"chardonnay" poems
trip up the island to see all the folk
monopoly, pong => pig 'n a poke
crystalline glass with dark bitter ale
Santa is looking a little bit pale
cherry red cheeks from a chilled chardonnay
one sailing wait for the talk of the day
drum sticks and dressing are the pick of the bird
chestnuts and brandy for gravy being stirred
brussels and taters are pulled from the bake
pears in the salad bring memories of Jake
sparks from the fire with rich amber glow
grey hair and wrinkles will come...don't you know?
gingerbread man with a white icing smile
candy cane schnapps (with its seasonal style!)
pine cones and tinsel that cover the tree
carols are humming from churches and streets
cold winter nights are the best of the year
chocolate and eggnog await with good cheer
a heavy thick fog approaches the sound
the comforts of Christmas, with joy all around!
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Snip
Cut
Bang
Simmer
I want a transit, a travel against my skin, that keeps going until I command it to stop.
My mouth begged for light, to feel warmth on my face
Heat oven to 450
You laughed and tossed me, a rag, away from the mahogany scent of your chest to the cold, hard floor that I am stuck to.
I miss you
I try to imagine you so that I can delude myself into continuing, but my mind strangely has already forgotten you.
I cannot remember your eyes, or even your favorite color anymore.
Some wish for that type of amnesia, but I am solemn.
I wanted a piece of you to carry with me always.
Cook for fifteen minutes or until dark
I hear my other side in my head; She is the evil within me.
I am brunbrunette, she is red.
I wear flats--her long legs are attracted to heels.
She smiles and with a curvy, smooth voice, much like a fiery dame from 1920:
"He has a piece of you though; you gave him your whole heart, and he only took a bite! That's alright, you don't need him or anything like him! You are a woman.... "
I drown her out with recipes,
4 cups of music and 1 cup chardonnay
(okay maybe MORE than one)--
therapy that I have made many appointments for.
Adding bits and pieces of me that I share, and some I don't
One thing I know, if a new one comes along, he is going to have to be patient,
I learned my lesson from burning out on the first batch
Take out--let cool
Don't eat all at once--savor.
Enjoy a slice at a time.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
♦ ♦ ♦
She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.
It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk with
a middle-aged bitterness
of the man you were raised
to believe was too virtuous
to be in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him—
The man whose love confused you,
whose clumsy attempts
of fatherhood
kept the heart of a young girl
perpetually guarded
by a cautious skepticism—
The man who brought you into
a world he found absurd
as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.
More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner
with the two of them a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (though
you’d feel like a traitor
if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.
In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children I may ever bear
into this bittersweet game of ********
we play that we’ve since called ‘life,’
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems to navigate
the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace
what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart contents?
hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic
mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips
with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?
later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity
from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat
her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;
I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally
rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,
*sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,*
which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies
5/29/17 i
12:43pm
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Us together was exemplary devastation and even in pieces, I yearned for more...
Us together now is pure conservation even perpetual I want more...
Can I compare you to my lovely day? But you are the art more lovely and more adumbrate...
Your cherry blossom hue never gonna wash away by heavy showers of rain I'm not even gonna let ragged wind shake my darlings, Dovey...
You can savour me... But only with your eyes... And I will vow with mine.. then there will be no surprise...
May our path be cohered forever and get entwined... We can epoch our kiss in a barrel then we not gonna need chardonnay wine...
What signifies how intimate we shall be??
Not what you are but what you're to me...
But you are so far away... And we are planning to make our stay... we are staying under the blanket of starry nights...
And it's a sight to behold because we gonna see two moons collide...
As long as the sun shines we traverse and expands...
May we reach the end of it all and may this never ends...
Feb 21, 2022
Feb 21, 2022 at 6:01 AM UTC
tight muscles, the pain,
the stress of the day,
you can wash it all away
with a glass of chardonnay,
easing the constant anxiety
that comes from the responsibility
of day-to-day reality.
flush it all down, along with your sanity
and just wash it all away.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Remember
The last time We were
in Dallas together
That place where We met
We loved and We lived
and where We were
so very alive in Our time
There in the beautiful city
Resplendent and Refined
Where we spent Our moments
in love in life
and the quiet vibrant
Love of Life
Remember
That last time
We went back home
to Dallas
On that day we awoke
in the early morning
When I asked if you
were ready to leave
You stepped gracefully
to embrace me
You said We had time
Do you think We might...
please
You knowing surely
without a doubt
you never needed
to plead
We made love
like We knew
that We meant it
We made love
that isn't made fast
We made love
in the joys
of pleasing each other
A love that would always
however still last
We soon then
were on our way
on a beautiful bright
late Fall day
To see someone
back home
You there then
golden and glorious
Happy and smiling
Sipping on a Sunkist
citrus soda
We put the car on cruise
and We sailed away
Slipping quickly from
the rustic western country
To merge swiftly
into the flow of
the magnificent city
Toward the inbound
expressway
Remember the majestic
towering skyscrapers
as we made the loop
around downtown
The red flying Pegasus
still flying on
as the emblem
of Our hometown
Reunion Tower
and the magic of light
The Top of the Dome Club
at the top of the world
Such wonderful times
at the top of Our life
Remember Our date there
when We were yet still young
that lasted the afternoon
Throughout the evening and
all that beautiful night long
For You then my Lady
A perfect Chardonnay wine
For me Johnny Walker
on the rocks
All to perfectly bind
the heart and mind
To a wondrous moment
Overswept yet fixed in time
You by my side as
I always had hoped
Like that very last time
We were in Dallas
together back home
We made our stop
to meet with a doctor friend
He knew what I could never
believe and what I never
wanted to have had
to comprehend
You were gone by measures
You were gone by degree
You were going
and near hopelessly
gone unto me
Yet I still hoped
and believed
The last time
We went back home
to Dallas together again
But still on the way back
from Our bright shining city
to what would become
the darkest of desolations
You still were happy
or so it seemed
You were bright and beautiful
like in a perfect dream
We stopped at a restaurant
I ate a lot...but You did not
You stepped away for a minute
and then I met you at the car
When We got back
to that place
where together
We last lived
We embraced and
You said again...
please
Surely You never
would have ever
needed to plead
We first lay there
together a moment
to recover Our strength
Entwined together
You and me
Then We there
were immersed within
that precious moment
When all of beautiful
intimate art is
expressed in life
And all of love
becomes perfectly
tragic art
There is where
I felt the trickle
of Your tears
as they fell down
onto my chest
And then there
upon my heart
After that last time
We were back
home in Dallas
together.
Remember Dallas.
We always
will have Dallas.
-R.
7/17/17
-LA
-4MAR
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 3:57 PM UTC
#18 | 31 Poems for August 2016
I want soulful conversations filled with happiness, love and laughter.
A little bit of red wine, Sade, Jill Scott and Erykah Badu will do.
Time is wasted so I patiently wait for the clock to get sober eventually.
The sincerity of my words is embedded in the movement of my verbs.
Hope you learn to love your thick thighs and those beautiful brown eyes.
I want to hold you in my arms until you forget what loneliness feels like.
I read your body like the pages and chapters of a novel that I never want to stop reading.
Reading the lines on a woman’s skin is poetry and too many men are illiterate.
So they will never truly understand the fact that liberty begins with literacy.
If you incorporate piano keys into my heartbeat, then I promise that you will fall in love with the melody.
I want soulful conversations filled with happiness, love and laughter.
A little bit of chardonnay, Maxwell, Jill Scott and Erykah Badu will do.
The world is nothing without you, the world is blurry without my muse.
Hope you learn to love your thick thighs and those beautiful brown eyes.
I don’t have much but I have you and with God on my side how can I lose?
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.
It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk
of the man you were raised
to believe
was too virtuous to be
in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him.
The man who brought you into
the world as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.
More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner with them
a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (even though
you’d feel like a traitor if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.
In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children
I may ever bring
into this ******** little game that
goes by the name of “life,”
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems
to be navigating the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé
It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.
In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.
Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”
That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.
Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 10:51 PM UTC
I didn't know you were a piano player.
This fact only came up while my palms burned
with anticipation as I reached out into the stillness,
searching for your hands. I found them beneath sheets
and cold promises, where the fingers were dancing
and the nails were scratching and you were looking to have a good time.
You're good at playing the blues.
A man by the name of Skye told me you knew all about snatching secrets
from the moon, and as I felt the scars and scratches along your callous, quick fingers, I knew this was true.
Your eyes never looked down at what you played, which is probably how they ended up this way: scarred and burned and stained a dark red. I
never found out why you liked to play music so dark that it did
nothing but leave bruises, ones you tried to wash away with
old wash cloths and chardonnay. Or why your nickname was *****
even though your mother named you Vivian. Or why you sold me those
tickets to that band you dreamed of seeing. Or why your hands started
shaking whenever you were near me. Or why I'm in love with your fingers,
and all the notes they've played and touched and stole.
I don't mind the fact that their skin is burdened with slices of depressed,
quiet peace, or the way your eyes turn blue even though they're supposed
to be green.
I can only hope in the wake of all these sad revelations, that your fingers will remain on those black and white keys, and tomorrow you'll still be playing.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
Buy me chrysanthemums
Not lavandula or geraniums
Or phalangium with their low hanging bulbs
Why don’t you know I love chrysanthemums!
Chrysanthemums, Dahlia…Hera…Willow?
Lillian! Lillian,
How could I take chrysanthemums from Lillian?
You should know. I shouldn’t have to say anything! You should know.
Buy me Viognier
Not Muscat or Chardonnay
Or Furmint with its corky taste
Why don’t you know I love Viognier!
Viognier, Vionnier…Vienne…Vienna?
Dalmatia! Dalmatia,
How could I take Viognier from Dalmatia?
You should know. I shouldn’t have to say anything! You should know.
Dalmatia, near Sibenik
From where I dine on scallops,
Or do you not know that I love scallops?
If not then you should know that I love fickle, false and fair
It’s my nature and you are my nurture
If you did not know then know this, love’s a hapless farce
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Pinot this and pinot that
This young Grenache is a trifle flat
Better to try and get along
With a slightly older Sauvignon
I sometimes get a trifle low
When dabbling in a cheap Merlot
And so to scare the blues away
Will sip a spendy Chardonnay
But to avoid real ennui
Drink super Oregon Pinot Gris
And let’s be quite awfully frank
That’s much better than Chenin Blanc
But while you sort out your Pinot
Give a break to Grignolino
It’s good, but not the same as
A bold and cheeky Oz Shiraz
And if you want to go very far
Don’t ignore local Pinot Noir
It always sells well on the block
And I wonder who likes Marechal Foch
As I was supping a cute Barbera
At a certain State affaira
Things got quickly very highbrow
When someone mentioned Muller Thurgau
It is no lack of vinous respect
That makes us scorn the best Malbec
And can you find me a single fan
Of that very odd vine, Carignan?
If one must go to a grapey hell
There’s good company in Zinfandel
But if we really must go
Could we have some Nebbiolo?
In the end we all agree
Any wine is better free
But if not free we’ll surely call
Any wine beats none at all!
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
There is a time between us, when the pebbles of the sea
and the darkness of the moon will seem one.
Where the lilies and the starlight falls,
and my hands and bones will sleep.
See in our sleep, the world can be one, and
the flowing waters will be like Chardonnay.
Our memories will sing so wild and free.
Under the moonlight, before your lips,
I give you my breath and the secret beneath
my soul, where my soul falls underneath.
Awestruck and charmed by the precious jewels,
in your eyes. You are my beloved,
Leaving my breath to you, my very life,
I lift you up like a rose stretching for the sea.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
Candles, chocolates and a bottle of Chardonnay
Heralding the eve of Christmas day
Rollicking good fun is in the air
Icy outside but who gives a care
Surprises all gaily wrapped
To a song that someone just rapped
Mistletoe hangs in the hall
And the clock ticks slowly on the wall
Santa from Lapland is coming to call.
©Hazel
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Going skinny dipping on a warm night in July
Got my blanket, some Chardonnay
And one big happy Smile
I know a quiet stretch of shoreline
It is so sublime
For dressing down for skinny dipping
On a warm night in July
Not a care does my heart own tonight
The moon is full
The tide is high
And yes, the time is right
And as I run I start to peel
The layers that fence me in
I’m running down that sandy strip
Back to how we all began
Going skinny dipping on a warm night in July
All I got for company is
Ocean and sky
I love this quiet stretch of shoreline
It just suits me fine
For dressing down for skinny dipping
On a warm night in July
My heart is beating lighter
My skin no more a slave
Emancipated flesh and bone
Just dreaming on a wave ~~~~~
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh
You know the hands of time
Don’t ever wait for any gal or guy
Gonna run into this moment
Gonna dive into this moment
And just float upon the moment
Skinny Dipping on a warm night in July
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
.
Take this, this poem
with torn, tattered edges
Stuff it in pockets
of jeans faded blue
Tell all the people
who teeter on ledges
Nothing is worse
if you have not a clue
Shatter this pen
flowing ink made of fire
Charring the castles
where dragon wings fly
Fanning the flames
that a sad heart has started
When every stanza
now ends in goodbye
Fracture the vase
that once sat in the window
Emerald green
with a chardonnay shine
Toss me the shards
till you see I am bleeding
Now have some cheesecake,
a nice glass of wine
Bury these dreams
so they fade in the morning
Hidden from sunlight
and coated in dew
Roll out the leaves
in the cover of autumn
Springtime for me
is now long overdue
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
After 6 PM,
four glasses of Chardonnay;
Jekyll turns to Hyde.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
She faded into the oblivious shadows of night,
The mardi-gras converted from dawn to daylight.
Where she danced elegantly in ballroom raves
She etched her body to the rhythm flowing in waves.
Her hunger was lustful in her eternally gazing eyes,
She kept her secrets beneath beauty's seductive gaze,
But when heart beats drowned out the soulful harmony
Penetrating eyes hummed on gullible minds uncertainty.
Her burgundy lips etched on life's needing of lustful kisses,
Eager thoughts on this chardonnay on lips it glistened.
Drained off needing, she rested them peacefully in death
Never noticing until departed that they are exempt of breath.
Invigorated she released the energy of life on the dancefloor
Day descended into nights embrace, so she left out the backdoor,
Upon the streets she smiled at the masks hiding her secrets
When an invite did fall in to her hands, her next feed on a leaflet.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
~
The sunrise blushes
in sunflower
chardonnay braids
on soft merlot clouds
as if it has heard
my whispers of love
sent to you upon
sweet pea breezes
this perfect
vintage morning
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
We sat cozily on the couch listening to Miles Davis
She, curled up with a glass of Chardonnay, me, a warmed brandy snifter
It seemed an eternity since we made time for each other like this
We enjoyed our home in silence, absent our attention grabbing offspring at Grandma's.
I savored the scent of her lavender infused body snuggled in my arms
Her beautiful brown eyes reflected flickered light
The candles we transplanted from our earlier bath, burned slowly
And "Kind of Blue" transported us as we held each other.
"May I have a sip of your brandy?" she asked coyly with a smile on her face
"Of course," I handed her my glass
"Not from your glass," her smile turned into a mischievous grin
The vanilla and oak from the brandy permeated the air above the gulp I took into my mouth.
My heart rate increased, my eyes closed, and our smiles met pressed together; Heaven is real...
Her lips parted, she pulled the brandy from me along with my tongue that now danced with hers
The fire of the brandy that left my mouth warm, now slid down her neck in one smooth swallow
We took great care in kissing each other, sensuously, passionately, time stood still, for us.
Luxuriating in this kiss, a tear fell from her eye, met only with the tears that fell from mine
As our mind's eye recalled the love we have endured over these adventurous years together
Brandywine never tasted this divine as from the lips of my beautiful lover
Lightheaded, more so from her than from the alcohol, I smiled and held her closer to me.
"I Love you Husband!"
"I Love you more Wife!"
-----ChawzzyScript
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
You sit in the cabinet
Pristine and untouched
Gathering dust
We used to celebrate
Together
Birthdays, anniversary’s
Valentine’s day
Now there is no celebration
You have no use for me
I long for the day when you’re happy again
And you fill me with velvet red wine
Or sparkling chardonnay
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC