Long Pinot Poems
Long Pinot Poems. Below are the most popular long Pinot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pinot poems by poem length and keyword.
The rain is falling
Pitter Patter
I sit on my porch and rock
My Pinot noir slips and shatters
The angry winds mock
I retrieve my lighter from the kitchen
Foolishly expecting to smoke
The enraged wind is full of tension
A gush of rain blew in to soak
My face wore a blank expression
In hopes the storm would taunt another
Portrayed myself oblivious to its aggression
We had a rivalry between each other
The rain is falling
Pitter Patter
I lie in my bed and watch the ceiling drip
A pot to catch the fallen water
Determined to go down with my ship
The storm refuses to cease
Floods consume the bottom level
My home falls apart piece by piece
The very foundation begins to bevel
The rain is falling
Pitter Patter
It rolls off the sides of my face
The storm rolls on, but it doesn't matter
This is a deserted place
Bad Luck for the Vampire Teeth
It was such a gloomy Halloween day
The Vampire Teeth tinted with blood,
and delicate pinot noir (bottled not yesterday),
went flying over a field of western redbud.
From his side,
a drunk goose
struck him. The Vampire Teeth cried,
‘Watch where you fly, you goose!’
Then ten more geese smacked into him (frown, frown)
So so winded he couldn’t stay in the air,
and he fell quite fast down down down
into a big crack the length of a bear
in the road that boarded the field square.
No one heard his cries for help.
Then his voice box broke.
Then a limping construction worker Mr Kelp
who was too broke
filled in the crack (with some egg yolk)
with cement angrily demanded by the folk.
No more ancient Gaelic Festival of
Samhain for The Vampire Teeth.
All because of
those stupid geese, and that worker Heath.
Two dwellings in one single block
(the peasants at the back).
One market garden, orchard, flock:
No asphalt road. Just track.
The men were in the bottom field
to get the barley in.
“It’s looking like a bumper yield:
don’t lose it. That’s a sin.”
The Master’s doing ‘market day’ –
four bottles. Pinot noir.
The peasants joke: “He’s making hay!
He’ll wreck another car!”
Maria looked up from her paste –
that pasta needs a tweak –
it’s never good, if done in haste –
no meat or fish this week.
She felt the window drawing her:
Where’s Salva? On the grass?
The Lady, in her Sunday fur!
Tomorrow’s Martinmas!
This was the day, with harvest picked,
when bosses, ‘cleaning house’,
by ancient custom could evict,
could tell their staff, “Heraus!”
But Salva wasn’t in the sand,
or playing near the cellar:
the Lady, clutching by the hand
her daughter, Arabella,
called out “Maria! Come to me!
And don’t you dare refuse!
This yard is filthy. Can’t you see
what’s happened to my shoes?
Your boy was playing ‘gallows bird’
with Bella, in this mess!
And what if something had occurred
to Bella’s yellow dress?
The first thought in Maria’s head
was, “So – we’re not evicted!”
The second, “That girl’s overfed –
her midriff is constricted.”
Signora, with her other arm,
held Salva by the scruff.
“You peasants,” sneered the farmyard marm,
“are naturally rough.”
“They’re getting to a certain age,
and well, I mean to say …”
Maria swallowed down her rage.
“Fine. Far apart they’ll stay.”
One day while fishing on the bridge,
I hooked a gorgeous speckled trout,
Reeled it in and pulled it out,
Carried home, stored in my fridge.
The trout it was prepared next day,
Two large filets cooked and eaten,
Flavor intense could not be beaten
By any chef, no how, no way.
With spinach green, tomatoes red,
Sautéed perfection in olive oil,
Potatoes piping from the boil,
A perfect meal left us well fed.
A glass of wine, a Pinot Gris,
Washed down the food with complement,
The nose? Fresh flowers, a lovely scent,
Pure vintage, two thousand and three.
Relaxed, forgetting all our sorrow,
After such a sumptuous dish,
I long to catch another fish,
To the bridge again, perhaps tomorrow.
2/3/2019 - Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest - Emil Pinet
colour palette spilling with paint on grass,
vision to capture nature on canvas,
makes myriad strokes, eyes strain behind glass,
creates butterflies, pupas with larvas.
meadow he paints with million shades of leaves,
sky is pure golden, light filters through trees,
to add impact, network of twigs he weaves,
he is bending his back, down on his knees.
cider, oak, and others to him unknown,
paints replica of which God would be proud,
sun flower so real, attracts a drone,
soon draws admiration of local crowd!
weeks he took to create his master piece,
each season that nature creates with ease.
Written 4th Nov 2023
10 syllables each line
12+2 lines
Emile Pinot
The Grandeur Of Fall poetry contest
Checked with Rhyme zone for perfect rhyme.
grammar checked- Poetry soup
an elk rib rack frenched
pinot noir
garlic
slab bacon
pearl onions
tomato paste
mushrooms
celery
red bell pepper
cayeene pepper
thyme bay leaves
carrots
brown all edges of the elk in olive oil
allow to cool
add wine and salt
Mccormick seasoning
all to marinade for three hours
in a dutch oven
add oilve oil 5 T.
cook bacon !/2done
(1/2 raw add lastly)
sautee carrots, celery,
red bell pepper
add mushrooms and
remove from heat
and add the rib roast
pour in wine
add one cup of water
pearl onions
thyme and bay leaves
add tomato paste
season with more McCormick's
cook for 3 hours at 350.
make a gravy and mash potato's
-----------------------------------------
serve with a grilled veggie salad with goat cheese
and garlic bread
(MaGowen’s Pizzaland Monroe, CT 2008)
The caterwaul of the jukebox blends seamlessly with the screech of infants,
and the fumes of garlic hanging heavily in the air.
The true mama’s and papa’s are here, here where the dough flies
the glasses clink; and the Beatles belt out
Strawberry Fields Forever ....
The roar of unruly children,
bashing video buttons to Roll Over Beethoven
pounds into the diners temples, dulled with Pinot noir, Chianti
and pitchers of golden ale.
Trays, tall, saucer-shaped sit beside cherry red baskets
of pristine white bread, as the fire engine red corvettes pull up outside.
The jet-black and chrome model T’s vie for spaces on the asphalt lot
outside the restaurants doors.
Sweet-hearts wait for the cracked, green-vinyl booths
like penitents at a Sunday mornings mass.
Pizza pies fly by on stainless saucer- shaped plates
landing on cluttered Formica tables
dressed with vinegars and shake cheese
Racecars zoom around the game track;
as kids run pell-mell down the aisles.
And, only Mary Lou knows
“Who’s on first?”
No one else exists
A crowded city street
strolling a narrow sidewalk,
your hand in mine
Pastel neon lights paint the buildings
in soothing colors,
softening sharp edges,
creating a wonderland
on this cool winter night
A small bistro, street side tables
candle light and tablecloths
tiny dancing flames on white linen
igniting your smile as we take a seat
amidst the din of taxi cabs
racing to find the sunset,
lover’s fare put to good use
in backseat desires
Two glasses of Pinot,
fine crystal offerings
as are your eyes, glistening,
dark chocolate petals
calling me in, hypnotized
free falling into your heart
and I drink them in slowly,
tasting every tantalizing gaze
A toast to us, touching glasses,
touching hearts, changing lives
as I wonder what I have done
to deserve this dream, you and me,
no one else exists, the city bustles
unnoticed as we sip the fruits
of our love on a chilly evening
hoping it never ends…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
…and as the clock strikes midnight,
a joyous noise rings out, streamers flutter in the wind
while fireworks dazzle the skies
and I raise my glass to my friends at Poetrysoup,
wishing them all the happiest New Year!
It isn't about the race
I should have told my runners
the morning
of the race
today is more
than one 5k
they looked bored, tired,
excited, and all the other
feelings they wouldn't
share with me
there are too many people
and I cannot project myself
convincingly enough
to let my 3rd-8th
graders know
that the race doesn't matter
and the metal
is just made of metal
(mass-produced)
The vendors line
the showplace
and Justin Timberlake's
song is playing
(how come I hear this song
at every 5k race?)
'Can't Stop the Feeling'
I tell my kids to warm up
and parents are worried
that they will get tired
(Its back and forth on flat road
four times only!
You wimps!
(Not the kids
Select parents)
Why do I feel like a clown,
entertainer, enthusiast,
dictionary of nonsense,
and idiotic coach
all at the same time
today?
I need a party size
bottle of pinot grigio
to get through this
alive!
Fifth wave, bibs are on,
my top runner is full
of cheese fries,
and we are off!
One fell down
at the beginning
(not on my team)
Another one lost a shoe
and carried it
through the race
(not on my team)
The sun was just bright
and warm enough
to make another kid
cry while walking
down the hill
"They made me run,
I hate this!"
(Not on my team)
All my runners survived
and none of the parents
sued me
We didn't win
and they all scattered after
for the Kona Ice
Not on my team!
There is a sublime pool of intersecting streams.
I wade that wet like watermelon's green.
Citrulline el citrine my cisterns be clean like the water's Maxwell.
The soul is luminous and gloomed by the taste of tart nectarines.
Ascorbic acid redox action.
Black berries and raspberry pi passions.
Anthocyanin dismutation.
Resveratrol is my midas touch; I turn water into a flight of Pinot noir and charcuterie plush.
I see your face and develop a crush.
I may improvise on your liquid piano a null note to Chopin.
Masquerade with a mask made of fluent time before the sluice is opened.
Lift my grail to fill of all with these mulled elixirs; to place in a potion of pairs.
Drop just a dram of it's dole on the serpent's forked tongue so that it's venom may be squared.
The juice of a dragon fruit dragon.
Take just a drop to succus for a homeopathic.
Used to incant with living spirits a sanguine pima mater.
It sweetens inside it's menstruum; imprinting it's mark in the water by delicate radio wave resonance.
All to be nestled in the sublingual space of an atoned tyrant.
Vitalized by the fruit's likeliness to my draconian ward.
Reconstituted by the essence of what was once the fruit of knowledge before.
Ripened, to a pursuit of love inside it's holon core.