"prosecco" poems
For Al, who left us
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)
_________________________________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, Long Island
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges
très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?
lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
*********** all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter
Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana
sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for
for veal chop love
two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's
He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
( ) ) (( )(())
No cold wind blew
to abate this afternoon's heat...
no rain showers brought out
that sweet smell of very dry soil
...........touched by rainfall
tonight, my mind is occupied by
the transience of things
all thoughts are fleeting
inspirations are hard to capture...they're
soap bubbles, flying...bursting in the air
"bubbles"......made me turn to my left
where a wineglass stood, and sparkled...
my eyes stopped, stunned...a bottle of Prosecco,
was within reach......it beckoned...
ahhhhhh......sips came one after the other,
much delight in its bubbles...in its taste...
i want to be numb from nagging pain,
from the cries...the anguished sighs
that can never go, without a tear falling...
bubbles of pain...slowing down
the passing of days....but all these
will wane one day,....and be part
of the banalities of my diurnal life...
just like in the past, this, too, will pass...
this late hour, again, i raise my glass,
and drink away my days of woe...high
to the bright lights
for, a different kind of radiant yellow
drives away my trail of shadows
i will just smile
even for a while
and enjoy its bubbles
::::::::::::::
:::::::::
::::::
::::
::
::
::
::
:::::::::::
Sally
Copyright September 15, 2017
rrab
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
To the blushing bride to be,
This rite of passage you’ll not be spared.
Let your hair down, be wild and free,
Allow your tales and secrets to be bared.
Not designed for hearts too weak,
This night’s when us girls misbehave.
In our tutus, fairy wings and pink feather boas,
We’ll paint the town red and rave.
We’re like one dysfunctional family,
But we’ll bond and shout tonight.
Cocktails and Prosecco will flow freely,
As we dance the “Macarena” ‘til morning light.
We’ll have a blast and be merry,
For girls just want to have fun.
Adorned with “L” plates, you won’t stay sober
And your makeup will inevitably run.
On this, your last night of freedom,
It’s your final fling before the wedding ring.
Your head may be sore tomorrow,
But, oh, the stories these walls could sing!
Remember this night always,
With all your girlfriends at your side,
For you’ll soon tie the knot and be married
And embark on a magical ride.
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 1:05 AM UTC
Walking down the streets of Rome,
I saw a curious sight.
There, sitting at an expensive
street side cafe was a gentleman
distinguished in age,
surrounded by beautiful women,
but seated next to a tiny,
30 centimeter tall ******
who was obviously crazy,
or as you might say in Italian,
a pazzo.
My fascination overcame shyness,
and I approached the man
to introduce myself.
To my surprise, he invited me to sit,
and enjoy coffee with him.
He already knew my coy curiosity,
and when latte arrived
he began to tell me
his strange tale of wandering
on the sands of Arabia.
On a starry, Gethsemanean night,
after supper with friends,
he wandered into the acrid sands
and stumbled upon an ancient
lamp.
He picked it up beneath the moonlight sky,
and in a jestful mood rubbed it
hoping to find a miracle to ease
his troubles.
To his surprise, a green-hue jinn,
sprang forth from the ancient
lips of a forgotten lamp,
to grant him three wishes.
Gathering wit, and wonder
he pondered good fortunate
short and long, before asking
his wishes:
"Please, mighty jinn with the light
green hair, grant me
fortune, so I may live the rest of my life
in comfort."
In a swirl of misty memories
he was transported to ancient Rome
and watched as random events
were tilted in his favor until
he sat at this cafe a powerful and rich man.
Pleased with himself,
he stared into twinkling jade eyes,
and said:
"I lounge in carefree wealth, but
I cannot not buy true Beauty. Please, powerful jinn,
let beautiful women surround me and tend to my needs."
Once again, back to Christmas past
he watched all the beautiful women
of his desire being collected,
and bound to one single ring
of power, to serve, obey, and
grant all his carnal desires.
I envied him there sitting in
Armani suit, with twelve pairs of sensuous
legs longingly waiting upon his
every wish.
My fantasy of an exchanged life
ended quickly with cold champagne.
That crazy, diminutive pazzo,
had in lunacy decided to wet everyone's dreams
with real spurts of fizzy Prosecco.
I turned to my host to beg
a question, but he had the answer
already. In tired voice, he responded,
"you wonder why I keep a 30 centimeter Pazzo
with me at all times?"
"That was a misunderstanding he said,
but you can only wish upon a jinn once."
"Che cazzo!"
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
Sitting in darkness
Waiting for the light to come
Refrigerator
The prosecco waits
Lying still, cold and alone
Refrigerator
A gentle humming
The blue cheese fragrance escapes
Refrigerator
The door opens wide
The light shines in the darkness
Refrigerator
....
The turkey won't keep
Between Christmas and New Year
Refrigerator
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 2:22 AM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Feet hanging from the deck
of the bow, sitting shoulder
to shoulder and thigh
to thigh. I can’t help but wonder
in what ways the salt air
is dancing off of the sound
and over our taste buds,
changing the way we read
the Prosecco between us.
I almost didn’t bring this bottle.
The thought of opening the cage—
six half-turns forward,
wrapping my palm around the
wire frame, twisting the bottle,
by the base, off of the cork—
it all seemed like too much.
There are too many ways
to mess it up, and I know that
I don’t have a grip on anything
when I am around you, but
I no longer believe that bottles
should be left
uncorked.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Your car came through town
a queen on her chair
with a silver spider web
smashed windscreen
and no door
on a scrap truck.
I didn't call you.
Told you in the pub last night
it was none of my business now
if you died or not.
Did I kiss that boy on the stairs?
I can feel myself falling in love already.
I stole prosecco off the kitchen counter,
drank the whole bottle.
It fizzed like stars and hopes and dreams
in my belly and
I started walking when the sun came up.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
It is not pretty anymore
I have no pasture
no sweet annie
or cider apples
I miss the nights on Myrtle Ave
always wine/music/friends
and Arlo’s playing guitar
and Brendan’s picking his mandolin
Zach’s holding my hand, we were crying in my bed earlier
but you
had wool and gold draped all over
drinking Italian prosecco
eating berries off your fingers
curled your hands over like a rabbit
tiptoed toward me
"drunk hands and sneaky feet”
Hey, that's just a memory now
Tonight there are no more
gimlets/dumpster food/hand carved spoons
it is cold toes/empty bed/hollow stare
I would trade this safety
for that love, wholeheartedly
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC
the moon looks a lot like porcelain tonight
but not in a superfluously verbose kind of way--
more of a telekinetic fragility kind of way.
where the plaid shirt hanging on that semi-open closet
across the room faintly resembles
a picnic blanket that belonged
to a midsummer day sometime in March--
some memories as such now only belongs
in a film cartridge//
or on post-emptied bottles of Prosecco on your nightstand.
I now understand--
why hurricanes are named after people
but to make people--
fleeting, paper people--
your universe
is to trail further and further away from land.
we're too inlove with chances;
too fixated in the idea of emancipating the uncertainty from the "maybe".
lie your flimsy bones on your pillow-invaded sheets darling
and call it a lifeboat.
it's a fragile night
and so are you.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Chicago is
beautiful
in the snow
she shivers
at the bar
sees him
she didn't know he'd be there
secretly he planned this
they greet
he sits at the bar
buys her a drink
cocktail
he drinks prosecco
they talk
she's still cold
makes a comment about never getting warm
he hesitates
convincingly
then suggests
he could warm her
silence
long silence
she looks ahead
not meeting his eyes
turns
says softly
ok
he stands
takes her hand
a gentleman
no words
silence
takes her through the lobby
leading her
holding only two fingers
she follows
not resisting
thinking she should
but not acting
the elevator
their eyes don't meet
fingers barely touching
9th floor
room
door opens
they step inside
close the door
she turns
he holds her tight
one hand on the back of her head
the other her waist
her face on his shoulder
holding
warming
communicating
without words
or movement
she looks up
his eyes are closed
she asks
"what are you thinking?"
he says...
"Are you not woman enough to know?"
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
The overture sounds:
A muffled “thud,”
And scraping flesh against macadam.
Un-rosined bows screech across nerves,
Dividing molecules to atoms.
Each neuron fires off, splicing into three
The soul from the body,
and something indescribably between.
Catching fire, he ascends -
"This is what it truly means to be!"
Each piece, each side
Breaking away in-finitely
To somehow become more whole
Through division, and in balance.
Like a reunion, of holy trinity,
Caught ablaze in fissile symphony.
- - -
And like a cork popped from a bottle,
Rewound, and played reversed,
He careens with a whining pitch
And
f
a
l
l
s
From orbit,
Back to earth.
Glimpsing God
Only to be clawed back
To the pains and pleasures of Samsara,
To taste the bitterness of my own blood,
Juxtaposed
With the ecstasy of Nirvana.
This is how I came to know the realm
In which our feeble bodies lurch.
Reborn as a phoenix from the ashes.
From the rear cabin of a hearse.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
A Kindle near me on the toilet seat,
A fine Prosecco and pizza to eat,
My i-pad playing loudly in my ears;
Ah, who could find a Paradise more sweet?
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
As we take a break before new year and congratulate ourselves for surviving Christmas and all the cheer.
We've wrapped all our presents, exchanged them with loved ones, sampled tons of food, drunk lots of wine and beer.
Onto New Years Eve at full speed, dressing up, partying all night, prosecco bottles popped, party games played, tables laid with tons of leftover food mince pies, crackers and cheese, roast potatoes with sunflower seeds.
Raising our glasses in a private moment to loved ones lost, trying not to cry, at least not for too long.
New Years Day we will stand on the scales take a deep breath and slowly exhale.
The numbers have climbed higher than we'd like, I'm trying to remember when I last rode my bike.
My New Years resolution list begins, nothing simple I will challenge myself with pride.
I'm going to lose a bucket of weight, maybe relearn how to skate, I'll join the gym and go every night, give up the drink and anything fun including cakes, biscuits and the odd bun.
I'll walk every day no matter how late, cook everything from scratch on our plate, learn a new language or maybe two, take the grandchildren to the zoo.
I'm going to swim the English Channel, roller skate with the grandkids, get a tattoo of fake eyelids.
I'm going to eat salad every day, give thanks for every day, write in my journal, learn to pray, meditate and salutate to the sun, go for a 10mile run.
If I get unscathed to the end of another year, I'm going to raise a glass of that local beer and drink in full the Christmas cheer.
Happy Christmas and New Year everyone ☓
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
The other day
we strung up fairy lights for New Year's,
popped prosecco because we're too cheap for champagne,
kissed under confetti with glitter on our lips.
It's been grey since then,
the after party is never as good as the real thing.
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
lifes in meshes with inherent leashes
liars in messes riveted with stresses in tresses
hearts full of Prosecco and bile from blinded Unesco
Looking for selves on shelves dancing with pansies in panzers
make-believers left-overs waging war in peace and pieces in ******
drenched in lives unknown and wares unearned in mires renowned
Owning miseries internal and pushing external for redress maternal
empty dreamers on steamers loving sad idlers with no water for later
eating stories without histories, crying tears with fears and no worries
Ways of their worlds, no molds for holds only emptiness for pettiness
and they race for pace to face the lace that grace an ace with no traces
citations of vacuosity of the sagacity of the mediocrity in their paucity
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 9:48 PM UTC
Mehmet II burns
in my hand
while we hunt
the Perseid shower
under a waxing
gibbous moon's white
sea broadcast.
Prosecco disappears
inside us. You pick
deck tomatoes, and
conversation gets
interesting by your knee.
The night doesn't end
so much as folds and
folds again, with us
by the very center.
Sinuous silk birds
crease into sheets
just beyond your
delectable ear.
Your breath
a dark ribbon,
a flower of steam,
a door I step through
on my way to the
kingdom of hands.
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 3:05 PM UTC
prosecco wasps
drift on claw songs
for roots of hiccups
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 6:02 AM UTC
Work night rumbles in the Dublin 4 palace
Laughing in the stale smell of too much freedom
Whiskey, beer, prosecco make up
A rainbow of mischievous golden hues
Corona that smells like drifting **** clouds
No limes, browning in the red net
In the fridge between pockets of pizza space
No Topshop dresses, flannel shirts, uniforms
But greasy repeal jumpers, palazzo pants, huffing
Rollies on the porch under generous back light
Beside rabbit ornament with human head, crouched
In grass below the shroud of full moon fever.
