COME AND SIP WITH ME
My cup overflows…
I’m sipping from its saucer—
God’s cistern pouring:-
I sip regret
Like it’s vintage wine
No chaos here
Just quite decay
And the truth that colludes
To burn my soul
Swearing in both truths
Every smile
Rehearsed with quite pain
They don’t see
what I hold inside
All the storms that rain in me
I keep my demons close by
Trying not to scream
To fulfill the satanic deeds
While letting the restless chase
The noise they choose.
I write because memory is a river that refuses to stay still
The moment passes once
A bird lifting from a fence
A goodbye folding itself into silence
A laugh scattering through the air
Like sunlight through shattered glass
But the page is a patient sea
Gathering every lost wave and returning to the shore
When I write, I become both traveller and map
Walking the road again
While tracing where my feet once bled
Words are lanterns hung in dark corridors of time
And each sentence relights a room I thought I had left behind
A memory enters me once as rain, cold and fleeting against my skin
But through writing, it returns as a garden
Blooming where the storm once stood
I write to taste life twice
First, as a fruit ripening on the branch
Sweet with surprise, then again as wine
Aged in the quiet cellar of reflection
For what is writing if not holding water in my hands
Long enough to see my own reflection?
A second sip, a second sunrise, a second chance to stand
Inside a vanished moment and call it home
I gazed at the warmth
in your smile,
careful not to meet your eyes,
stepping back just enough
to stay in control.
Sitting on the balcony,
waiting to watch
your first sip of coffee,
where sunlight touched your skin,
and I lost my balance quietly.
I could choose to touch,
embrace,
even choose to love you.
I didn't.
This fleeting moment
is too fragile
to endure a touch.
Longing to become
two statues mirroring each other,
hung from a cathedral,
resisting time.
Thousands would cross between us,
yet I would remain fixed on you.
Witnessing uncountable battles
over the centuries,
gazing at the fractures in you.
Beneath loud voices in prayer,
and still I would find
your silence.
When our time comes,
even reduced to dust,
we would resist.
Paralyzed in memory,
frozen in pictures made of us,
carried through stories
that will age before us.
In that stillness,
I would hold nothing of the world.
A simple move
would be impossible.
Still—
I would have you.
Now—
I realize
I was yours too.
A squirrel named Sunny Sip
found brunch on someone’s trip~
a glass of bright mimosa
left sparkling by the chair.
He took a tiny taste,
declared it quite first-rate,
then chattered to the blue jays
about citrus in the air.
Soon he was swishing proudly,
tail swirled and lifted loudly
the forest’s tipsy bruncher
preferred his brunch with fizzy flair.
A sip of life
Each takes.
Listen! Parched throats, from puddles.
Hen's. Drake's.
Ah! Easy hurt
Are you.
Who can, off a fern's leaf-fall
Glug, glug
Tree frog, less gross of mouth slug
Hear too.
The cup rests warm in the bearer's hands
inviting a swirl fragrant sniff
to savor the wine, palm cupped
a pause before drinking
raising glass to lips
tilting the cup
heavenwards
to taste
head
laid
back
acquiescent
in ritual revelry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Snowflakes kiss the pane,
whispers melt on frosted glass~
one last cocoa sip.
Footsteps pause beneath the eaves~
Was that reindeer on the roof?
I'm thinking there's many
a drinking toast
'Cheers!' 'Cin cin!' '¡Salud!'
'Sláinte!' 'Prost!'
'Here's looking at you!'
or 'Mud in your eye!'
'To health wealth and happiness!'
in Japan it's 'Kanpai'
Hebrew 'L'chaim!' Chinese 'Ganbei!'
Russia 'Na Zdorovie!' Scandinavia 'Skål!'
and 'E ola!' in Hawaii
but was it a member
of the gay persuasion
who first let slip
before a sip slurp or sup
twixt cup and lip
the suggestion 'Bottoms up!'
Poem submitted to ILLUSKA: Illustrated Haiku Challenge Poetry Contest, JCB Brul, sponsor, 7/24/2025
*WE SIP HER MOMENTS
summer sails on seas
of sparkling lily laughter
we sip her moments
*Note: I published this poem at Poetry Soup on June 9, 2025. (www.poetrysoup.com › poem › we_sip_her_moments_1738034) then deleted it. Am re-sharing it now. This is my original poem
Celebration begins,
Charcuterie boards and
Chilled bottles of champagne.
Chilled champagne poured, served in
Coupe, flute, tulip glasses,
Creates bubbles and fizz.
Cheers, raise glasses and sip.
Put a little cardamom in it.
Spice it up!
Cloves are great for health.
Add that in too!
A pinch of cinnamon.
Wow, what a robust flavor!
Don’t forget Ginger!
Peel and feel the texture.
Drop it in!
Pitch black tea leaves.
It leaves you with a strong, but bitter sensation.
Hear those bubbles sing and dance while boiling,
Steam shoots up in the air out of the tea kettles’ spout,
like a rocket to the moon.
Yes, I can drink this to the moon and back.
A tasty concoction of flavor in this tiny little cup.
Simply just pleases your taste buds.
Stems from the country of India.
Spicy and yet so sweet.
Makes your day complete,
rather than incomplete.
Under the summer heat.
Or embracing the streaks of cold air,
while wrapped up and gulping,
then saying: “This beverage is just one of a kind”.
Like a dried-up fountain, I sip from my shadows,
Dusty memories, like forgotten books on shelves of dreams,
I swallow my existence, like a sea of silence,
And let it flow, spread, dissolve into verses.
I would like to open my heart, to sprinkle my blood
On the white paper, to write with the venom of melancholy
And to see how each word becomes a stiletto for me,
Deeply embedded in the flesh of readers, in the flesh of the world.
I need life to feed my death,
To feel how each breath becomes a verse,
How each heartbeat becomes a rhythm,
An echo of ancestral sadness,
And how my soul transforms
Into a river of murky light,
Flowing between rocks of pain, through valleys of longing.
Even if it kills me, I will scatter into words,
Like a rain of shooting stars,
Like a wind that whispers the forgotten names of ancient gods.
I need it!
Even if it kills me,
To feel how each letter absorbs my life,
How each sentence feeds my death,
And to know that I have lived, that I have existed,
In an ocean of words, in a universe of sadness.
I need it!
Even if it kills me.
Even if it kills me!
QUAFF OR SIP
In days of old one drank from a flagon
Some were even embossed with a dragon
Yet more recently, mugs then emerged
And demand for matching items surged
Whether in tin, porcelain, or plain china
Some potteries’ items could not be finer
Later, tea drinkers in the Victorian era
Affected, bought cups that were dearer
Like doll house items, cups got quite small
And they offered hardly a mouthful at all
We know small teacups are not the same
So perhaps a cuplet is a far better name
Sheer mere pure simple
I feel that my solely only
Perceptive beloved read me
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