Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Peter B 2d
Partying hard
every day, every night
at the Festival of Poetry -
the festival of my life.

My bracelets
are flickering in the moon.
I'm kissing
the flowers, they make me bloom.

I'm drinking
the sweetest wine on earth.
I'm dancing
with a naked silhouette.

I'll be dancing
until the very last breath.

There will be no hangovers,
no regrets.
And in the grapevine-
made to be the wine that ages.

We don't celebrate its birthday

But are we any different,
thinking we can stay forever young?
A bottle too ages by the years;
Can we all not grow in maturity?

Take a sip of that.
LC 6d
my fingers fell into cinnamon buns.
the sticky, sweet icing coated my nails.
the residue - stubborn and unyielding -
but enticing to lick, making me sick.

then my lips flirted with sultry wine
that pulled me into its safe embrace,
letting me breathe a sigh of relief
as I stared into space, enamored.
Robert Ippaso Aug 27
A silken drop nectar refined,
Delicious, smooth, it’s taste sublime,
Worshipped and revered in times of old,
Bacchus it’s God, his hand-maidens bold.

The Romans swilled, the Greeks imbibed,
The British drank, the French prescribed.
The Church just called it Christ’s own blood,
Believers flowed as if by flood.

This luscious liquid as fine as honey,
The fountain not of youth but merely money,
Small price to pay for so much fun,
When it can turn a dowdy day to sun.

Clinking glasses moments shared,
The more imbibed the more is bared,
Food important or so they claim,
When as a smokescreen its main aim.

All that said let me be clear
There’s a reason we choose wine not beer,
Wine is healthy, helps the heart,
Beer is fattening and so ****.
Alec Astaire Aug 11
Yet another attempt to recreate our trio of faces
A red rippled reflection reminds me of the time:
Two hands up
My visage confronts me as
One bitter taste of giving up reaches my lips
So close yet again..
Just one face missing
It’s hard to move on with my story when I spend so much time re-reading our few pages
old willow Aug 10
Heart burdened, the river turns.
The bed is unmoving, curtain remains closed.
Autumn leaf dance, sun hidden, moon peek;
What is it that heaven seeks?
Tomorrow, I head to Chang’an,
Tonight, I take a sip of wine.
Sun rested, cold wind echoes;
My wine cup has shattered…
Tonight, I can’t take a sip of wine.
My mind drift far between rivers;
Dazzling among the night sky;
I find my heart unable to rest.
Sun has now dawn, my body is feeble;
Withered like ashen embers;
Today, I can’t head to Chang’an.
In the end, Man proposes and Heaven disposes.
How love can make you creative,
    it can make you write poems
           that focuses on her existence,
      where her lips tastes like fine wine
  or her eyes can see the richness
           inside your poetic soul
                 that latches on metaphors
          and claiming that you use it
                as a tool for keeping her sane.

Love can make you creative,
          as your words dance,
    she dances as well
to the beat of your heart,
         as you finish the final piece,
she'll calmly rest on your shoulder,
       her hair like the strings of a violin
and as you strum it gently
           it'll turn to a lullaby
      that at last you can lay down
knowing your soul
         is finally home.
TheBlackBird Jul 26
You were all honeysuckle kisses
That led to bee sting lips

The one last glass of wine
that I knew was a mistake

But I drank you anyway
Sweetness wine ...

Pour your wine ...
at all of me ...
drown me...
don't get hesitate...
nothing is better ...
than madness ...
and making love ...
with a crazy ...
in all ways ..

be brave sweetheart ...
with more rebellious ...
i adore mutiny...
and your braveness ...
it's all crazy ...
to excite me more ...
with every seconds ...
we meet ...
to be always ...
as it our ritual of love ...
that we used to be in ...

Pour your wine ...
sweetheart ...
let me sip you ...
as i always sip ...
my coffee ...
with every morning ...

good morning ...
my sweet wine ...

hazem al ...
MsRobota Jul 22
All we were
was the end of a moment
All we were
was spilled wine on the carpet
All we were
was lingering, fading, words never spoken
We should've been the start of time
But all we are is...
Next page