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John F McCullagh Mar 2013
My Leah was lovely
in her pearl bedecked dress.
as she circled the chuppah
seven times , not one less.

In the presence of friends
I gave Leah my ring.
That how we were wed,
it's the nature of things.

Our party was loud
and in truth seemed a blur.
My bride filled my vision,
such was my love of her.

At some point, the Steward,
our wine sommelier ,
grew concerned at the drinking-
Running out was a fear.

As we both have large families,
and they like to drink wine.
your supply may run dry
at inopportune times.

Cousin Jesus was there,
with Mary, his Mother,
a studious soul
and devout like few others.

When they heard our plight;
learned the shame we would face.
That's when cousin Jesus
got up from his place.

I don't know what transpired,
I'll just say what I heard-
How he made wine from water
by the strength of his word.

A superior vintage
My palate proclaimed!
The guests were all pleased
and the party was saved.

Even our wine Sommelier
was impressed
He wondered why we
saved the best wine for last.

These three years that followed
filled with sadness, not mirth.
Jesus died on a cross,
Leah died giving birth.

I sit here alone,
as the last of my line.
Now sleep only comes
with the last of the wine.
Musings of the Bridegroom from Cana.
SE Reimer Apr 2015
~

your words... soothing notes;
my coffee... extra bold;
exquisite pairing!

~

*post script.

my HP friends, reading your beautiful poetry this morning has me tipsy on your tasty words... lingering on your every flowing word!
Kagey Sage Jan 2022
I went from the "overabundance of life"
to a knight of resignation
I'm back to cheap pilsners
local Genny's, union made
Sometimes a Three Heads
when I want to get plowed
I'm trying to refine myself
into a thoughtless identity
so I may taste life again,
make music again
Did I do it all in
the grapes of my youth?
I guess I need a sommelier
for my heart cause
all I taste is river rock
where there was once native berries
and rare spices
Sparks that charmed
The dazzle of a demon
that could cover their faults
You dine or drink with thee
and you're stuck in the Fae
I'm the only one that hasn't stayed
I burnt my hand on the laminator.
You laughed, and continued to talk about tannins,
Drinkable leather,
Even though I couldn't smell them
Over the tobacco from your clothes
That slowly seeps into mine.

I'd come outside with you for a cigarette
A compliment,  maybe not to my lungs,
But I don't mind letting my battered bronchus
Take one more hit so I can laugh with you
About the sommelier placing the wrong cutlery on the table.

I have to keep up
Sharpen my tongue, mind, wit.
More so than those blunt scissors
Which crawled through parchment and maroon ink,
Mimiking the nice red from Chile it described,
Goes well with fish.

I can't imagine you crying,
Though I'm sure you did.
Turning away the sellotape-scarred wooden desk,
Blistered from years of frantic Christmas present wrapping.

Your walk, a sound only comparable to
A bold child clambering up the stairs to bed,
A heavy, determined, "I'm fine" step,
All femur.

Out to the tiny garden, more butts form compost for your vintry.
Only there would you let yourself search,
Rustling through your handbag, past papers and lighters,
For a scrunched up tissue.
© 2011 Hannah Aoife
Vivian Jun 2014
women swilling white white in glasses;
remember when you took me
out to dinner with your parents?
your father peppered the
salmon to excess and the
sommelier to exhaustion:
what year? where were the
grapes grown? what would you pair
with this? what about with that?
your mother gave me a
knowing glance as he prattled on,
and you shook your head in bemusement.

I wonder what
looks she gave
you while I was distracted.
Late mornings or early nights
Internal struggles an eternal fight gripe when ever cradling life
A gift endowed upon is heavy
Handed stranded with opinions
The pen becomes a machete
Instead of jotting
turns paper into confetti
spilling my blood
on looken like spaghetti
expedient measures
the recipe warrants a recipient
of a John beard
ingredients inter-whine
you could smell it in the air
master sommelier  
An acquired taste took years
1 meal serves plenty
Being great takes time
It stole many!!!
it stole minds!!!
So many!!!
I gave it my all I'm so empty
Tapped reserves
what my soul lent me
If I was trying to impress you
Would you then befriend me?
If you was impressed?
Doubt it
So I Feel alone when its crowded
When I'm alone I'm crowded
With these thoughts surrounding
Hounded whicha what way
There's a certain price
you pay
for talent
Kyle T Oct 2020
There are tiburones off the Fla. Keys
Believe me, out there in the aqua deeps
Sometimes they swim up into the sandy shallows
But not often;
And usually only at night while you’re on a veranda sipping a
Glass of red wine,
Safe in the glimmer of a tropical neon beer sign
Underneath palm trees.

These tiburones swim off shelves and under cantilevers
Continental shifts in deeps
Sandy bottoms, they cruise by
Like missiles
Fired from dusky deep ephemera
Assimilated by the amorphous ocean infrastructure
Flotsam and careened ships off gray coasts
Rusted and dead steel under the raining ash
And the sea foam that pools around their husks they falter, canted, and tipped
And lost as quick as were, gone, betrayed to the deeps again.

But, sometimes, tropical shallows
A Latin lover's osculant kiss
A fumbling of the belt buckle
Swimming dark waters under moonlight
Dark eyes, red lips
Surl breath dlipped wet
Held in ocean's gentle soul
Pearls aligned distant metaverses
Transcendent, therefore, only Beautiful

They don’t care to bother with you, mostly, the tiburones.
They’re curious, a dorsal fin to cut the surface, an indifferent pass
You are not the wine they seek to drink.

But if you find yourself afloat;
Lost or hurt,
If you venture too far from your shore,
Carried by the gentle waves, the inverse gravity of water
When the ocean seems benign...
...They’ll come cruising.

It won’t take long.

Doll-eyed and mechanical, they’ll swim by
Just to say..... Hello.

I have not seen many tiburones but they impart,
Even to those who have never seen them,
This unspeakable fear:
Not so much of the Ocean—Few ever enter the Ocean
But of some assimilation of thought
Where it passes by from dark end to dark end
Sunrise to sunset, and a portentous silhouette beneath you,
If not of the wry toothed smile, and the porcelain ghost…

Then of what?
Could it be of the thought of teeth?
Or of a malicious ghost agnostic of your importance?
Of the specter that cares not of your potential,
Disregarding your position in this world.
Something that treats you with true Equality-

Could it be the things in this world that say Hello with teeth?
There are abbreviated bits of flesh rent in life.
I wear these battle worn scars.
And not instead of love but because it’s the only way
They know how to smile at you.
It’s how they say Hello.

I only have seen their reflective eyes in the shallows
Off the verandas where I have sat and drank
Drunk myself into a stupor, a vibration in my fingertips, in my mind
No sommelier am I.

The red liquid fills my mouth and paints my teeth an indelible red and drips from my mouth from my ****** lips
I have bit too hard,
And spilled my red wine onto the table
Watching it drip viscously off the table and stream to the floor
And pool in great deep redness on the veranda’s floor
Drops and drops and then, restless, I drop back into the depths
In the dead, burnt-out center of the wine’s pool
And watch it assimilate into the porcelain.

And the deep darkness of the red miscegenates with white porcelain
And it all fades in and out standing on that perfect precipice of wine and violence
The wind and flux of ocean waves and darkness
Those eyes down there, refracting moonlight, deadened orbs
The wine deliquesces from veranda’s precipice to waves
The great adulteration, the miscegenation, it all goes flux.

And I drop off, assimilated into darkness, there:
Where the bits of flesh torn from teeth and I swim away
Dismembered, deformed

And a flutter in the shallows,
A quick, precise splash,
A perfect torsion
Writhing bodies.

