"cabernet" poems
an angry argument thrown at an opponent as arrows shoot across the battlefield over an expensive bottle of Cabernet.
walls and borders mapped out in thick pencil lines, they hastily marked their territory before it all drowned in earthy blood-red.
Fresh pepper, sir?
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
Something about being 151 miles from home
walking around barefoot all day
in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California
wearing a vest and some black cotton pants,
drinking good Cabernet and lots of water,
eating homemade pasta salad and chicken sandwiches,
in the early-Autumn Summer-esque temperatures,
the third day of the 2013 Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival,
witnessing Gogol Bordello and The Devil Makes Three,
with my great Friends, and also Roomates, Abdul and his Wife,
and their friend and her 20 month old Son
makes me feel sort of ... *****
Funny how that works;
Unprotected feet on very Public grounds
Unprotected feet on verily treded grounds;
Going barefoot is nice, though.
(Except the ******* sidewalks, incidentally.
Even the streets are nicer to walk on barefoot. Even pineneedles!
I am disappointed, San Francisco! I thought you were on the side of the hippies!)
If anything was learned from the Sixties,
it's that unprotected anything
in San Francisco
is easily a hazard.
-
Now, that was a ******* amazing day.
Now; to the shower and then directly the **** to bed!
Away!
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
I love the girl who is too young to smoke cigarettes but lights them anyway. She sits on the high school bleachers at 9 on a Sunday night, gets tired of the smoke in her eyes, and tosses eventual death in the trash can.
I love the girl who has never enjoyed the taste of alcohol but feels like Holly Golightly when she holds a glass of Cabernet so she drinks it anyway. She sits in her grandfather’s lounge chair on a Monday night, plays the songs he taught her on the ***** neglects her English essay, and leaves the red remains in the bottle.
I love the girl who cannot stand the sound of my guitar, but pretends to like acoustics because she knows the music brings out the best in me, and that even if she asks me to stop, I will play anyway. She lies on the floor on a Tuesday night, wishing she were in another town too small to be called a city, listens to melodies that remind her of where she is, ignores my creations and leaves my heart in her hands as she finally falls asleep.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 1:39 AM 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
at the desk, applying for jobs
there is coffee in my cup
and paint in the creases of my fingernails,
on the wall, a whiteboard with new song lyrics
and a list
of things I need to buy,
of course, once I have the money to buy them,
which brings me back to the desk
which an empty bottle of Cabernet Merlot
sits with an empty glass
and notebooks and a mason jar
with cloudy brown-red water
from the bristles of my paintbrushes
my coffee is cold
the french press is in the kitchen
but my flatmate is filming in there
so I’m stuck at my desk
with two sips of cold coffee left,
applying for jobs.
I feel very fragile
right now,
partly because I didn’t go to a job interview
today,
partly because I didn’t go to a job trial,
on friday
though I don’t want to be a waitress
and **** modelling for art classes scares me.
there’s a plant on my windowsill
named Lucy
and she doesn’t have to do anything
and there are two vanilla candles and an incense holder
with lavender incense burning
but **** all the things that
"bring peace"
like small plants, candles, incense, crystals and photographs;
I want a healthy and clean life,
so I have these things
part as a protection
from my own mind
but to be perfectly honest,
I’m at the desk, browsing jobs online,
saving them for later into a bookmark folder entitled
"Wellington Jobs"
instead of actually applying.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Mading relieves Manute from guard duty.
They share a meagre meal of millet porridge before
Manute returns to the refugee nation of southern Sudan.
The noon sun is a harsh sentence for a parched tongue but
they talk not of coffee or juice-laden fruit and
rice and lentils are mountain memories their stomachs can ill afford.
Instead they curse the clear skies that rain only strafing jets and
pray for their dry-breasted wives on pilgrimage to the aid station
carrying children swollen with the promise of death.
They snarl rumours about al-Bashir’s lapdogs
in Khartoum growing fat on food intended for them.
Jason waits, informed by cell phone of Laurie's imminent arrival.
He orders a wheat beer, its earth tone inviting on a silver tray and
its musky sweetness washing away a morning of phone business.
The noon sun is a warm blessing through the picture window but
they talk not of haloed hills or the light-laden river and
recession and retrenchment are market memories their ulcers can ill afford.
Instead they debate '63 cabernet versus '74 chablis and
moan about their reconstructed wives driving halfway across town
carrying children swollen with the promise of private schooling.
They snarl rumours about Key's cabinet
in Wellington while wolfing crayfish and Steak Diane.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Your name is like champagne
Bubbly crisp refreshing
Your body is like red wine
Cabernet.. a few more glasses closer to numbing my pain
Your voice is like brandy
Cognac... a few more sips to settle in an alternate universe
Your kiss is like Tennessee honey
Whiskey.. a few more shots to keep the branch of thorns tight around my frail heart
Your soul is like smirnoff
***** wild and ice cold
You are exotic eccentric exciting
And I am nothing more than a cheap beer from a ****** bar.. hanging from a chain tied to your rist... along for the wrong ride
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
We slip from our cars, a silent scene,
and I see her—the creature I crave.
In a tight, short, black skirt, lean and clean,
she bends clutching her purse, a shadowed wave.
Her curves whisper beneath taut seams,
a silent call my eyes can’t refuse.
From ankle to chest, a waking dream,
lost in the lines I’m hungry to lose.
A breeze stirs softly, sweet as a sigh,
lifting my dress to reveal bare thigh.
The slit, too high for daylight’s grace,
exposes my skin, my secret place.
I shift, I sway—a wordless plea,
hoping she sees, hoping she feels like me.
Our heels tap time, a rhythm shared,
toward the steel tower where we disappear.
Her scent—lavender, earth, fresh rain—
fills my lungs, a soft, sharp pain.
Lush dark wet red lips, a Cabernet wine,
match her fiery hair, almost divine.
At the elevator, I hold back, let her pass,
and she slips to the wall, against the glass.
I step in close, her warmth aligned,
my shoulders brush hers, a pulse I find.
Her firm chest pierces my silk, heat alive beneath,
a silent pulse, a bittersweet wreath.
In mirrored walls, our glances catch,
a chase of shadows we barely match.
Each look a spark, a forbidden flame,
a touch reflected, wet lips without name.
Our breath held tight, a stolen light,
heartbeats quickening out of sight.
The car begins; I graze her hand,
our fingers tremble, a silent demand.
Through sheer white silk blouse, my desires unveiled,
her eyes linger where warmth exhaled.
A sigh escapes, her fingers slide,
a fire unspoken we cannot hide.
Silence. The doors sigh open, she's gone, a trace—
cold stale air rushes in, fills her empty place.
Tears ***** my eyes, the sharp, sweet sting
of a shadowed dream that can’t take wing.
Tomorrow awaits, another city, another stage,
but her touch remains, a ghost on the page—
a nameless memory, forever replayed.
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 5:55 PM UTC
warm wine flowing through my body
(Cabernet being ironically the same color as what gives me life)
directed me to my room
at approximately 11:25 pm that Wednesday.
A light in the left corner painting a pleasant and inviting
gold
I tumble into my queen bed
laughter airily escaping my lungs, exhalations of exhilaration
Ruffled a string of words into a message.
Borne of unadulterated joy and hopeless seclusion,
radiation from my center came out of my fingers as
**** me like the angel I am. I am true beauty and divinity and deserve to feel like a goddess"
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
When I die
my grave will be
surrounded by cherry red wine stains.
That grass,
once green,
will be red, red red.
Have the weight of Cabernet
The dark mystery of Merlot.
I’ll say goodbye
and that wine will drip drop
Through soil
Under rocks
To six feet under
where I will taste it once again.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC
She told me over dinner one evening
that I should switch to white wine—
less tannins and calories, she claimed.
I smiled and shook my head,
a vintage cabernet stubbornly clinging
to my bleached white teeth.
The next day I found a couple bottles
of chardonnay chilled in the fridge,
a note tethered to one’s neck:
Drink Me!
I did not.
Four months later,
we signed divorce papers;
she packed her things and left.
I drank the chardonnay that last night,
dizzied by the herringbone pattern
of the old parquet floor, and wondered
what would happen if I ate our frozen cake top.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:13 PM UTC
i make love with Death every night.
during the day, we go our separate
ways, but she's always on my mind.
after work, we meet up.
same routine. dinner, occasionally.
but always drinks.
she downs a bottle
of Cabernet
with no help
from me.
the red compliments
her dress and flushes
her cheeks with pink.
i just take coffee. black.
afterwards, she needs
a lift home. i'm her dd.
the city lights blur
indigo and violet,
blossoming like flowers
in the pavement
of the night sky.
we arrive. she invites
me to come inside,
looks me in the eye,
says, "i love you."
i believe her,
even though i know
it's a lie.
the minutes hang thick.
while she sobers up,
we roll dice
and tell stories.
then, breathless and slick,
it begins in the kitchen.
gasps come in spasms, pulsing
in tandem with our obsessive—
compulsive—desire.
we continue beneath the duvet.
i sample the flesh between her legs.
she tastes like pomegranate
and bruised starfruit. her sweat
is second-hand smoke. my brain buzzes
from Marlboro Lite cigarettes.
afterwards, we lay over the sheets
as the ceiling fan rotates eternally
overhead, humming a tune we both hear
in our dreams but cannot comprehend.
her head rests on my chest,
she loses herself in the gaps
between each heartbeat.
wordless, we drift.
when i wake, she's always gone.
the space in bed beside me
has grown cool. jealously,
i wish Death had taken me with her.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
It was Freddie Hubbard on the trumpet
blowing on about some blue moon,
as if the yellow one that has occupied
the night and sometimes morning sky
wasn’t enough, when I decided to write
a poem about thinking about tomorrow.
How I will rise before the rest, run a few
miles on a treadmill overlooking a busy
boulevard and read the private memoirs
of a justified sinner. And when the tomorrow
that I was thinking about comes with its new
minutes and hours, its new obstacles and
headaches, I will think back to today
and remember the morning kiss you gave,
the silence between your body and mine,
the amount of times you changed your outfit
before the lake, the museum: the live dances
from cultures around the world that kept us from
viewing new installments, the interracial ballet
dancers tip-toeing to a tune well-known to childhood
ears. But the one memory of yesterday that will be
with me until death do us part will not be of the
Shakespeare that I read nor of the raspberry
cheesecake we shared but of you: sitting alone,
waist-deep in a bubble bath. ******* pert and
motherly exposed. Resting comfortably above
your ribcage. Showing more beauty than age.
A glass of cabernet sitting where the razors and
shampoo usually sat. A young adult novel in the
white palms your small hands. But yes. The one
memory that will be with me until death do us
part and well, even after that, will be of me looking
at you: naked in a tub, your glasses over the bridge
but on the edge of your nose, and the rest of my life
before me.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
we're almost nowhere. just one more block...
the town clock a white dot with prayer hands and a mute halo
we inveigle the fireflies in our mantis
our mantras throw tantrums in tandem
we polish lanterns and leave chrysanthemums
for Amish sirens. your wine a thick miasma of phantasms
a Cabernet of rich spasms in the delicate worm
your apple turns.
off again and another alabaster more pale than actual...
the fat uvula pendulum in the dark tower
where the bats nap in ammonia, fuming with green dreams
that turn black the clock, behind the white solemn.
a virtual girl.
an un-promise promised
one hand over your heart
indivisible
halfway.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Bedtime is late,
Cabernet with steak,
boardwalk bustle declines after 8.
Let's relax and escape,
embrace the crash of the waves,
the midnight moon contrasts with the sun rays of the day.
Forever; I'd like to stay,
me and you,
the view and the bay.
May 25, 2021
May 25, 2021 at 3:42 PM UTC
*Budapest Utca; Rainy Evening
...were Caillebotte a Hungarian
notes of ginger and honey
savory **** of cabernet
improvisational watercolors
harmonious star ascending
if only time knew when to stop
when enough was perfect
heartbreak would be extinct
intimacy...infinite*
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
It was a dream,
To explore the wines.
The Cabernet Sauvignon.
With a bold fearless taste.
Aged only a few decades.
And in a glass,
The smell of charred cedar,
Baked currants & Satin pulled sage.
Which was the dripping spirit
of the grape vines.
The passion would be the Saxifrage.
Snowy herbs,
Caught from the coldest flakes,
Of an Artic storm.
The aromas of violets & sweet basal,
Made a home in the burgundy tint.
The dark density spiraled from
The acid in edible fruits.
The golden gooseberry's were a surprise,
A leather flavor,
Which kept you sleep longer in the morning.
The Diamond Creek is a dream.
For dinner, a medium rare, prime rib,
Topped with plum skins
Thick smoke,
& mushrooms from a forest.
I didn't want to leave.
But I woke up anyway.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
An explosive sizzle over the tarmac,
and through the cracks in the windscreen
(which spread like invisible spiders' webs),
the highway snakes through the hailstones,
and climbs yet another hill.
Townes’ voice sounds thirsty on the FM,
the eyes in the rearview lost, doodled-upon road maps
(clichéd with just a tad of Cabernet Sauvignon);
the driver leans over, pops the cubbyhole,
and yet another pink pill.
Telephone wires vibrate like ocean ripples
with the last cries of ravens that rose like a black tsunami,
‘parting the sea’ for the speeding hearse,
and casting cancer-shadows over the land
with each flap of their wings.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
I think about her naked sometimes
I probably think about it
because I doubt she would give me the satisfaction
of touching her in the heat of passion
so it’s just easier for me to imagine
walking in on her in the bath, drinking a glass of red
maybe cabernet sauvignon, who knows, who cares?
a light steam rising off the foamy suds
they cover only what I want to see
even in my fantasies I like to be teased
she is calm
as though she left the door unlocked intentionally
waiting like a painting in a gallery for me to clumsily stumble in
and find her beautifully sprawled in a Victorian tub with copper clawfeet
painted wet-on-wet like a portrait by John Singer Sargent
her milky blue and marble eyes soften my will like whiskey
and I find myself kneeling beside the bath
my hand gently trembles as it glide against satin velvet skin
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
may your lips linger
for all time
may your lips linger
like a fine Cabernet wine
let them take me
on a journey to paradise
let them take me
let them not think twice
may your lips linger
for all time
may your lips linger
like a fine Cabernet wine
let them entwine
in my heart's threads
never to be shed
let them entwine
let them be mine
for all time
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Father Why’s Glob
*And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel here
Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle*
-Chaucer
A famous priest takes pictures of his meals
Writes detailed notes on how they were prepared
As he airplanes around the world attending meetings
To talk about people he doesn’t like
A famous priest takes pictures of more meals
Almost cellular closeups of bits of meat
While he is flying holy in first class
And praising his cabernet sauvignon
A famous priest promises prayers (and cookery tips)
If you will send him money for his many trips
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
You're always asking me if I'm okay
And I always keep my answers vague
two thumbs way up, I hide my face
eyes cemented shut, just another day
stumble down the stairway
eating out gourmet
don't need a lifejacket in a sea of cabernet,
(You okay?, Hey Rach?)
been a few days since I've had a taste
indentations in the blankets traced
so I sit around, I don't mind the wait
daydream until I leave this place
Always chasing sensations and feelings
sedation isn't quite the same as healing
so I head to the gas station freewheeling
fading and melting into silent sightseeing
You're so special, a wild flame meeting petrol
you don't love me, you love everyone
I'm accidental, not fundamental
so I watch it burn until it's overdone
You're explosive, and I'm corrosive
we probably shouldn't do this
but when has anything interesting
happened from doing what we should've
Skip through the lushest meadow
hope and pray I don't get stung
I tiptoe, I tiptoe
I'm afraid of bees and bugs
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC