"bordeaux" poems
We held hands as time's sand
passed between. Night chocked
the last sun beams. Our conversation
was pertinent to the dwindling
red wine bottle. As the moon glazed
shore began to roar, she whispered
"Let's cuddle." I dropped you, holding her,
and thought "Oh" and began to coddle.
I wrapped myself around her like a shell to a turtle
and she began to nestle on my chest. I guessed
the indigestion came from the Bordeaux bottom.
Boy, was I wrong. See, as I lay with her,
forgetting about you, I remembered
blood is thicker than water. The loves
we choose are stronger than ones
We've fallen into. I wasn't falling there,
underneath the stars, next to the parked car.
I was laying. I was contemplating
as the wind was spraying the lake
into the air.
I came to the conclusion
I was in an illusion of love.
Confounded by smoke and reflections
from movie magicians. She looked up
to me and I guess she could see
my reality crumbling in the breeze.
She asked if I was ok. My slight smile alluded
I was and we laid in love
until the sun's intrusion.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
*She was costly Bordeaux
he was recycled biker leather,
her classic affluent beauty
yearned for motorcycle thrills,
she lifted him up a grade
he brought her down to street level,
they fused at steamy rush hours
under trafficked high ways,
pursuant to reckless merging
reality's intersections accelerated
crashing expedited speed limits,
would never again drive
mid smoothly paved junctures
at the standard rate of normal*
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
I can make anybody pretty
I can make you believe any lie
I can make you pick a fight
With somebody twice your size
I been known to cause a few break ups
I been known to cause a few births
I can make you new friends
Or get you fired from Work
And since the day I left Milwaukee
Lynchburg and Bordeaux France
Been making the bars lots of big money
And helping white people dance
I got you in trouble in high school
But college, now that was a ball
You had some of the best times
You'll never remember with me
Alcohol
Alcohol
I got blamed at your wedding reception
For your best man's embarrassing speech
And also for those
Naked pictures of you at the beach
I've influenced kings and world leaders
I helped Hemmingway write like he did
And I'll bet you a drink or two that I can make you
Put that lampshade on your head
'Cause since the day I left Milwaukee
Lynchburg and Bordeaux France
Been making a fool out of folks just like you
And helping white people dance
I'm medicine and I am poison
I can help you up or make you fall
You had some of the best times
You'll never remember with me
Alcohol
Alcohol
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
before that,
we sat pinned
and winded
on steel hands
and plated masks
near the crimson
jade pools
by the killing fields
of bordeaux
we did not look
we could not look
our eyes blinded
and seared
by the charred remains
and shallow graves
the battered birch
and caliginous path
drifters and vagabonds
and kings of kings
held witness
to the pounding
and overkill
the blades
cauldrons
and burning sweet-grass
all brought forth by healers
rammers, sages
and holy front men
glance behind
(watching them sort
through the rubble
and *****
the blood flow
spilling its warmth
throughout the
festering scene
they pulled the stops out
on this one ~
those sweated woodlands
and churned meadows
now framed
by a burned
and broken cross
autumn like winds
begin to chill
(casting spells over ground cover)
night lights flicker
beyond
the fallen trees
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
Skin as White as Winter Snow
Legs as Boundless as the Sea,
Stationed in Venice or Bordeaux
From Blue-collar to Bourgeois.
Hair is Chic, Yet not Pristine
Soft and Cropped and Fine,
Cheekbones High a Distinct Ravine
Embellished by a High Neckline.
Undefined Peaks and Troughs
Cumbersome and Lank,
Garnished in the Finest Cloth
Awash with Unassuming Swank.
Miss Androgynous hear my call
For I've Become a Virile Gent,
I Yearn for your Unwieldy Frame
That God in Heaven Sent
February 2011
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
How can I fall out of favor
With your
Soulful need
For me
And my own selfish need for you
I mean
Tomorrow night
I may be with something more productive
(Like my thoughts and dreams)
But there is a destructive
Force inside of these
Pressuring this unforgivable union
Of sorts
I mean
Monogamy is ********
Right up there with altruism
Right?
But then there is you and I.
