"malbec" poems
Last Christmas grandmother told anyone who would listen that she quit the wine. She said it once as my father cracked open a bottle of *** She said it again serving the ham; mentioned it in passing while gramps polished off a bottle of Malbec;
she said that last summer in the hot-tub at Laurie’s she had a bit too much Sangria and got out and fell on the pavement, cutting up her knees real bad ---
she said that she couldn’t even believe it was happening, she couldn’t believe that she drank so much. I could believe it.
Gram had always been a bit of a drinker; her sober stinging words caught you good enough even when she was on her best behavior. Imagine when she was unhinged! Talking while her teeth were all red was like getting sucker punched by a kangaroo; Gramps got all loose and loud, Gram got all hot and bothered and mean.
Don’t get me wrong. If I could, I’d drown in a pool of whiskey, choke on the amber stream from the tap.
But I don’t lie about it! I don’t talk about it; I don’t lie about it.
I’ve been sneaking sips since I was 14,
and I’ve been drinking pools of the stuff since I was 17 and if you asked anyone they might not believe you.
I wonder if punching people in the face and choke holding them into doing what you want them to do is a past-time. Most people drink to get nice.
People like her drink to get mean.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
She sets down
her very large glass of Malbec
sighs and lights
a poorly rolled
tampon-like cigarette
the look on her face
bothers me deeply
I open my mouth
with good intentions
and probably should have
said something like
"Are you ok?"
but what came out
went something like
You are nothing to me
just an **** potato
there's almost nothing
that you could provoke
within anyone
except for the cats
Yeah,
I'd bet you could start
the feline revolution
with your poisoned toenails
and mashed carrots
not even seventeen vats of ****
could make you more slippery
No,
I don't want your wet cake
just bees,
endless mayonnaise
and cherry flavoured toxic yoghurt
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 11:41 AM 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
Some converted industrial uptown space
$20 brunch at a table for one
Nice and filling it seems, no room in my gut
Nor wondering why I walk gasping for breath
Pouring water, wishing it were alcohol
Too dumb when the check comes to add a figure
Some deep lasting sustenance from that, I figure
Stumbling home down block past shop and vacant space
Nothing sanitizes quite like alcohol
Great to see strangers holding hands one in one
Except I'd claw them and beat out their breath
Wrenched and stuffed I'd kick them in their stupid gut
That's not very nice, I know it in my gut
But somehow don't care much more to figure
Which story to tell or the smell of my breath
When tables for two require just as much space
And a spot at the counter suffices for one
Despite the sadness and lack of alcohol
I think lager, Malbec, other alcohol
And there is some deep craving still in my gut
For drunkenness or eternal truth, which one?
What luck, I'm rescued by a dashing figure
Some vibrations in my pocket fill the space
Imagination comes up to catch its breath
But that's about it, no handsome man with fresh breath
Just me standing in line to buy alcohol
Squeezing past the register makes for tight space
But maybe it's all the sausage in my gut
There's no lasting sense in minding my figure
So long now resigned to the comforts of one
The alternative is an uncertain one
And to explain I feel I'm wasting my breath
But there's no harm in ogling a nice figure
And there's no harm in a little alcohol
Oh, poor decisions, I feel them in my gut
Forgetting prescient matters of Time & Space
Perhaps there is one, sipping on alcohol
Inhaling deep breath, with a fire in his gut
Awaiting a figure to write lines in space.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
I buy a shirt, a blue shirt, a button down.
I drink a glass of wine, a red, a Malbec.
And I watch.
I stand still in the midst
of the St. Cloud Market.
The crowd—that singular being—
jostles and jockeys and talks
in broken English.
I chew gum, cinnamon gum, Nicorette.
I feel my habit inverting, bending, becoming mechanical.
And I must flirt and be moral
with the shopkeeper who looks a little
like me.
And I must revert to an irrational, emotional,
childlike state as I buy three pirated DVDs.
The crowd forms a circle instinctually.
Three women dance slowly in the center.
Paper falls from the sky, newsprint, a day old.
Gunfire, the sound of it, its slowing of time.
No one says a thing
and no one's feet make a sound and
every child is perfectly behaved
for one relentless moment.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
Inconceivably generous. I am deliberate. ill-chosen, splintered, and imposed on. As a degenerate, I summon the Master's actions to justify my behavioral grit. My consciousness is as mixed as a Montrachet, yet my heart is as bold as a cheap Malbec.
