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Robin Carretti May 2018
Sounds swarming
But quite alarming

College babes
Like_ Slimfast
Drink
fast
Loves never last
Dorming ****
X box Assassin Creed
Video gifts Elfering
Twitter  featuring
The Rattlesnake
*******

My sweet
surrender
Sangria
stuttering

Big mistake
The sangria
Clever mastering
The place was
bugged
That Drunk
No comedy act
Ben Stiller

All  Gigs **** her
GIF ruff stuff
Gold digger bluff
Hangover cliff
Her bedroom eyes
Tonight the
Holy water
I phone Maria
Sangria suits him
Just the ring fighter

Ratfinks website
White being
creamed
Drink Kahlia

I won't
My dream drink
Sangria
Saint
My love, you ain't

He is singing
Maria
Strong hangover
with mudpack
Malaria

Drink playmate
All geared up
Generous Gina
Montezuma revenge
The Saint lounge
Competition
How she flaunts
her drinks inferior
Writing a poem
missing
some fonts
((His Tatoo))
the bomb drinker
Pineapple chunks
Bayou
water ripe ripples
Leftover drunks
Mon Cheri *******

Acting like a Saint
Terri spiritual Rumi
The drink scruples
relationship
sandstorm

Riders of
Morrisons
Heirs of beer
At the dorm

The ((Psychic Alarm))
Your drink woke
you up
****** humor
potential
Sangria
Someone was singing
I just met a girl
named Maria

((Harry Potter Hogwarts))
San Antonio
Met Maria
What a belly wash

Drinking up
Alcoholic Darts
Sanguine
Difficulty
pregnancy
Two lovers
liking Maria

Optimistic
Smoothing in
Sangria
He has
a Margarita
*
Mexican
Cancun
Margaret
upbeat
down to her
last drink

Sangria tank
Egyptian Army
buddy drinking
Like a
sandbank

Computer
Clickbank
Lions and coins
sandblasting
Morons
multitasking
Bermuda sounds
Sandpipers
And globetrotters
My Saint
of Sangria

Barcelona
Goddess
On her drenched
Sangria
mattress
She could
have done
his Bio

((That SanAntonio))

((Hostess)) Gia
Lollobrigida
Tony was singing
out to Maria

Her wings
of liquor
The Saint moves
quicker
_


Cabaret stripper
Natalie let me
entertain you
Surprise the
sanitarians
Flipping homes
Drinking up
Their Sangria
My Saint
Bella
Mama Mia
You arrived invite
your friends
No Maria
_!!
Drinks on me
Schools out
But Sangria
Stays in we party
Way out
Drinks of so many but we must be the Saint that Godly drink let it be our destined God please don't nod when your down and out Sangria shout
Teresa Magaña Jan 2012
My Sweetness
My Fruit
Little bits of sourness that I have felt from dealing with boys ,..that I’ve let come, …in my life,…and just pass on through,
Like Tita from Agua Para Chocolate
Pouring her energy
Her feelings
Her heart in every dish she made
I poured and poured
10 bottles of red wine…Passionate red vibes
Into that Sangria containing my sweet fruit
And just a little bit,…little bite of lime
That little bit of sourness I hold inside
My energy flowing through every smile, word, and laughter that floated in the air
And bounced from vibe to vibe
And what did I get in return?
Not only the satisfaction of seeing and feeling everyone have such a great time
Giggles from buzzed and tipsy steps of folks passing me by
But the collection of singles, overflowing in the cute bartender’s tip jar
It was your singles
And his singles
And even her singles that filled up that jar
The collection of singles that fed the creative force of souls that night
Fed the souls
Fed the minds
Fed us with creativity
But most importantly
Fed us with awesome tacos at 2:30 in the morning from a place we happened to find right around the block
My Sangria bought us tip jar tacos that night
Skaidrum Jul 2016
Bathed in silver, cracked in gold
love got into one of your stories again.
               ❝ i swear i didn't mean to be temporary ❞

Sangria flames and broken glass;
dry ashes mixed with lavender petals,
a phoenix beckoning the silk threads of night
                ❝ desolation took a bite from the moon ❞

You will become brittle dust to feed old books on shelves,
and I don't regret that I both poured
and drank
a cup of lust and sorrow, just for you
              ❝ do you still want to kiss the ink off my lips ❞

Tip the dish to catch the koi,
as you reincarnate once again;
mind those knives in the sink,
and please remember, that fire is impatient
               ❝as you succumb to me in all thousand lives. ❞
my phoenix
let it be known that
your dreams still stain my pillow

© Copywrite Skaidrum
crooked eyelash
gnarly, toothy
snookie snookie
with a grin like chocolate suckle
that is smooth sangria down the throat
artichoke belt buckle
enjoy the comfortable finale
"forget i'm filthy, from the alley"

chicky? chicky! are you sleeping?
i have been for 16 years
dreaming loads of lovely fellows
strong enough to show me tears
i have wasted the best of charms i've ever tasted;
the stairs fall down beneath my heel

i greet your frowns
my toes on the line
i drink with a hunger
from a gallon of wine
encourage the blur
allow the feel