Is it just the two of us,
That can defy the laws of
Rational reason, logic aside?
yes, I feel as though it must…be
so here is my ode
to a bottle of ’03 Bordeaux.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
last night was spent with my five friends;
my five best friends in the whole wide world.
their names are Cabernet,
Pinot,
Merlot,
Bordeaux
and Shiraz.
they are always there when I need them;
they relax me
and soothe me.
they help me through my problems,
dull my pain,
and help me sleep at night.
they will never ignore me,
avoid me,
desert me,
deceive me,
lie to me
or steal from me.
we were all together late last night,
my five friends and I.
when we started the night,
they were full of body
and color.
before I knew it,
four of my five friends
were gone.
the only one left
was Merlot.
it was late
and I was tired.
they’re good at that,
my five friends.
they’re good at
making me feel tired
and sleepy.
they’re good at playing tricks on me too.
“how do you feel?” asked Merlot.
“I feel good,” I replied.
“well,” said Merlot,
“just wait until morning…”
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
I used to count the Acers
honed red striped wood,
offering hope in depths of February,
aeons of breakfast wishes
played changes that cannot be backed down
any more than my russet creations,
I long for companionship
as earthy as bottled Bordeaux ,
only if my crocus mia pathway
enfuses with the sound
of the incurious contendedly arriving
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
Our wedding was a waste of everybody's time
Though back then it did not seem so
We playfully argued about the choice of wine
Now neither of us can drink Bordeaux
The band that played Bittersweet Symphony
Should have erased sweet from the chorus
The wedding poetry was just wasted on me
And the waste of good thesaurus
But your choice of favors...
The sugared almonds
were simply
out of this world!
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
August still catches in my head like that Manhattan melody
when he was my little vial of Novocaine.
when the moon showed her face and we slept on my floor
and our knees and hips and
shoulders—all the hinges of our bodies—washed with
a twilight of mauve and Bordeaux.
And one night he painted me with
two rows of clenched teeth—dipping in and out of white pools of Selene.
I have a bed now that he has left
with sheets that billow on the right side,
with real blankets that aren't hospital blankets.
And he is my little vial of Novocaine
that took a train to states away. And the miles
between have left me with a weight in my chest that I'm sure fell from
his suitcase. I've got
bones made of buildings,
and a metropolitan heart,
and a steady smile
knowing this same moon hangs over him and that borough.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, have a great July!
goodness is virtue
rage is essence when realization is new
hearts entrenched
them those called sensations melted a bench
memories tainted in dark
reminiscent somewhere in the background park
violins ached for the winter sky
on a hope it would just snow the ghosted July
their flesh burnt
mercurial whispers churned a hurt
dilapidates already fallen
feels of away returned from the stolen
wise in me I confess
to not believe a belong is a bless
visions confuse
perplexed deprived of a twinkle muse
my pen writes
then paper welcomes once and thrice
orchestra chimes
in time to spill the wine
------ravenfeels
Jul 1, 2021
Jul 1, 2021 at 10:31 AM UTC
Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.
I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.
Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.
I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.
He is handsome
without being too ****
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.
I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.
I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, funny how a book can be translated by everyone's Mercury differently--edited;}
on a beauty so mystical on a plastered smile an essence so beam
yet not everlasting not in a bare nor a second tormenting blurt
such stars she begged them Gods for she tormented in a skeptic hurt
she trails her menaces to **** in a drip
of a bordeaux in a wine in a mindless sip
yearning erased letters from people from faces
a charm of a devil monster selfished her feels down her laces
a bound to the intimate
flushed upon the ultimate
of the hate of the ends
an evermore of upcoming pained centuries
moments the gods abide to hide to conceal
from human memory to blank and come across a past life to steal
then to the unconscious to plant on dreams and make souls heal
speechless left
one on the fictional
two on the cure in the weeks my delusional
believed seven constellated freckles pure by the character been held
mooned self-expressionism in sick mind delves I label mine
forever fallen saint on the line
--------ravenfeels
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC
Éloge de Monsieur de Montaigne
(Dédié à Jean-Pierre)
Toi seigneur de Montaigne, au si beau nom d'Eyquem
que nul amateur de Bordeaux ne saurait négliger.
Tu fus l'ami de La Boétie et un sage joyeux,
Tu vécus en ton château, dont l'une des tours rondes,
contenait une bibliothèque fournie.
Toi, qui faisait cultiver ce vin de Bordeaux,
qui sied au palais et plait tant aux anglais.
Cher Montaigne ayant étudié à Bordeaux,
au collège de Guyenne,
Tu vécus en un temps empoisonné
par les guerres de religion et ses sombres fureurs.
Temps affreux ou l'homme égorgeait l'homme,
qui ne partageait pas sa même lecture de la Bible.
Et dire que nous avions cru, ces temps-là, révolus !
C'est peut-être ce qui te poussa à choisir l'école stoïcienne,
Bien que par ton tempérament et ta vie.
Tu fus beaucoup plus proche des bonheurs de Lucrèce.
Tu fus, un long temps, magistrat au Parlement de Bordeaux,
bien que les chicaneries du Droit t'eussent vite lassées,
et plus encore, la cruauté de ses modes de preuve.
et cet acharnement infini des plaideurs,
à n'en jamais finir, à faire rebondir les procès
que tant d’énergie vaine te semblait pure perte.
Mais tu voulais être utile et l'égoïsme étroit de l' «otium»,
choquait ta conscience.
Tu eus un ami cher, Prince de Liberté et de distinction,
Etienne de la Boétie, qui réfléchit avec profondeur,
sur les racines de la tyrannie en nos propres faiblesses.
Et de cette amitié, en recherchant les causes,
Tu conclus et répondit ainsi :
«Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi»
Révélant ainsi que la quintessence du bonheur de vivre
luit au cœur de cette amitié dont nous sommes,
à la fois, le réceptacle et l’offrande.
Cher Michel de Montaigne, je voulais,
te saluer ici et te faire savoir en quelle estime
Je te tiens avec tes «Essais» d’une bienveillante sagesse
Qui font songer aux meilleurs vins mûris en barriques de chêne
Et à ces cognacs qui éveillent l’Esprit et les sens,
Même lorsque l’hiver nous pèse et nous engourdit
Je voulais aussi te dire que de ton surnom
J’ai nommé Jean-Pierre qui te ressemble si fort
Et apporte une douce ironie à mes passions tumultueuses.
Paul Arrighi
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
Sleek lines curve around the mind, stimulating the imagination. Here and now she faces me, but who is the mirror?
Tumeric stains on fingertips, reminders of the culinary fun. A half empty glass of Bordeaux upon the monopoly board: oh yeah, another loss.
Ruby-red shoes seek a home.
A silver spoon is bent in two.
Johnny Cash plays as the record spins.
Some you lose,
some you win!
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
All along the broken trees and bridges
Loom the heavy sins of man
Opulence pinches her curvy ridges
Nighttime is the right time
For easy forms of forgiveness
Here horn players blow out as they pass
Shouting sorrows at the moon
High notes vibe loose as Mrs. Cass
Lays down her weary knees
Folds her hands and prays
Coyote madness moves in shadow
Assassin pin striped and grey
Barroom is closed with nowhere to go
Sidewalk is splitting right under you
Birds sit stained by a moon light blue
Screeching southern gospel with tell tale Bill
High grass weave in a hot Autumn night
Bottle empty of those ****** sleeping pills
Eyes heavy from work on the trail
But my hearts heavy lookin' for bail
Make your way to the end block
Shoes broken eyes hung like satin
Stop sign sadness with a broken down clock
Time strikes a maddened midnight
She said every things gonna' be alright
Keys in the lock n' I'm so beat but I'll keep
My shoes are caked in mud
Doors ajar n' my dead end job won't start
Now and then feels like the present and past
All moments in time we grow to resent
In the star struck night Ill be dancing alone
Her skirt twirls yellow and gold
Grass beneath me buried calm cool bones
Death don't seem so bad sometimes
Death tastes just like an old bordeaux wine
When the wind picks up and makes you squint
And your back is bent sideways
Your soul feels spent and no ones gives you a hint
Hold your eyes to the ocean for waves
Come and most certainly go
Over each minute flashes ride through
Planets are forever unaligned
Nod of rotations push stars far past Pluto
A mash of slop soup tectonics
Brimming on the edge of robotics
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 5:17 AM UTC
