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.
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
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
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.”
Why let children believe in miracles
Even though we are not faithful?
Let children turn pinot to grape juice
As Jesus did at a wedding feast
Let your child turn stones into biscuits
Prove the devil wrong with your glee
When cancer and bombs rob your love
Like Romans rolling dice for robes
When remission fails your cherub
And Jesus is out of miracles
When it’s time to roll the stone shut
As He must have felt for your child
Mary must have wailed for all of us
For our babies are now timeless
They say resurrection is impossible
Say that to mothers who witness
A holey child’s hand held by doubters
When Easter has come again
Your child ascends into memory
Deep into the hippocampus
Children live again and thrive
Even when you die
Your faith in your child lives
Outlasting your vigil
Eternal as the archer, Orion
Piercing the heart of God
Oh, the laughter
Not heard since Christ was nailed
A mother’s wail brings joy to Him
Cuz He knows you have ears to hear
Our forgotten children long gone
Waiting for resurrection
Waiting for us to awake
Waiting for a familiar hand
To bring heaven down
Hoping for revelation
Hand in hand
Back to Eden
Mark 9:37
Whoever welcomes one little child such as this in my name welcomes me. And whoever welcomes me does not welcome me, but him who sent me.
A wine connoisseur and Life
Trickling pearls of red and white
The sizzling hot, the fizzing out
Pinot noir, Reisling, Chardonnay
Teroldego, Norton , Carbanet
Deliverance from all the doubts
As he sees, swirls, sniffs, sips, savors
For once he chooses, its best of world
The embroidered sweet drops with finest taste
The embellished pearly drops with blissful tizz
Oenophile's stemware filled with recherche expertise
Like a bagpiper playing best among best of tunes!
Floats our life's canoe over varied wines of emotions
We the connoisseurs need to take the tasting flight
And drink from bottles of right emotions
And drink from glasses poured in blends of doses right
To row the canoe through smoothest wines,
exotic choices we ought to make...
And enjoy the tizz of happiness,
Savor the taste of contentment,
Relish the sparkling journey
of life to cherish a vintage life!
©Anulaxmi Nayak, 2015
( had to drop it for contest as this exceeded 13 lines...)
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
(In the Middle Ages, tombs and monuments
often bore carvings of skulls or decaying corpses.
The idea was to remind the onlooker that he, too,
was marked for death. These figures were known
as "memento mori".)
Approach me, stranger. Nothing in my story
should startle you. Your flesh has always known it.
I just remind you. I'm Memento Mori.
Yes, this is what awaits you. Don't disown it.
You came in laughing, vital, carefree, easy,
but now your peace is ruined. Go, bemoan it,
and when your Pinot Grigio, risi e bisi
no longer please your palate, and your lover,
so far from comforting you, makes you queasy,
think hard. There's more to life than quail and plover.
Many things may never happen. This one must.
There's less to life than hope, as you'll discover.
For what you are now, that's what I once was. See?
See what I am? It's what you're going to be.
Twenty fifth of December, three thousand and four
and already I'm down in the dumps
we're round at the neighbour's via tubes that save labour
propelled by some hydraulic pumps.
We've exchanged all our presents and got them unwrapped
once again I've got self-cleaning socks
the wife's Kevlar panties, though they are quite scanty
are going straight back in the box.
I'm constantly goaded to eat nuts they've downloaded
they'll try any tactic to feed ya
but the problem, I quibble is that some have been nibbled
as they're passed around on social media.
We're looking for doorways or just any more ways
to find a quick route to get out
and escape if we're able, being chased round the table
by genetically modified sprouts.
They've offered a glass of Martian Pinot noir
and they tell me it's alcohol free
so there goes my boozing and afternoon snoozing
and waking up just after tea.
Grandma kids are teasing, cryogenic freezing
means she won't wake up until noon
to find grapes in her hair and a plum, God knows where
and they've blocked up her nose with some spoons.
Don't know why they have bothered with plates that can hover
it seems so bone idle to me
they could have just handed the pudding that's landed
on the light fitting just above me.
The custard's abundant but the jug is redundant
administered now by syringe
and so is the Brandy which, though is quite handy
prevents us from having a binge.
When later we get back from fresh air and jet packs
remembering when we could walk
I'll look back fondly then to those Christmases when
we just used a knife and a fork.
November 16th 2015
For Contest 'A futuristic Christmas', sponsor Mystic Rose
(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?”
Razor back clams
she put the veggie
oil and olive oil
together in a bowl
and put cayenne and
dried peppers in the oil
where she had
crushed 10 cloves of garlic
heating the oil to extract the flavors
she let it cook
for 6 minutes
cooling over night
for lunch the next
day she would be entertaining
more than 55 people
for rehearsal
of the orchestra
razor clams
and nutria
and lsenga
would be the stars of
the table
chef Monday would
cook to the delight of these people
who needed to fine tune
there act.
Stuffed Nutria
the hindparts stuffed with
crayfish and sausage
a dry Alsatian pinot blanc
to accompany the parmesan and
lemon and pine nut combo
that coupled with crayfish and sausage
I asked my wife what was the best way to
cook a Muskrat and I told
her done. I aint got nothing against the thang
I just wanna do it with people I will likely need there
opio and loyalty to me and I to them
like this opera player
due to there need to
focus and fine tune to be absolute professionals.
the Fox 41 has never lefted us abandoned.