do they think that i am beautiful?
do they think that i am real?
12/08/08
RJames O'Brien May 2014
People wobbling in the heat haze like a real time hall of mirrors
Street performers sing & flamenco & mime
The snap of digital cameras & excited chatter outside the cathedral
Sangria cold & fruity as it slides down easily
The tram glides past the beggars & hawkers
Gypsies’ curses in coarse andalucian as rosemary favours are repelled
Excited Asians watching every move Large Americans loudly exclaiming their delight as the light fades into dusk
Now the Feria comes alive all lights & ferris wheels & music so much music
Men on horseback women ride sidesaddle all in traditional dress
A throwback to a time before bailouts & austerity
Sing & Dance & Eat & laugh & joke
As dusk becomes evening the ottoman turrets light up
The cooler night air seems to remove inhibitions as people from different worlds celebrate humanity with cheers & smiles
Muchos Gracias & Bueno & Buena Noches  in various accents fill the night as the spell is broken
judy smith Nov 2016
Whether in Montreal, where she was born and raised, or in Delhi, where her award-winning brasserie sits, the stylish chef’s love for gastronomy has always run deep. She came to India to chase her passion about eight years ago, after leaving behind an engineering career and having trained at the esteemed ITHQ (Institut de tourisme et d’hôtellerie du Québec). In 2014, she introduced unusual combinations like oysters with charred onion petals, tamarind puree, and rose vinegar when she became the first Indian chef to be invited to host a solo dinner at the James Beard House in New York City. Also presented there was her very own coffee-table book called Eating Stories, packed with charming visuals, tales and recipes.

In pursuit of narratives

“I am studying Ayurveda so, at the moment, I’m inspired by the knowledge and intuition which comes with that, but otherwise I completely live for stories. Those of the people around me — of spices, design forms, music, traditions, history and anything else I feel connected to.”

Culinary muse

“I truly believe that nature is perfect, so I feel privileged to use the ingredients that it provides, while adding my own hues, aromas and combinations…it feels like I get to play endlessly every day.”

After-work indulgence

“My favourite places to eat at are Cafe Lota and Carnatic Cafe in Delhi, and Betony and Brindle Room in NYC.”

Dream dish

“This salad I created called ‘secret garden’. It’s so beautiful to look at and has such a unique spectrum of flavours…all while using only the freshest, most natural produce to create something completely magical.”

Reception blooper

“Most people make the mistake of over-complicating the menu; having too much diversity and quantity. Wastefulness isn’t a good way to start a life together.”

A third-generation entrepreneur from a highly distinguished culinary family, she runs a thriving studio in Khar where state-of-the-art cooking stations and dining tables allow her to conduct a variety of workshops and sessions. Her grandfather is remembered as the man who migrated from Africa to London to found the brand that brought curry to the people of the UK — Patak’s. She took over as brand ambassador, having trained at Leiths School of Food and Wine and taught at one of Jamie Oliver’s schools in London. What’s more, Pathak is also the author of Secrets From My Indian Family Kitchen, a cookbook comprising 120 Indian recipes, published last year in the UK.

Most successful experiment

“When I was writing recipes for my cookbook, I had to test some more than once to ensure they were perfect and foolproof. One of my favourites was my slow-cooked tamarind-glazed pork. I must have trialled this recipe at least six times before publishing it, and after many tweaks I have got it to be truly sensational. It’s perfectly balanced with sweet and sour both.”

Future fantasy

“As strange as it sounds, I’d love to cater my own wedding. You want all your favourite recipes and you want to share this with your guests. I could hire a caterer to create my ideal menu, but I’d much prefer to finalise and finish all the dishes myself so that I’m supremely happy with the flavours I’m serving to my loved ones.”

Fresh elegance

“I’m in love with microgreens for entertaining and events…although not a new trend, they still carry the delicate wow factor and are wonderfully subtle when used well. I’m not into using foams and gels and much prefer to use ingredients that are fuss-free.”

This advertising professional first tested her one-of-a-kind amalgams at The Lil Flea, a popular local market in BKC, Mumbai. Her Indian fusion hot dogs, named Amar (vegetarian), Akbar (chicken) and Anthony (pork), sold out quickly and were a hit. Today, these ‘desi dogs’ are the signature at the affable home-chef-turned-businesswoman’s cafe-***-diner in Bandra, alongside juicy burgers, a fantastic indigenous crème brûlée, and an exciting range of drinks and Sikkim-sourced teas.

Loving the journey

“The best part of the job is the people I meet; the joy I get to see on their faces as they take the first bite. The fact that this is across all ages and social or cultural backgrounds makes it even better. Also, I can indulge a whim — whether it is about the menu or what I can do for a guest — without having to ask anyone. On the flip side, I have no one to blame but myself if the decision goes wrong. And, of course, I can’t apply for leave!”

Go-to comfort meal

“A well-made Bengali khichri or a good light meat curry with super-soft chapattis.”

What’s ‘happening’

“This is a very exciting time in food and entertaining — the traditional and ultra-modern are moving forward together. Farm-to-fork is very big; food is also more cross-cultural, and there is a huge effort to make your guest feel special. Plus, ‘Instagram friendly’ has become key…if it’s not on Instagram, it never happened! But essentially, a party works when everyone is comfortable and happy.”

A word to brides

“Let others plan your menu. You relax and look gorgeous!”

This Le Cordon Bleu graduate really knows her way around aromas that warm the heart. On returning to Mumbai from London, she began to experiment with making small-batch ice creams for family and friends. Now she churns out those ‘cheeky’ creations from a tiny kitchen in Bandra, where customers must ring a bell to get a taste of dark chocolate with Italian truffle oil, salted caramel, milk chocolate and bacon and her signature (a must-try) — blue cheese and honey.

