Fermentation Poems | Examples

The Great American Fallacy

Something caught between the eyes of fellowship and the riddle of thought makes any setting unforeseeable. Yet, within the mannerisms of those declawed by the very societies they themselves conceived armed only with a utility belt of miraculous misconceptions springs forth exponential, autonomous growth, promised by the ancestors of preconceived notions.

Most often, the spirits of ideas formed upon the fragile spine of inadequate frequencies press us all into a reliable destination, one mastered only through performances of unseen archetypes, driving this windowless vehicle we insist on calling time.

My augmented delusions, I admit, disassociate from the fermentation of your reasoning, and so taint our deductive search for the emotions we struggle to preserve. The tropes of an enigma’s fragrance intoxicate the cerebral moments of free thought, undermining even the simplest reproductive solutions for advancing communication.

And so, as I tear this parchment, I summon an opportunity. Yet what a cumbersome opportunity it is.

An Uncertain History of Champagne

Just how champagne came to be
opinions vary and there are many.
The French insist it was no mistake
like all great art they highly rate;
indeed, a felicitous coupling
of skill and savoir faire* resulting
in a tingling bubbly effervescence
rocketed champagne to prominence.
(Other stories and less discreet
explain the wine maker fell asleep
and thus the fermentation
exceeded normal maturation.)
The French even claim to know the name
of him who gave the wine its fame,
(a lowly monk named Dom Pérignon), 
who described it as a phenomenon
akin to “drinking the stars,” an epithet
as valid today as when he first sipped it. 

*Savoir faire = Know-how

Father's Memorial day

The world has indeed been forgetting me
Forgetting me cruelly 
As waste that neither grow nor breathe

It is a fermentation of anger and despair 
As Despairing as it struggles with anger 
At the unknowns in dark 

Gleefully silence compares with the sunshine 
The sunshine does have evils 
Telling that today I cannot forget about

Still Life with Cheeses, Almonds and Pretzels

Self-Portrait 1-12-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Still Life with Cheeses, Almonds and Pretzels

Still life, not stillborn,
With a woman’s face
In dusky background hues,
 Pure clarity clothed in white,
Gazing on gastronomic abundance.

Artist of the banquet
One step behind – 
The woman’s place of her time -
Guardian of the sweet rewards
Served like bridal wine,
Topping the earthen vessel
Of embryonic fermentation.

In a cradle of fine delft
Consummated almonds,
 Mellow figs
  Ripe fruit
Conceived out of ravenous rapture
Confinement released in harvest’s fare
In signatures of arms crossed -
 Daily bread – gifts of finest wheat –
Served with golden curls,
Crushed seeds of grain 
Birthing beauty’s fullness.

Above this feast of still life
A woman smiles
Her signature waiting to be discovered –
Waiting for the invitation to emerge
 From the shadow!

Millennium

Astral Backlash, Cosmic Dimension, Environmental Fermentation Gradual, History, incidental Jubilation, Kinetic Labryinth, Military Negation, Optomistic Pessimism, Quaint Radical Skeptimism, Toxic Utopia, Vague Willfullness, Xenomobic Yougsters, Zero

Stuck In a Pub

This privilege of the spirits I drink 
That came from a stilling thought
A blend of potatoes and corn 
With the steaming of fermentation
A white lighting with a clean taste
Smooth when I blew an 0.8
Cuffs were tight in the black and white
The bar turned into metal
I staggered into my room
The next morning, I was the Judged
By the one who had a bachelor's in law
I said: 
I have a hangover in my head
Then the gavel came down
Innocent or guilty he said:
I had an innocent frown
My guilt lay into the still that steamed
My mouth was out of control
I drank without knowing
this simple meal of potatoes and corn
How could this get me into trouble?
Then he said fine, I was thinking okay
but my credit card balance went away
No more Pub for me until the 1st
More money in my bank I will see

Then, 
Its back to the pub for me  

Contest: Freedom Pub
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Date Created: 11/29/2022

Inhalator

I was having a long spell of constipation,
my stomach forgot what’s called motion.
It got busy with lazy fermentation bout,
and chose its own way to let the gas out.

One morn I took the lift down, feeling tense,
with the bloated up belly fostering flatulence,
I couldn’t hold, when I let loose in the elevator, 
I heard someone ask, “where’s the inhalator”?

August 2, 2021
Contest : When I Let Loose In The Elevator
Sponsor : Charles Messina

Pain and Love

A surreal vision
dreamlike and bizarre.
     I felt as if I were in the throes
     of a turbulent blazing blizzard,
     a throbbing pulsating migraine
     almost static in fermentation.
It gnawed intensively at my innards,
atrocious labor pains.

She put a small wet warm towel
Right on my forehead.

Then relief.
A calming of the spirit,
ethereal, soft, relaxing.
A vision of vastness
dotted by languid lakes,
rippling rivulets,
autumn-colored trees,
eternal waterfalls,
and myriads of emigrating geese.
    I slept, feeling you besides me,
    warm, homely, and satisfying.
    Precisely why I loved you.

22 April 2021

Placed 1

Writing Prompt - Ache - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France

Wales Is Grape

Wales is Grape
 [Enter the 'Wales' Poetry Contest]
[Done to the Methodist Hymn, "How Great Thou Art"] 

Wales to me is ...
Oh he was born, in Glastonbury, England
fermentation of grape juice he hath made
no alcohol shall be used for communion.
Thomas Welch, Methodist minister forbade

Then sings my soul, for peanuts and jelly
How great thou art, how great thou art
Then sings my soul, despite his dentistry 
England is not Wales but not apart.

by,
Martin Braun
5/26/2020

Originals

The best sins come in original 
Or is it something else worth less?

Seeing is in the eye of the beholder
Or is it beauty or something worse?

No one is alike when they are different
Never the same when they are changed
There are two kinds of people in the world
Both of them named Gingerbread
According to newspaper sources

If you have thoughts original 
Please keep them to yourself 
In a jar far from the mainland
On a shelf for fermentation

One idea can change the world
Come in circular or oval, smooth as opal
Grown in mushrooms dark 
Pop with energy when exposed to light

All things being equal must mean something
Antiques for instance keep their shapes
History makes mistakes by aging them
Placing values on the rust    
Makes everything the same, mundane

Lust Short-Version

Lust is like the salt of the sea. 
The artificial Ambrosia or Siren's fomented Mead.
Augmenting thirst, the more you drink. 
Forgetting the drink came first. Then came a thirst.
To be unshackled to idols in idle mutiny.
Before the fermentation of idolatry. Figureheads, 
flotsam and shipwrecks on the seven stormy seas.

Mother Gaia

You pour through my soul
Absinthian elixir
My Mother Gaia.

Sunsets of Ruby,
Elysian fields, golden;
Amethyst mountains.

I taste Bing cherry
Concord Grape fermentation
Tangerine orange.

I drink heartily
I pray for supplication
Needing sustenance.

The Passion

full of emotion
       pulsating
       brooding
       heaving
parsed
           by desire
with
      feelings
              of the heart
a
   voyage
             of discovery
poignant
aglow
       audacious
                 & 
            breathless
an intuitive
                tableaux
with
gestures
      explicit
        &
       visible
                 flooding
the moment

    overflowing
             frantic
!onging to
               give
floating
 in uncharted
                    seas
to a love
              afire
...
    to
       savour

sensuous
   burning
    with fiery
         passion
a consuming
         flame

driven to despair
all
   peace of mind
              no more
wounded
    deeply tortured
without
the semblance
            of reality

mediocrity

a silent shadow
on
circumstance

suddenly

             hope
in a sense of beauty

unforced earnestness
conceived

a state
      of fermentation
vivacious
    &
      exciting
what bliss
what delight
              free
              unconcealed

to know love
&
stand amazed

Fermentation

Fermentation

Rumpled like a ceiling mirror 
Staring at an unmade bed,
Like burned tyres of a revolution,
Like a beach without sand,
A wood pecker without a beak,
Like a baby born with a cord around his neck.
Marks of birth etched all over me, 

I feel the sugar oozing,
I taste the sour,
Having turned.

We didn’t wake up to find the lights out:
Screws slowly undone with every fight,
I hate you and forgive you then hope.
But it wasn’t wine brewing. 

The kisses that flew out the window,
Every morning as you returned with a whiff of her.
My love sinking six feet every night,
As I clutched at lonely pillows, 
While you sank into her,
Behind conference room doors 
In meetings that never were.

I feel fermented
And it taste like hate from 1939,

Brewed in my soul through a love glycolysis.
My veins filled with ethanol and alcohol,
Inebriated with pain and I drink,

From this glass of sorrow, 
In memory of your past. 
Celebrating your death,
The last time you tasted of her sugar
While I drenched in this lactic acid.

Djinn

O'er dales and parched wells she flies
Come morning she'll blind
With her hypnotizing mist 
And low whispers

Whispers that writhe the mind in agony
That have dazed the children
Of the Round City 
As they prolix about the loud and narrow paths

She distills their minds
With the fermentation of grapes
Sending them around the fountains of despair 
In a never ending whirl of noxious airs
Where colours collide

She proffers the hide of leather
For the blender of oils 
To lend her a hand
To seduce the virgin bride
Whom she'll send to an abyss of evil
Where the resident sorcerer
Grows ever more indolent 
As he feeds on boar

She twists in the sky
Upon the incensed wing of Hooriyah
A dear angel
Of the purest light
With duress she tosses her wing
Sending the djinn on a golden stream

It bathes the corners she inhabits
And showers the Earth 
With the pure gold of the Celestial Chymist
And so the djinn speeds to the East
As the call of prayer
Shakes the land

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