An ex-rugby lad in a Chance the Rapper cap
Stands in the sunroom eating Chinese
He ordered when he was bored of girls
Changing the song one too many times
Masking the gurgling moka, hidden
To serve coffee at midnight and write bad verse
Before morning dips potato waffles into relish
"Which is just posh ketchup", breakfast
Before leaving dry chunks in the bath for work.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Mords-moi, ma Muse
Pince ton Musc
Crie ta rage
Cours **** de moi
Griffe-moi
Pleure, grogne, hurle
Débats-toi
Je suis là pour ça
Je suis là pour toi
Pour que tu puisses vivre ton monde
A ta guise
Pour que tu puisses danser comme une veuve joyeuse
Et rire aux éclats quand ça te chante
Je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Gribouille sur mon corps
Tes rêves indescriptibles
Tes cauchemars imperceptibles
Prends la craie ou l'encre de Chine
Dessine-moi Pierrot et Colombine
Et barbouille-moi de Pinot blanc
Ou barbouille-toi de Pinot noir
Ou barbouille-nous de Cabernet Sauvignon
Qui coulent comme des fleuves où flottent
D'étranges gargouilles mélancoliques.
Je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Tu fais rugir l'animal féroce et sauvage
Qui sommeille au fond de moi
Tu fais le musc monter en moi
Et il faut que je me domine
Quand le musc entre en rut
Au fond de la Muse.
Quand tu commences ton cirque
Quand ta tête tourne tourne tourne
Sous les pieds des otaries géantes
C'est moi qui bois du vin clairet
Du sylvaner ou du gewurtstraminer
Quand tu fais l 'éléphant et que tu barris
A la vue d'un sucre ou d'un café nu
Je me ressers un verre de prosecco italien
Et je me rince la gorge avec un dé d'eau de vie de mirabelle
Quand tu me lacères de ton fouet
Pour dompter les tigres de Bengale
Qui jonglent à travers les lacs de tes yeux
Je vide une bonne bouteille de Bologne
Et je suce la cuillère de sirop de batterie
Mélangé au citron vert
Quand ton regard se fige
Et qu'immobile comme une chatte tu restes à l'arrêt
Je me transforme en pelote de laine
Et je me balance sous tes yeux comme un pendule
A droite à gauche
A droite à gauche
Et je sais que tu attends que le coucou sorte à l'heure
Du fond de sa cage au fond de l'horloge
Et qu'il plonge dans tes eaux
Car je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:23 AM UTC
You Don’t Even Know My Name
I don’t remember that night,
That night you should have taken me to the hospital.
But apparently it took me blacking out to tell you
That you had been pronouncing my name wrong,
for a month.
The first time I saw you eat a burrito, I told myself,
I could never date you
3 ½ years later and I would **** to see you eat a burrito.
You are so gross.
And I want to kiss you,
So ******* bad.
You silly sloth! you said
As you kissed the tip of my nose,
Your legs clinging to mine,
Wrapped around me as if I was your favorite tree branch.
Silly sloth
Valentine's Day 2018,
We got matching keychains for our soon to be new home.
That night we shared a bottle of prosecco,
as we watched Mulan for the 3rd time that week.
Screaming out the lyrics when the Acapella part of Be a Man came on.
Since your mom’s birthday was Friday
I had sent a card from both of us,
The day before there was no us.
The day before there was no us,
was bliss.
The morning before you sent me a picture of you,
Wrapped in a scarf I had made you for christmas 3 years ago.
With a text that said:
Still love it, and you! See ya tomorrow!
10 minutes before, I was the love of your life.
And you were mine.
Until you broke the silence, saying,
I’m happier when I’m not with you
And now,
My body has been stripped of it’s skin.
Someone poured rubbing alcohol
All
Over
It.
I’m happier when I’m not with you
Without you
I’m happier when I’m not with you
The sky is still blue
I’m happier when I’m not with you
But I am not me.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 2:12 PM UTC