What is so gently placed before you
Is a hideous manifestation of my world views. Skip the introductions-- pas de deux let's rendezvous into a drunken abyss of "I love you" and when I call to say something is missing-- it's been about 6 shots of regret and a couple of packs of loneliness.
I am like the tear in your sheets. I can make you feel warm until your body meets the open seam. Like that scarf you had around your neck that did not quite hide the marks that I left.
I am Inconceivably generous. I am deliberate. ill-chosen, splintered, and imposed on.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
I wanted to tell you
That my mom was sick
She was strong & I was at my weakest since my brother slipped forever
But whatever, we don’t need to talk about that
Alas through my paranoia and tobacco riddled anxiety
She would be ok
I wanted to tell you
that I cry more than most people
Especially during the part of the movie where
I can't remember
But you know the one where the crescendo truncates
And he promises her whatever is
She wishes to be promised
I wanted to show you
My favorite painting
Those lofty strokes and sharp lines creating the right light around a blue tunic and sure footing on the morning star
When color was black & white
Yes, those moments when religion meant everything
I wanted you
to hear my favorite song
But then you kissed me
Before that wall of sound could swallow that third verse
Before the violins could be whip stroked
Before I was just going to **** you
And stream something else
I wanted to tell you
That there is a bigger **** out there
Filling all of your existential regret
and satisfying your unwanted needs
Attached to someone far more important
with longer hair
and a mom and dad who love each other
I wanted to tell you all of this in the mere moment we had Standing before an open minded stranger
Elbows propped eagerly along the marble
Stretching a hand out across an ashtray
I wanted to tell you
It's not you
It's me
But we both know after 3 glasses of Malbec
And one deeply destroyed waiter
This isn't true
I wish I would have told you
That I am not afraid of getting old
I am afraid of feeling old
Out of touch with whatever happens to grow around me
Having no room to absorb or breathe anything but time’s ailments
Nervous nails & the black & white hair you called distinguished
Which only serves to remind me, that someone has died
& I have lost so much
& still, will have nothing to leave behind
I wanted tell you
It's not because you aren't pretty
It's cause you act ugly
It’s cause you think I am stupid when I act smart
It’s cause you lie professionally, to survive
I wanted to tell you all of this
All you wanted, was for me to buy your drink
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
I've left my heart in different places,
it's been slowly chipped away at.
In La Paz,
it was the chicha
& in Mendoza,
a Malbec at Azafran,
nice warm saki in Kyoto,
some anejo in Ensenada
& cheap beer in Seattle.
Now all I have left
is enough for shots
of fine whiskey...
I'm still ticking Darling,
cheers.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
Blended and aged to perfection
semi sweet or dry to taste
you pair well with any meal
We toast with you
and celebrate special occasions
when you get all bubbly
Rosé
Blush
Blanco
Burgundy
Chianti
Moscato
Reisling
Pinot Noir
Malbec
... just to new a few
My carafe breathes
with FERMENTED GRAPES
fill my Waterford crystal glass
Poured to perfection
I drink you in
you complete my day.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
When you kiss me
It releases me
From the chains
That bind my brain
I get this feeling
It's like I'm healing
Can't get enough
End up wanting it rough
Your touch is intoxicating
Your taste is levitating
I could do this all day
I always want to stay
It takes me so high
Even feels like I have died
And gone to heaven
In our own love haven
The feeling I get
Feels like we fit
In the pit of my stomach
Warm like I'm sipping Malbec
Your lips fit perfectly with mine
The sensation I get is so divine
I want these moments to last forever
I want you wherever, whenever
I look into your eyes
You're better than the other guys
Such a beautiful affair
Perfect and rare
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
The second I imbibed
her,
I knew she had me.
It always happened
that way.
That lovely warm-rush
in my head
and her sweet kisses
on my lips,
traveling
down
my throat,
deep
to my heart.
She brought me
to my knees.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 3:54 AM UTC
i’m wearing malbec lipstick at 330 in the afternoon, my own personal hue that stains lips and teeth, drips down my chin so a tongue flicks out to savor the drop. it leaves a maroon trace like i’ve been ******* blood.
when i swill the wine, it captivates me. like i'm swishing around my own blood, praying enough of it sloshes out to **** me.
i’m headed to catholic church in an hour, maybe i’ll light a candle for myself.
god knows i ******* need it.
i’m at that delicate lining, the in-between stage of the five stages of grief. the soft spot at the base of my skull. self-destruct button that’s so tempting, nestled between anger and depression. skip bargaining. take a trip around the sun.
i've lost my hair tie and i want it back.
i've lost my heart and i want it back. ******* give it back.
reapply mauve lipstick the flavor of malbec. go to church. rinse the good off when you get home.
i still feel him inside of me. taking everything. claiming it as his own, two hundred and fifty-eight hours later. like he’s stained me and now i'm tainted and unapproachable. undesirable.
piece of plastic wrap that used to keep his heart fresh, now i'm trash.
now i’m his.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:03 AM UTC
Pushing out the daughters of older woman words...
~
it's almost May Day,
and the only niece,
husband towed,
all to a springtime glorious
drop by, dinner come,
......and there is poetry in their expectant eyes
a pronouncement,
predecessor to an announcement,
spring blessings uttered over melting smoked mozzarella pasta,
sweet balsamic fruited salad dressings of
of the unripened fruit of newer life,
seeded, deeded and coming,
soon enough
we act not shocked,
shocking them
oh yeah,
we figured dropping in sudden,
needed a really good excuse,
and a good one,
a new life,
a **** good one
old man granddad and now sooner
to be dubbed grand uncle'd,
children bejeweled cherry garnet carbuncle'd,
decorating his
red cheeked face,
redden a happy heart,
duly recorded, his thoughts,
twine cord wrapped and delivered,
4am punctual
we toast with three wine glasses Spanish Malbec,
one just air-filled, sorry Charlie
we all review the rules,
garnered from our
personal histories,
lore and the gore and the endless more
of raising children,
stanzas that never rhyme quite the way you planned,
and blessed is that good enough is
plenty good enough
am I excited, they inquire?
long pause, no, not excited,
thoughts quiet, paused,
words needed,
and in time,
drafted, recruited
something different,
more pleased in a way,
that comes so rarefied,
a distancing sense from the normalcy of life,
the taste
when life's hard work.
is justified,
yes,
justified
~~~
may first four and twenty ante merry-diem
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
She spilled the wine, again
My aunt says walking into the living room to get a towel
She always spills her wine on her white pants
Always the white pants
You would think she would switch to white wine
But she likes her Malbec
I now see where I get it from
I’m clumsy too
Spilling glass after glass of water
They banned me to plastic at one point
But soon returned me to glass
Last week I broke a glass in the trunk of my car
It was my grandmothers
Blue and covered in butterflies
It hurt knowing I lost what could’ve been the only thing I had of hers
It could be
But it isn’t
I cherish the moments I get to spend with her
In the tiny apartment above the bay
Her house sold in 5 days
400,000$
We couldn’t show her the house
It would break her heart
She loves the days she gets to see her dog
When he comes up from mass
I love her
But at least I have something of hers
Her love.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
Dove dark chocolate
Black coffee with almond biscotti
Raspberries and Engstrom almond toffee
Oma I miss you
I’ll see you in 80 years, or so
Have a cup of mint tea for me
Rosemary and Malbec
Ginger snaps and lavender
Grandma why does my dorm room
Smell like old memories of you
I think I left my sunglasses on the dining room table
The last place I saw you
Dyed blond hair, gold necklace, and your sweet soft smile
You gave me your blue jacket
Perriwinkle blue raincoat
Oma it’s raining
I’m making you tea
Dove, deliver it safely to the clouds above me
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 11:49 PM UTC
A miracle of the earth
and the hands
under an unbeaten Sun
the wise wait
and the seasons
Meat and blood
of the land and Us
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 10:02 AM UTC
A Sunday afternoon unfolds, soft and unhurried, like a ribbon untied. Malbec, velvet and dark, spilling its whispers into the glass.
The film begins, its story weaving, a tapestry of shadows and light. Characters speak of love, loss, and the ache of dreams unfound; their words mirrored in crimson ripples.
Each sip a revelation, smooth as silk, each scene a moment etched in time. The wine hums of distant vines, of lands kissed by sun and shadow, where laughter mingles with the soil.
Outside, the world hums faintly, but here, a stillness lingers, sacred, a communion of story and sip. A Sunday framed in simplicity, wrapped in the richness of Malbec’s embrace. And so you linger—until the credits roll.
And then...
Apr 6, 2025
Apr 6, 2025 at 9:05 AM UTC