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Chris Saitta Jul 2019
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~
Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba,
No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria,
But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown,
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders,
Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.
The troubadour flourished in France during the Medieval Ages (circa 1100-1350), primarily traveling from court to court.  

The “serena” (evening song for a lover waiting to consummate his love), “alba” (dawn song of a lover), and “pastorela” (song of love from a knight to a shepherdess) are all song forms.  

The “Cantigas de Santa Maria,” the well-known “Canticles of Holy Mary,” are 420 poems sung by troubadours, each mentioning the ****** Mary.  

“Citherns” are essentially the precursor to modern-day guitars.
Indigo Morrison Jul 2019
"… I have all this red wine
and no you to share it with.
I wish you were here...
I'd hold you and
taste wine off your lips
until we needed more
from each other. "
Sabila Siddiqui Jul 2019
Easy it is to be caressed by
the soft-wine colored petals.
Easy it is to breath in the aura
of the fragrant roses.
But are you ready to come close
hold the razor sharp thorns;
enduring the pain of the thorny stems
are you ready to accept the roots
from which she grew.
c Jul 2019
Moscato smile
Curl your lips
And curl your toes
Liquid dusk in a dusty glass
The lines between forgetting the reason
And forgetting the person
Are blurred
I pour another glass anyway
Abdallah Osman Jul 2019
They say you never know what you have until you loose it
Life is good
In every sense
Single, married, relationship, parenting

Everything changed
When I started taking moments of silence
Eyes closed, deep breadth, sometimes with wine
and a smile
Open doors to let my emotions sink in
Even with things mundane as sitting on my balcony

It is worth slowing down
To appreciate now
be on the passive
But active with what's necessary
Then what remains of time is yours

Life is good
I wrote this poem when I noticed that a lot of my sadness was from my approach to life. It was all in my brain. **** is always going to happen right, you cannot be perfect, don't expect every die to land on a six.

Work harder, be psyched for the worst, take it as it is. Come back harder, but draw a curtain between your work life and your life on earth.

I am happier.
John Niederbuhl Jul 2019
The wine is deep red
Sensual, smooth, semi dry
We revel in it
Poetic T Jul 2019
Collapsing emotions
            corrode on my
          ****** perfection.

What was diminishing,
   now collecting in a cup
            of palmed hands collected.


I wanted to no that of your
               miracles,
                            that even
though tears fell,
you never turned

            those now memory to a wine
                         of hope...

Auschwitz was a million
                  tears choked,
but you never turned
a single tear
               to a vintage of peace.


We just choked on the tears,
     and we were a vineyard
                         of silence.


Each a grape that never reached
               maturity.

Instead we fell before we could become
              more that we were.
These tears are sour,
and the taste
                erodes every fallen tears morality.
Mike Jul 2019
i have a soft spot for
tough times, i said from my stomach,
pouring out thick-red wine,
dusty lights and heavy air, breathless voices
and silverware clattered --
i can't be
your rock and
your punching bag, she said with one
corner of her lips curled,
reaching for her glass, a dry wooden door
shut, and the whined shriek of wind
stopped.
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