The extra mile

“I’ll never forget the time I created three massive croquembouche towers (choux buns filled with assorted flavours of pastry cream, held together with caramel) for a wedding, and had to deliver them to Thane!”

Menu vision

“For a wedding, I would want to serve something light and fresh to start with, like seared scallops with fresh oysters and uni (sea urchin). For mains, I would serve something hearty and warm — roast duck and foie gras in a red wine jus. Dessert would be individual mini croquembouche!”

Having been raised by big-time foodie parents, the strongest motivation for their decision to take to this path came from their mother, who had two much-loved restaurants of her own while the sisters were growing up — Vandana in Mahim and Bandra Fest on Carter Road. Following the success of the first MeSoHappi in Khar, Mumbai, the duo known for wholesome cooking opened another outlet of the quirky gastro-bar adjoining The Captain’s Table — one of the city’s favourite seafood haunts — in Bandra Kurla Complex.

Chef’s own

AA: “We were the pioneers of the South African bunny chow in Mumbai and, even now, it remains one of my all-time favourites.”

On wedding catering

PA: “The most memorable for me will always be Aarathi’s high-tea bridal shower. I planned a floral-themed sundowner at our home in Cumballa Hill; curtains of jasmine, rose-and-wisteria lanterns and marigold scallops engulfed the space. We served exotic teas, alcoholic popsicles of sangria and mojito, and dishes like seafood pani puri shots and Greek spanakopita with beetroot dip, while each table had bite-sized desserts like mango and butter cream tarts and rose panna cotta.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
mikarae Nov 2018
sienna cities
sparkling saturn sunrises
sangria skyscrapers
sublime.

you are kaleidoscoped
through and through
with window blinds, bed sheets,
and street signs.

they call you modern art
and hang you on a wall
of white
and beige.

your color bleeds.

you boil
and no *** can hold you.

you speak and
wind chimes cry,
ringing into the empty night,
morose.

a ballerina can only hope
to move as gracefully
as you do.

your eyes light up
like tuscan sun cities
sizzling sirius sunsets
school bus skyscrapers
divine.

i’m hooked on your city glow
brighter than tokyo.
and i get the penthouse view
ZWS Jul 2015
I've been looking down the bottle for so long my eyes are corks
When I'm drinking liquid bread there isn't a need for forks
The only reason I'm here is because my father shot the stork
And my mother was wearing that white dress like it was her corpse
And their love sounded more like morse
Constant disconnect, hoarse

Things get a little ****** when you're having sangria dreams
When you're void of love, and you're falling asleep on mail you never opened, and bills you've got to pay, and pills you never want to take
And a pile full of your mistakes

You brush off, you shave, you work
Or you don't, and you sit in bed all day with guilty insides
And you open up another bottle of wine
And you think about love, mishaps and ***
But this time it doesn't hurt
Till that bottle of wine convinces you the pain is a flirt
Teresa Magaña Feb 2012
When no one is looking
You pull and hold me into your arms
Into your bed
Savoring my kisses and caresses...that I usually hold back
Because its when no one is looking that I completely let go and give you all that I have
When no one is looking
You share your sweet words
Words that warm my heart, heat my chest
Words paired with touches from your fingertips that make me wet
When no one is looking I give into you
I devour and selfishly take all the bites I can
Knowing it drives you to the point you grasp my arms, flip me on my back...
And you begin to taste, bite, and drink of every sensuous sugar flavored bead of sweat
Sweet filled curves
Sangria flavored juices that seap through every pore
Through my vessel it pours
When no one is looking
We are in our own world
And even in a crowded room
The moment no one is looking
In that moment
Without even turning your way
I know you are staring
I feel your eyes embedding and digging their way into my flesh
Its a sensation that starts in my belly
Runs up my stomach, between my breast
Its the thoughts manifesting your hands clenching and pulling at my chest
All this, in the moment when no one is looking
A slight quick moment
We lock our eyes
Both lighting up
Both feeling the heat we know we will be in...later tonight
When no one is looking
Read this at the annual "Exotica, Erotica, Poetica" open mic event at Weeds Bar in Chicago on 2/13/12.
makeloveandtea May 2017
As I ponder about today — the backdoor to a restaurant that played nostalgia in tune;
I wonder,
if the day was any more than her.
"This is the only happy-poem I wrote." She says. Coral.
Then goes on to string together blue melancholy.
So I wonder,
if lavender could be a person.
She smiles sangria-smiles; talks about vineyards, a parking lot and her people.
I am here
trying to learn her as if,
everything around her is scribble.
and I wonder,
"Do I understand?"
"Let me fix my face." She'd say grabbing her roses and apricots;
I don't understand.
I am here
painting her,
as her earrings dance with the tilt of her head;
the way she rises on toes reliving her poetry in a room full of eyes or
when she stops
to look at the ******* her jump-rope outside the car window,
as an evening fades away.
She smiles sangria-smiles; talks about vineyards, a parking lot, chai and her people...
A day has gone by
And I wonder,
If I know her yet.
I sit here,

            cat on my lap,

            an evergreen forest in my lungs

                                    and silver fish in my heart.



Your blue eyes are beneath these typewriter keys,

                                    behind every sheet of paper.



“I will always find you,” you whispered as our stars ripped apart.





And you did,



                        on a May night warm with sangria and bonfire:

                                    we made eye contact

                                    and our souls crashed



                                    into each other



                                    like wave against wave,



                                    starlight against starlight.
Connor Apr 2018
"Hey, Charles! I won't be back."
His friend yells out before
Continuing to eat the face off
Of the young Latino he had met.

"Ok! I guess I can get home.. Somehow..."
He mumbles to himself, signaling to the
Bartender that he wanted to order
Something off menu.

He pays no attention to the trans
Woman who sits down beside him.
"I'll have a watermelon sangria, please."
he requests softly, but confidently.

The lady by him chuckles,
"Watermelon? That's odd."
Her voice is rich with flavor,
And humor.

"It is odd. But so am I." He mumbles.
"It seems that way, doesn't it? Well,
at least now I can call you Melon
Rather than ask your name!"

"A rather odd nickname for an odd person."
And so their conversation continued.
It became all the more lively once
'Melon' had had a couple rounds.

Both drunk and desperate, they
Kiss passionately in the gay bar,
Paying no heed to the others
Yelling "Get a room!"

Roaming hands.
Stumbling up stairs.
Drunken giggles.
Broken speech.

"You're so beautiful." He whispers.
Skin against skin,
Burning hot,
  Both mad with desire.

Panting.
Groaning.
Moaning.
Ecstasy.

It's late at night.
They manage to call
A taxi, and go home.
Home to Melon's apartment.

The next morning was spent
Drinking ****** Mary's and
Making an account of what
Happened the night before.

That, and more ***.
Hot, ****** ***.
Passionate, lively
And loving ***.

Charles sits up in his bed.
He feels something sticky.
"Oh, that's disgusting!"
****** ***, indeed.

He stands up to clean himself
Off in the bathroom, but he
Hears the shower running.
"Did I get laid last night?"

He peeps into the shower
And sees the woman from
His dream. "Eva?" He asks.
"Who else would it be?"

"Why are you in my apartment?"
Charles exclaims. Eva turns and
Raises an eyebrow at him.
"I live here, Melon."

"Since when? We hooked
Up just last night!"

"Darlin', we've been
married for 4 years!"
I thought this was cute <3
Marco Avre Nov 2011
Could it be that our blood boils
at the exact same hour?
That two ignited souls
do not fit in the same room?

Could it be that you're not my rib
and that's why you don't hurt me?
Could it be that we don't live life
the way we are supposed to?

And that's why I love you,
three or four times I
I love you

And you come
with a cosmos in the forehead,
with your dead ones on the back,
and between the legs
you wear
the most beautiful sunset

In one fist, stormy days,
in the other, balmy days,
In one, tears of chamomile
on the other, sweat and mint,
but in your saliva, sangria.
Sangria to maintain the blood cool.

Could it be that we are dust violated
by the slightest provocation?
Between lip and lip,
between ****** and ****** -
- I love you.

Four or five times I,
I love you.
Mike Jewett Feb 2015
Moonup, shades of sangria
hazed in mothwing
      dust

motes. We wrap in
flannel, tartan Seattle
      warmth

accompanied by smudging sticks.
Batteries never charged-
      defibrillator

shock. Flatline.
You said no violets (you
      didn’t

mean it). Moondown takes
time- scores of swaying shadows
      to arc

the parsecs. Inherit starlight,
bank it, never blink; wet stones
      echo

in the noise of stars.
So I'm drinking the red wine
I had those cut-up peaches
Soaking, fermenting in for 3 days.
A nice summer evening buzz,
Just back from my evening walk
Within the gates of my over-55
Lunatic Asylum.
On my rear porch in Hemetucky,
I chaise lounge the hours,
Listening to the mourning dove
Nesting in the bottlebrush bush.
I know she's there, having
Fired thru my duck blind,
My latest weapon of choice,
My new-fangled Flex Hose,
It expands when turned on.
Which got me thinking that the
Flex Hose inventor guy must have
Whacked off a lot as a teenager.
An Alex Portnoy protege, perhaps,
If familiar with Roth's book.
Portnoy's Complaint:
Most of us read it;
Some of us lived it.
It is pointless to speculate.
12 ft. Flexible Water Hose with
Nozzle-flxh-25 (4-00268...Home Depot
www.homedepot.com/p/12-ft-Flexible...
Hose-with.../204818892/The Home Depot
Rating: 1.8 - ‎14 reviews - ‎$19.97 - ‎In stock
"The Flexible hose automatically expands with water flow and contracts back to its original shape for storage. Lightweight and durable. The Flexible Hose will ..."
(That's right, a commercial right in the
Middle of the ******* poem.
This Poet refusing to die in the gutter,
Having finally figured out how to
MAKE POETRY PAY.)
But I digress.
Kimberly Seibert Aug 2014
Just because you can turn her on
doesn't mean you'd get her off.
Black flies in Sangria
are bound to make her cough.
Jade Musso Apr 2014
On a Tuesday afternoon
we are all in one place so
an outing is long over-due.
Let’s go out for drinks, I suggest
and we agree—as long as we can wear whatever.

On a Tuesday night
I pick the girls up, avidly
avoiding the gaze of your window
in a building forced to live above you.

In Geronimo’s on a Tuesday night
I order ‘Red Sun’, she orders ‘Spicy Blood Orange’
& the other orders wine.
Mine is pink—it’s too strong, no more please.
Well you said ‘for drinks’! they complain
as if I’ve betrayed a pact.

She orders another, ‘Appaloosa Sangria’
and she’s so tiny when the waitress looks at my full glass
—Embarrassing.
I hate the sliding bathroom door where I am
alone with my thoughts for 2.7 minutes but
I’m antsy—time to go

In my Audi on a Tuesday night
I want dessert; I want a donut.
Dunkin it is.

In Dunkin Donuts on a Tuesday night
Tiny tells me she wants to cuddle
sometimes. She’s drunk.
I order a chocolate glazed donut to a poor man with Hispanic features
who is working alone
The homeless lady won’t stop talking and we wont stop laughing
in the Dunkin bathroom.
I heard everything, she says as we leave and giggle in terror.

In my Audi on a late Tuesday night
I don’t want to go back to school yet—I have an idea.
Post Road is empty; I’m hyper-aware
of the black Dodge pick-up driving past.
I don’t question if it’s you.
Did you see me?
Of course you saw me, my car is
unavoidable; it’s **** & white.

In The Grape on a late Tuesday night
there is no one I know so I trail
Wine and Tiny trails me.
I know friends of friends, say Hi, hi, hi
You look cute, so do you! Yay! hug Okay bye, bye, bye
Tiny drinks another with Wine and I’m still
sober where I want to be,
making memories without you, ha.
But it’s time to go back to hellhole and these people kinda ****.

In my Audi for the last time on a late Tuesday night
Mahan lot full, duh.
Quick Center lot full, duh.
Bellarmine lot full, ****!
Regis lot—Where’s your car? It’s got to be here . . .
black Dodge pick-up backed in nicely, I wish I could park beside.
What did you do on a Tuesday night?
Regis lot full, are you kidding?
Tiny has motion sickness, she’s quite a drag
I wonder if my friend nearby, with the golf cart, can drive us back
But **** it, we can walk ten minutes in the cold ‘cuz
I’ve got my jacket and gloves.

In McInnes on a late Tuesday night
Wine goes to bed, Tiny calls for a reinforcement
who is waiting at our door.
Questions with an upward inflection fill my bedroom as if she can’t
take care of herself—her support can barely support himself.
I write a long note to you on my computer on my bed because you ****.
I get a Do you mind if Support sleeps over just this once to make sure I’m okay? text
Which means I won’t get sleep due to overweight heavy breathing
Fine, I’m backed into a corner.
& I know that after my third attempt of slumber, I will end up crying
on the couch in the living room. I should have stayed home.

On an early Wednesday morning
I stuff a bag of clothes, my retainer case, and Berner & Holes and
I power-walk to my car in Jogues—7 minutes, probably or less
& drive the 5 minutes home before the tears fall.
There’s a cop parked beside Pine Creek Deli,
I wonder if he wonders why an Audi is up so late.

In [address] on an early Wednesday morning
my dad is in his boxers in the middle of the stairs.
What are you doing? he asks and I snap back because
Isn’t it obvious what someone would be doing at 2:43 am?
My bed is quiet and my mind is loud wondering—
Did you have fun tonight? for the both of us.
Anonymouse Jane Dec 2014
I fell asleep to the sound of your screaming,
the melancholic melodies of our sinister love.
I woke shrouded in silence;
the dark room shifted and squirmed around me.
My hands groped the sheets for you
but were left wanting.

The sun comes up
and I’m still waiting.
The room now a temple of hate,
an auditorium of ludicrous lamentations

Too late for recess from the pain
too tangled in a cancerous web of thoughts
too late

-our sweet wine now vinegar.
A K Krueger Mar 2013
What are the words
I mean to say?
This drink, it flows,
Inside my veins,
And life, it moves
And flows for me
Yet worldly pleasures
Drive the weak.
As I long
To tell you these,
All I can say
Are words that please.
I love you
I love you,
Do I,
Do I?

Sweetheart, dream.
And listen on
To the stars that flow
From here
To beyond.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Though glass, it is rimmed with gold
around the cup, handle and even the
saucer. Skilfully painted chrysanthemums
  of various shades; the vermilion horizon,
Spring's honey, songbird's magenta,
sangria's fine wine, a parakeet's breast
and the Aegean sea.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And then, there are three sightly tea
caddies with lacquered wooden bodies;
one rosewood with red dancing fans,
one burr-oak with golden mountainous
landscape and one maple wood with
green bamboo. Ainhana gently removes
each of their lids by using the cloth, and
presents the pearls that were wrapped
in sun-kissed foil.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
She first lifts the rosewood caddy towards
me. I close my eyes and focus on the scent.
Without peeling back the foil, I know. It takes
me to the far distant Province of Yunnan,
past the snow-kissed mountains and rice
terraces to a very still lake. I noticed that
it began to bubble before a large splash
rose.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
At that moment, I meet the lake's Guardian,
the Imperial Wingless Dragon of legend.
With its wet emerald-kissed scales drinking
the sunlight. It's great body now entwined
in a wispy clouds as it stares at me with
eyes of liquid moons. Its tail crowned
with a peacock feathered eye-spot whips
around in the air, leaving an iridescent
trail of colours.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
With a great leap, he soars through
the air, trumpeting his great roar
that rattles the skies. Just as quickly
as he rose, he descends down with
a Pearl Moon in his brown claw. By
the stroke of its sienna-brown whisker,
the small Moon cracks, presenting me
it's contents, a long kept secret.

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
The pearls are the colour of seaweed
with streaks of yellow and burnt umber.
With earthy notes whirls around my
nose, along with some floral sweetness,
burnt caramel licks, dragon spice and
a wisp of apricot. Ah, so I see! One great
guarded secret that he reveals to me!
His best pearls ferment in the womb
of the Moons! Purified by the Star
Virtues of Elysia's Harmony!

~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Wonderfully rich Pu-erh Pearls,'
I say, my eyes now open.
'My Lady's nose is as sharp as ever!'
'I just know my tea,' I chuckle, 'it's
very unique in smell and taste.  I will
save such fine broth for another day.'
Ainhana nods, places on the tray and
lift the burr-oak caddy. I close my
eyes once again and my mind
wanders yet again.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Part four of my Jasmine Pearls poem.
(a re-post of my re-post! What's going on with HP, seriously?)
After it's confirmed that this is seen by others, I'll add it to the collection of the same name.
Thanks for 149 followers btw! You rock! ^-^
Lyn ***
Aaron Kerman Jan 2010
We met in the Red Square at Midnight. Sitting on the austere steps of the Kremlin We drank Stolichnaya in silence; listened to St. Basil’s Bells stoic ringing until Our sun rose pale over Moscow  

Beauty is created when I press your mulatto skin to mine.
We shift. You move, and as you’re moved you move me.
Our motion akin to your mother’s in a gentle breeze or a dancer;
Some Elise pirouetting et fouetter and falling over graceful infinities.    

I am deliberate during this ballet. Subdominant.
Una corda e sostenuto, and as you request so do you respond; relaxed,
Sustaining single notes; soft into that ethereal Moonlight…
Blurred and blunted, your perfect meter dampened by my learned cadence.
    
As you sound off forte I rock slightly forward, coming into you harder.
We breathe sharp together; my fingertips caressing you legato;
My Ana Magdalena. Andantino; rolling into flurries of crescendos
presto allegro climaxing; Capitulating again before we rest…
Before lento diminuendo.                                                      ­                

We courted at the Konig Von Ungarn in Vienna. It was classical and   romantic. Baroque. We fell in love. At Figaro’s wedding we tasted sangria as the stars Set, pastel, over Seville. Our first kiss was the Holy Roman Empire fading; A footnote under bass cleft.

We were married in the Rhineland, a single Canon announcing our nuptial.
You a Riesling and I your lattice. I stood firm, resolute, as you grew in, around, and from me. But the lords, they taint you, they **** me of your fruits; oblivious, they invoke their subtle prima nocta.                            

From the rooftops and the gutters they hear you. A virtue is lost between us. We shift. They are unwelcome eavesdroppers’ playing ******.  
They come and gather round us and I grow nervous, stiff; sweat falling from my brow to your ebony and ivory.
They move provocative, but they do not care; they do not notice us.                            

I stop as they begin. They’re discourteous during this Can-can. Their  praise and kind words may arouse the pimps and ****** wandering Montmartre into Paris’s red-light,  “Hear,” they fall on deaf ears.
This is no Moulin Rouge. We are not meant to be exhibitionists and yet
we yield to their flat appeals.                                                         ­                           

I put my clothes back on, Rags is all they are, and you, you’ve become stark.
I project my discontent through your string and hammer heart;
I slap your toothy face and stomp your sterling feet without relent.
I-De-tach-My-self-From-You. Staccato. They call me Inventive and as they sip their whiskey, their bourbons and their Texas Tea they tell us that
we have Entertained.        

We build our home from the precious stones of foreign countries.
We traverse ages to reach the mines and the rock fields, finding rough Diamonds and sapphires. Naked, we wash them in ether; they luster.
The noblemen come. They smile and applaud as they peep through the Windows and knock at the doors, but We shall not  be moved.
daniela Sep 2016
you’re like art or something --
i don’t understand you and i always think i’m supposed to.
you remind me of stealing from my parent’s liquor cabinet,
i can’t look at you too long without feeling like
i’m gonna get caught up in something.
i can’t look at you too long without feeling like
i’m breaking some sort of rule.
now i know that love was the first time i saw weezer live,
that love was losing your voice because you’re singing too loud,
that love was pressing you down the backseat of your car,
that love was censored out of this poem.
too explicit. too tongue and teeth.
love was an honest liar.
love was at least 70% proximity, maybe.
love was not a victory march, just the drive the home.

we are terrified of it, maybe that’s why we like it.
there is no litmus test for love. just trial and error.
just… a lot of error.
love is hotel room we’re never going back to.
we existed there once
but we time ran out and had to return our keys, go home from vacation.
there are no good poems that come from that.
just 2 AM and missed calls and quiet.

see, i am bad at doing simple things.
my hands shake too hard and ruin dreams.
i hold too hard or push even harder.
baby, you were never hard to love, i just wasn’t any good at it.
see, i can write three page poems about the curve of your eyelashes
or the way your laugh sometimes gets stuck
in the back of your throat like a secret,
but i cannot seem to look you in in the eye
and be honest with you.

so tell me what to do when you’re staring god asking if he exists,
tell me what to do when every shot you’ve taken has missed.
tell me what to do when you’re standing on a dance floor
after all the music is gone,
like the fifth of july when all the fireworks have faded out of the sky
and all that’s left is casings and matches.
tell me what to do when you run out of words.
Jonny Bolduc Nov 2014
Last Christmas grandmother told anyone who would listen that she quit the wine. She said it once as my father cracked open a bottle of ***. She said it again serving the ham; mentioned it in passing while gramps polished off a bottle of Malbec;

she said that last summer in the hot-tub at Laurie’s she had a bit too much Sangria and got out and fell on the pavement, cutting up her knees real bad ---

she said that she couldn’t even believe it was happening, she couldn’t believe that she drank so much. I could believe it.

Gram had always been a bit of a drinker; her sober stinging words caught you good enough even when she was on her best behavior. Imagine when she was unhinged! Talking while her teeth were all red was like getting sucker punched by a kangaroo; Gramps got all loose and loud, Gram got all hot and bothered and mean.

Don’t get me wrong. If I could, I’d drown in a pool of whiskey, choke on the amber stream from the tap.
But I don’t lie about it! I don’t talk about it; I don’t lie about it.
I’ve been sneaking sips since I was 14,
and I’ve been drinking pools of the stuff since I was 17 and if you asked anyone they might not believe you.

I wonder if punching people in the face and choke holding them into doing what you want them to do is a past-time. Most people drink to get nice.


People like her drink to get mean.
it's a college party
even though i never finished and the rest of y'all are spending money you don't have on the ingredients necessary for homemade sangria so you can drink the crippling anxiety of not knowing how to pay off your student loans away

there's a man living in a tent in the backyard, and i'm pretty sure we put one too many pieces of scrap wood in that very-hard-to-maintain bonfire. that has to be a metaphor for the state of most of our lives. stop throwing things i'm unprepared for in what already feels like a situation that is going to **** me.

is this a literal housewarming

i'm drunk, and sitting on the deck, counting the christmas lights. i smell ****, and there are white people dancing and singing to blink 182 inside.

i paint my name on a drywall with a brush and canisters i find on my way to the living room, where i'm asked to referee a game of beer pong. i lose interest quickly.

i scroll through my phone, sober enough not to text you but drunk enough to desperately want to. someone sits down next to me because i've apparently become that person at the party.

i talk about rent with a guy who really wants to connect on the fact that we're both middle eastern, even though i'm not middle eastern. he smells like PBR and completely believes what he's saying. he says he's proud of me for following my dreams of coming to new york and that he likes my "crazy hair" and that he wants to **** me.

i raise my eyebrows, more in disgust than interest, but he then takes his perceived cue to shamelessly ask me if i have a ******. i don't, and i leave before he brainstorms any alternatives i am just as aversive to.

ironically, i find a ****** dispenser attached to a tree on the walk to the subway. considering the amount of catcalling i experienced on the way to the station, my level of discomfort is amplified by the fact that the neighbourhood literally, physically implies, ******* is going to happen in the streets. it's 2am, and i just want to go home. and i'm sitting on the J train, recalling everyone who's told me it's shady and unreliable and makes you feel like you're going to die.

a few months later, i am nicknamed J train.
Conor Oberst Sep 2012
At the center of the world
there's a statue of a girl.
She is standing near a well
with a bucket, bare and dry.

I went and looked her in the eyes
and she turned me into sand.
This clumsy form that I despise;
it scattered easy in her hand

and came to rest upon a beach
with a million others there.
We sat and waited for the sea
to stretch out so that we could disappear

into the endlessness of blue;
into the horror of the truth.
You see, we are far less than we know.
Yeah, we are far less than we knew.

But we know what we could taste
Girls found honey to drench our hands.
Men cut marble to mark our graves.
Said we'll need something to remind us of
all the sweetness that has passed through us;
fresh sangria and lemon tea.
The priests dressed children for a choir.
white robed small voices praise Him
but found no joy in what was sung.
The funeral had begun.

In the middle of the day
when you drive home to your place
from that job that makes you sleep,
back to the thoughts that keep you awake,

long after night has come to claim
any light that still remains
in the corner of the frame
that you put around her face.

Two pills just weren't enough.
The alarm clock's going off
but you're not waking up.
This isn't happening happening happening
happening happening. It is.
Sam Nov 2016
A soft breeze whispers in the moonlight,
Gliding over the pond, causing endless ripples in the water.
Sounds of the crickets echo through the trees,
hushing the quiet chatter on the dock.
Scarlet fish swim in circles below,
following the dark seaweed path.
Lull acoustic guitar roars under the clouds.
Ever so slightly a hiss travels past the ear.
Unknown from sight,
But present by sound.
Ruby crystals spotted in the distance,
hidden no more.
My original ending is preferred, but this will do :)
selina Jun 2021
stranded at sea, and i am
surrounded by a lonely blue
with thoughts as my only companions
and guilt for my fallen crew

i bear colors of war against pale blue
sangria red and dirtied white
torn fabric and stained innocence
from choosing myself as the sacrifice

there was a golden age when
i was once hailed as a hero
but those days have ended now
delusions shattered by war's arrow

all i am now is a captain without a crew
a pirate with sinking treasures and ship
slivers of the person i once was
i have taken one too many hits

all i have is this broken, grey compass
the needle spins wildly, unpredictable, like the sea
i have finally lost sight of true north, or
perhaps it is time the world has finally lost me

change sweeps me through the sea
rinse, scrub, dry so, and repeat
gone the stains of another life
reborn again as a simple someone, just me

crimson blood washes into the sea
and a makeshift white flag flutters under the sky
this tattered shirt is all that is left of my fight
i am just another sailor, lost at sea tonight
Zachary William Sep 2018
Deep breaths
in and out
and we recite the mantra
that one has sangria
on a Wednesday
to reward ourselves
for just how normal
everything is
and that we definitely
haven't been
dreaming about leaving
everyone behind
and running off into
the Italian countryside
to find a nice picturesque spot
to cease existing
KG Aug 2021
Today is wasted
Not like the others, it
Seems to have a revolution of it's own
Yet, the scent remains the same.

These muscles exude the sangria colored
Muck, these layers of filth jet out like lined walls of a prison cell.
Oh why do they retain this scent.

This cube of cubes I reside in
Where art thou mine Calypso,
How darest thou give teachings
As if your tragedy can give thoughts to we golems of rust.

Stick to staying stuck
Until these brittle cages carry no more
This gluttonous weight
Will we be songbirds once
More.
JLB Dec 2011
You’re a groovy tomato dancin’ with loose-tongued disco fries.
Chillin’ in limbo, sippin’ on sangria, and eatin’ on my pride.
Racin’ on a superhighway with scorchin’ thumbs and eloquent lies,
But my guts are wrenchin’ and my eyelashes are flashin’, much to your surmise.
I drank your love like a dino, now I’m bringin’ out your prehistoric side.
Baby, I can run your city with a stogie and a ****** dancin’ in disguise,
But this ****, it don’t mean nothin’, or at least not what you’ve implied.
Rj Nov 2015
You're crashing into me like waves on the coast
Every time we talk, you move in close
Wrecking ball dancing down the hallway
You're holding your shoes, wearing my shades
We fall against the door,
we fall into a wild warm kiss
By Blake Shelton, not mine
Paul d'Aubin Mar 2016
Radio Matin, mars 2016

Radio Matin, mars 2016 ; Tu écoutes la radio du matin ne pouvant te replonger dans l’oubli Et les nouvelles ne vont pas vont pas bien Il paraît que les Grecs auraient abusé, Des subventions de l'Europe se seraient gavés. Et, qu’horrible angoisse, Picsou craint de ne point être remboursé. Mais où va-t-on, si les créanciers rechignent à payer leur dus ? Tu écoutes la radio du matin Et les nouvelles ne vont pas bien. Les banques aussitôt sortis du coma, ont refilé en douce leurs pertes sur le déficit des Etats et ainsi créés un grand branle-bas Et se sont mises comme l’usurier Shylock A provoquer de grands entrechocs. Tu écoutes la radio du matin Il parait que les «marchés» ont le bourdon Car les européens du sud auraient croqué tout le pognon. Les marchés en perdent leur latin De voir la « dolce Vita de tous ces profiteurs. Quant à l’Espagne n’en parlons même pas ! C’est certainement la faute de la sangria. Tu écoutes la radio du matin Et les nouvelles ne vont pas bien. Il va falloir travailler plus longtemps, et du code du travail si ventripotent décréter la grande disette, d’ailleurs Manuel l’a dit, l’ « ancien socialisme » n’est pas « moderne » car il ne se plie pas aux contraintes de ce que nos gourous savants, nous dictent comme étant « la Modernité », d'ailleurs la barbe de Jean  Jaurès ne fait pas assez jeune cadre dynamique ! Et puis il paraît que nous vivons trop longtemps et pour les fonds de pension cela est certes démoralisant. Pourtant ne souhaitons guère tous atteindre cent-ans, Et préférerions disposer librement de notre temps. Tu écoutes encore la radio du matin Et les nouvelles ne vont pas bien. Un tanker s’est est échoué Laissant le pétrole s'écouler, qui sera difficilement colmaté et tue mouettes et cormorans. Les centaines de milliers de réfugiés, souvent par nos propres bombes déplacés ont le toupet de vouloir partager l’espoir de vivre dans un oasis de Paix ; mais pour combien de temps encor, cette paix des cimetières peut-elle durer, et bous laisser consommer seuls dans nos lits pas toujours si douillets ?
Tu n'écoutes plus désormais la radio du matin et la télévision encore moins. Car toutes ces nouvelles te rendaient zinzin. Tu n’es plus sûr, du tout, de la vérité apportée dans cette Babel sonore et tu es consterné par une vision si étriquée de l’humain.
Comment pouvons-nous tant ingurgiter d’insignifiances où se noie la lucidité ? Comment pouvons-nous partager les vrais progrès des sciences et du creuset Mondial des pensées ? Sans jamais nous interroger et garder le nez au raz de cette marée d’informations non triées ? Comment avoir un bon usage d'un village planétaire si divisé ? Et comment redonner le goût de l’Humain pour le plus grand nombre à la participation aux choix dont nous sommes si souvent exclus bien que surinformés ?

Paul Arrighi (Toulouse le vendredi 18 mars 2016)
Y Jun 2015
I'm on sangria
Elastic hearts screaming into my me
Slowly I ebb into the altered state
The blinding lights of bright imagery
Makes me want to close my eyes

No! alas it'll be tomorrow.
Trickery you vile wine
Let me soak in this funk with your sweetness
Werewolves howling to the moon on which my iris and pupil rest.

I'm drunk
this is greatly influenced by Sia's Elatic Heart video and Sangria

— The End —