he told me i tasted like 12 o'clock sun on chilly days without names. since he mentioned days without names, they had been my favourite kind of days. in my head, every day had a colour and yesterday was yellow. you pulled over and got out of the car when i asked you why we could not buy another bottle of red wine for the fifth time. i looked down at my veiny hands and fondled the key that he had left behind. it killed me how everything reminded me of him. i thought that liquid self-pity would erase him but it only made him appear even more distinct. i tried to patch up myself when you was asleep; i kissed the freckles on your back and connected them by drawing constellations and celestial bodies with my silky whisper. i wore long sleeves because my heart was stained by his soporific words. he made me feel calm without effort; it made my skin crack. the way he held me tight made me want to throw up butterflies. you never made me want to throw up butterflies; you only drugged my body with sweet drops of poison. i am fond of you, you would always say and i would always force a smile and take another sip. he adored my blue lips. the more you loved me, the more i adored being intoxicated. after half a year, a few bottles a day made me love you back. i could name every débit de boissons in bordeaux.
hey kiddo, i have brought you a glass of my favourite wine.
he visited me on a chilly day without name. i was already dead when he found me.
(k.w)
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
*I ask of her, when drowsy, pre-sleep,
as my eye lids,
elusively and gravitationally, pulled ever lower,
a desperate last chance request by
my vast audience of too few,
give the poet's subconscious a fair shot,
a morning poem delivery,
you've requested, route assigned,
to the front door stoop steps of your lips,
for me to deliver, and earn my keep
if only a title you will provision?
she says:
lights out honey chile,
as she kisses the poodle good night,
you know you are quite
the acquired taste,
showing me such a fine time tonight,
ordering in vegetable lo mein,
won ton soup and a
spring roll in the summer time
washed down with an icy-white Bordeaux,
watching Guardians of the Galaxy (Part Two) on the telly
so all you and
your bonnie idea of showing a girl a good time,
quite an expropriation of a foreign cultural potpourri
a thank you yawn provided, a positive confirmation
of her appreciation + an acknowledgement of her AM order,
morning cafe au lait requested
in a big cup with no handles,
a croissant with French butter,
avec un poème exceptionnel
the title tithed,
poet-this, "you, an acquired taste"
please deliver it at seven o'clock sharp,
so I may be first to give it a like,
read it with my cafe,
tho you are an acquired taste,
you have already
acquired my heart*
<£>
8/22/17
11:50pm
l
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
1.
Dear Penny,
Today I saw two sparrows playing underneath a tree
that is still naked from the winter. They hopped an
chirped and pecked at each other. They had no
worries, no cares in the world. I was envious of
them. I wished to be that free. I need to get away
from this place. It makes me hollow.
Always,
Milo
2.
Dear Penny,
Do you remember that night when we were in San
Tropez? We'd had too much Bordeaux, and found
ourselves laughing at the moon in the middle of the
night. We saw turtles laying eggs in the sand, their
progeny made to wait until being birthed back into
the sea. Why do turtles always do that? Is it
fate? Is it futility? I think it's because of fear.
Always,
Milo
3.
Dear Penny,
I'm sitting in a coffee shop, trying to relax. A man
sitting at the table next to mine has a tattoo of a
clown on his forearm. It is very intricately drawn.
But as I was looking at it, the clown shifted its gaze
and started to laugh at me. It has since stopped
laughing, but no matter how hard I try, I can't get it
to stop staring.
Always,
Milo
4.
Dear Penny,
Let's face it, all hope is dead. Free will has led to
abandonment. Good people go hungry, the troubled
are revered. Love has no bounds, adultery is
standard. Since we have fallen from the pedestal of
the scarred, fear lies in the hands of the just. Who's
to say why we were. We just are, and I'm tired.
Always,
Milo
5.
Dear Penny,
Consider yourself lucky you're not here. The
streets have become a fetid barrage of scrambled
and frantic contemplations. Am I a rogue, in search
of vigilant prosperity? Or does my face just lack a
certain boyish charm? I blame the church and its
benign stance on water purity. Nevermore...
Always,
Milo
6.
Dear Penny,
Please excuse my attitude in previous
correspondences, as I'm sure you noticed an
abrupt change in my demeanor. Sometimes I feel
weak. Sometimes I wonder if thinking is the right
thing to do. To act would be an adventure. But
worry not; the doctors have given me a clean bill of
health. I remain.
Always,
Milo
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, do you know what is more hurtful than missing a human???--missing a character from your dream--you can't even blame him in his face:\
met you last night in the gone
this will take a lot to be claimed to the bone
grinning crowns of versus been worn
to live to keep in those halls up torn
cold I keen shimmering in so dim so tight
a wholesome of neon light
elegant in blacks you trail you knight
a little too high
a little too low
way old for eyes to glow
sometimes loose sometimes harsh and stones
finally to me he saves approach
mesmerize and charm clasp arms and tease clarks
flying with you hell of a need a struck of a stark
know the way never minding no cry no pay
shoulder she presses
kisses she smolders
caressing bits n'pieces
a decay of something older no longer beholder
swoon her in brains
spread her in walls
in yellows and thunders always a smile
jarred well sworn to them all
swept to her feet
heart and soul
to your submit
I hate to admit
but things are lit
taste the rain
drown the pain
can't release your chain
in my sleep
your whispers seep
cut me so deep
from the pinkie touch
to the hold of the much
in the gazes unseen loud
in bet of middle of crowd
bring a right in your ignite of a strict detect
up taken so fished by your unbounding protect
get to you get to me
I struggle of these for you to be safe to see
foul me none not again
I fail dread in your essence
cant scribble cant write
things my heart wont come across a possible define
purple screams and black molds upon my wondrous
soul they dime and sore
not like others
heaven to you heaven to me
treat the lavishes then worship the envies
clot wounds gamble truths
just as nothing else I wont await no more
traced here
known where
forever in my heart
your place bewares
a necklace to the angels
to you took to you sold to you you win
take me forever
in the bordeaux I'm covered
already missing you
got me on clouds loving you
------ravenfeels
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 5:52 PM UTC
I picked up a wine glass
not because you told me to
I just had to
pick one up to get back at you
you picked up a wine bottle
but that's not for me
as a lady I must stay classy
I sit here waiting for you
to tell me you want me
I sit here sipping my wine
hoping you will call on me this time
it takes me a few drops to be drunk
drunk off of my feeling
drunk to my core
drunk on
lust
care
want
chasing a silly little dream of you
taking care of me
as i sip my
bordeaux blanc
taking care of myself
in the harsh reality that is my life
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
Yet here I go...
To put on a show,
In these stanzas' rhymes I will stow,
Creating this laminar flow,
Stringing words together to form a sentence like an archipelago,
Needing this poem like bread dough,
Although I know it will never become a gateau,
Nor a chocolate Bordeaux,
It is more akin to a cheapo combo,
Housing poultry clauses building a bordello,
Impertinent this may seem like loving a guanaco,
But what you will learn from this puppet show,
*Is that not all poems have to rhyme,
In order to flow.*
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
Come on, bro, we gotta put on a show
Keep up with the flow, we're doing this so
Turn off the lights, and I'll glow (Vanilla Ice reference)
A doe is a female deer, didn't you know?
With all these words I'll be put on death row
Doesn't matter, I'll continue to grow
While kneading the dough and ploughing the snow
I'm the rhythmic Van Gogh, let's take a trip to Bordeaux
To and fro on the lyrical train, don't have no woe
I see a siren's glow, whoops, time to lay low
You're from the Skid Row? I'm not though
Thanks for being my foe, guess you've learnt you reap what you sow
No cash I owe, a rhyming kilt I have to sew... Whoa, this is going way too slow but this little gift I bestow, please hold it in escrow. That'll be the quid pro quo and here we go.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC