--divinations!
Fathomless depths, layers of meaning, shells of encasement, particulars
beaming:
'Here' is in 'where,' and so is 'were.' Were you here? Where? Posibilities
teeming..
Not to mention 'Ere' and 'Rhee:' Ere you were here, where were you, Rhee?
Ah, Rhee, my bold, my courageous, my daring--yet compassionate Draupadi.
Now ere I bid this poem adieu: Where were you in the 70s is the question.
Hmmm. I can't really say. Forgive me, please, this slight indiscretion.
cold tree
chablis
hearts free
soft brie
on beach, under cold tree, chablis lips
on warm blanket, hearts free, soft brie quips
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