And those black eyes roll over white,
And those archaic teeth descend,
And pulled under the dark ocean
Without even the moon to give me my light
And in my breath’s last seconds,
I’m perfectly assimilated into this structure,
Deliquesced, relaxed, and gone into the depths,
Swimming in the sulfuric bottom
Of my glass of red wine.
This hurts to read, only for me. Enjoy.
afteryourimbaud Jan 2017
It is not impossible
to find joy in pain
when things are
getting sensible
for all of us
to feed a ploy
that will always
play and return
to the initial point
over and over
again.

Tell me
who does not
ever feel
joy in pain?
a veterinary
a mail carrier
a sous chef
a sommelier
a taco vendor
a groundsman
a pilates trainer
a football quarterback
a fast food chain worker
a ship captain in Somalia
they all have tasted
the wine of delight
while they have been
wounded severely
every single day
when they woke up
in the morning
from Monday to Sunday.

As for me
I’d rather
blow away my mind
by blowing
few rolls full of life
before I take
the paper
and detach
the pen cap
from its body
to start writing again.
John F McCullagh Jul 2014
Think of it as a thirst for Truth
That can’t be quenched by dry Vermouth.
Those souls  who in the bottle find
a sauce of solace for troubled minds.

Because I can conceive of wine,
Somewhere there grows a fruitful vine.
Existence made certain by concept possible-
an essential premise Ontological.

From the grapes sweet nectar flows
To please the palate and charm the nose.
Its mysteries bring blurred speech and vision
At bottle’s bottom they find religion...

Some seek their Truth on distant peaks
From Fakirs dressed in linen sheets.
Some in bare ruined choirs dwell
With thoughts of Heaven spiced with Hell.  

Still others have declared wine evil
An attitude I find Medieval
Their wine grapes meet a sadder fate
reduced to raisins on a plate.

From Vine to press, from field to glass
A boon companion to Life’s repast.
Red or White, no cause for Schism
A sommelier hears your catechism.
Prossnip42 Mar 2020
Him
There's a shape in the shadows
There's a chill in the air
But he won't let you get rattled
You won't know that he's there
There's no way to do battle, when you're caught unaware
One blink and he'll be gone and you'll be dead in your chair

Or was he even there
Can you even prepare
For a reckoning, a second into catching the glare
Of a barrel when the bullet's already in the air
Or the chemicals already have your vision impaired

As you try to place the face of that sommelier
When you're about to win the race but find the breaks aren't there
On a knife's edge, placed between the fumes and the flare
The last breath...with a glove in your hair

He's an artist with a knife
He will catch you by surprise
There's no faster a demise
Were you happy with your life
Cause you didn't have the time left for it to flash before your eyes

The sound of a coin on the ground
And not a shred of evidence will ever be found
Your death will be swift, without any sound
Ain't it tragic how a man can accidentally drown?
A poem about a monster, making his living like a monster
sparklysnowflake Oct 2020
All this war and yet, there is nothing I would rather be.

I have grown to appreciate,
            as a nonpartisan–
            a silent sommelier–
the subtle earthy notes of irony with which
my deflated ego scolds my hollow spine.

I know my own hypocrisy, my instability, my naivete.

I have been raised in the midst of myself–
I carved and nailed these philosophies together to make trellises
around which my elastic grapevine limbs have learned
to wrap and coil and hoist themselves toward the sun.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are distortions in these wooden lattices,
and there are seasons when the grapes grow sour
or the vines do not flower
at all,
but the crop is resilient and the wood does not break,
and there is enough sunshine here
in the summertime to sustain
and to yield something complexly beautiful because it has been weak,
and it has known the cold.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are plots of land far more fertile than this one,
foundational structures far sturdier and more symmetrical,
grapes far sweeter and more robust of flavor,
but there is no wine I would rather have flood my veins;
there is nothing I would rather be.
i wonder when i'm ever gonna choose to write in meter of my own free will.
November 21 – December 9th, 2020

I.
Holding My Mug of Peppermint Tea
I See My Ride Arrive,
My Fingers Fill with Danish Cookies
Bells Sway in the Wind,

Spearmint Steam Warms My Lips,
Tisane takes the Chill Away from My Cheeks,
I Sip into Delicate Ecstasy
And the Pullman Comes to a Halt,

Chimes Ring Louder & Faster
I Bite into My Butter Biscuit,
Pinwheels of Snow Blow in the Breeze
The Air is a Lully Balm,

I See the Hoarfrost Hang from the Train
Dangling off the Window Frames,
Children Toss Snowballs Between One Another,
Among their Fun, Laughter is a Muse,

Upon the Platform, Rubies Spiral,
Snowflakes Descend like Flower Petals,
Leucojums Rise Through their Mingling
They Ribbon Around the Trees, and Coat them Like Icing,

I Savor My Peppermint Sip
As it Drip-Drops onto My Lips,
Horns Alert My Eyes to the Holiday Lights
Their Sound is a Bellowing Echo

II.
I Step onto the Trolley Car,
Riders Sit Down, Ready to Travel Far,
Green Apple Grapevines Enclose the Copper Walls
Their Light Bounces off the Raven-Shaded Trees,

Kids Sample Cider, They Leap Between their Seats,
I Gaze at Them, Acrobats on Trampolines,
Their Flips Make the Passengers Giggle
Chuckles Pop around like Snapping Peanut Brittle,

I Take Another Taste of My Tisane,
Mint is Fresh and Tepid,
Windows Align with the Picture-Books of Youth
Our Dining Car is a Giant Gingerbread Carriage,

Rolling By, the Jovial Jump Between Compartments,
Their Joy is a Gem More Valuable than Snow,
Watermint Heats My Hands & Throat
A Gift from the Tea Sommelier,

Walking up the Hallways of the Train
Each Entry is Marked by a Pinecone Wreath,
As if the Fontana della Pigma was Right Here
Every Cone is a Crown Made of Art, Faith, and Yesteryear,

Tea Mist and Conifer Seeds Awaken in their Wait,
I Witness their Blend Radiate,
Emitting Beams of Beauty, Flying Across the Carriage
Eyes are Transfixed in the Pull of their Passage,

III.
The Coulter Saplings Await their Bloom,
My Peppermint Tea Has Been Gulped,
I Take One More Look Outside the Train,
A Descending Breath is Showcased,

Cousins, Kids, Parents and Friends, I See Them All Return to their Seats,
They Huddle Together with Quilts & Crayons,
Tea Cups are Shared as Holiday Presents, the Air Hums a Soft Lilt,
The Warmth is Strongly Felt,
Thus Ends the Tale I Have Woven, of the Peppermint Tea Pullman
Mark Toney Jun 2020
Le Cordon Bleu sommelier in the know
Discussed wine pairing with patrons aglow
"What does your order include?"
"Roast turducken frankenfood"
"Then I recommend a dry Portmanteau!"


© 2020 Mark Toney.  All rights reserved.
6/19/2020 - Poetry form: Limerick - © 2020 Mark Toney.  All rights reserved.
Some diadochi came escaping from the Vóreios of Zefian, the ships of Boeotia married the dynastic of the new progenies of their infants, who prepared them for the fourth Bestiary, which in turn also escaped from the third Bestiary of the bear that tore apart everything that presented itself, within its claws and its jaws. The third imperialist beast of the bestiary was Hellenistic; It had bear claws and crushed the fish of the Aegean Sea with its fangs, this, in turn, tried to grab the dragon's back with its snout with the bear's paws and the feline's steel claws to stretch them over its lion's jaws, unleashing the inter-bestiary that severed the parallelism of the Amphictyony and the Apocalypse, summoning Alexander the Great to revive him from his larnax in the highest Prophet Ilias, this will entail the ablution of his soul and appropriation of his new empire of the Seventh Heaven to atone for all the atrocities of his empire of Blood and Corruption. Alexander the Great was aware of the existential drama of eternity for him, in order to aspire to be anointed as a Converted King and dispense with the root of the inter-bestiary in the claws of the bear with the claws of steel of the lion of the fourth bestiary. They all sailed by one major mast starting from the Delphic prophecy of Herophile, which transfigured the Trojan chronology by more island resources into dramatic new deity cultures with over twelve deities which had to include one more of the demi-god Vernarth totally dissuaded from the plague of Aristaeus in great dishonor due to the taxonomic Animalia that was in its vanguard, re-leveling the nuanced skies, also the oceans that were erected mostly on the level of Hisarlik with thirty-three meters above sea level, plus as many from the cavern to 269, and under the Prophet Ilias of 798 as a consequence of parallel parapsychology with Troy. The theological transcendental civilizing mission trembled to the Tempe valley, Thessaly specifically in the small valley in the Agia Paraskevi church, for altars that will return the ancestral domains of the locality to their voices near the Arethusa fountain. From here they will triangulate the libertarian magnificence of the animality of the bees of Gethsemane for the reciprocal of the source of Castalia, up to the Source of life on Patmos as the second coming of Jesus. From where Eurydice will always flee as she once was away from Aristaeus, so as not to be bitten by the serpent. All this transcription of the double consequence of immortal Eurydice brought gifts for each component of the Hexagonal Primogeniture, making sure that Aristeo's bees did not die, being saved by Vernarth's bees, who redoubled submythology, hanging on it as a parallel classical narrative in the construction of the Duoverse under the Áullos Kósmos. The three sources were unified with Vóreios, becoming the patrimony of the Moshaic gods for the good of an outstanding Mythological virtue with sub-mythological parallelism, with gods conditioned in the rabbinic divinity. They undertook the glamorous descent with the vapors of Delphi with their ethanol, alleviating Alikantus towards the pilgrim resulting from his connotation of a taurine steed close to a ram, but of Delphic psychic magnetism saving potential victims with the repeal of the beekeeping world of Aristaeus.

The gods of Faith went hand in hand, in some cases, they did not recognize their gender or status, but rather the divine and ineffable condition of the unrepentant Seventh Heaven, ad libitum of Titania as a mental abstraction of pro-Olympic labyrinths, which have not born under the eaves of it. Spring and winter came arrogating themselves in all the rapes and abductions of the flowers that would not germinate, and that would go away due to the promiscuous twilight that was made of dawn in some flowers that did germinate on the defenseless edge. The converted Alexander the Great caressed the tunic that he looked at more than the one used by the maiden, he looked towards his own chlamys that did not make him helpless from his gaze in the ability to transform into a Converted King, almost like a beautiful celestial lion after leaving the libidinous gestures of Astarte as a foreign goddess and mother of the lift that made her doubt the rain that was refined as a gregarious hostess in celibate women who tried in outbursts of Alexander the Great by removing Astarte's veil of darkness, in cases of lost loves of the transcript Forest of Hylates, or in the awakening of the Apennines when it was the trophy of a felid winged tetra in the rooms of the runaway Bayard of Charlemagne.

The rain bathed millennia that traveled from the boreal of Vóreios to the insane Argive spaces in the Peloponnese where the first maiden hangs her braids sixteen times to forty times more, before all the brides who stay awake in the hours that have not sworn eternal misogyny. Spring served winter mead with sweet late-harvest wine from the valley of the Sharon plain, they embraced by the chamsin, squabbling in the sand that Zefian had hoarded before enchanted by the interval of Delphi. The north and south forks dried up the cobblestones of the dusty ground, where the chamsin reverberated suffering for more than forty-six weeks, making light prey on the song of the three sources of Life, the Castalia and the source of Arethusa. A solemn red stain could be seen on the little sky that blinded the chairs that held the intramurals of the wind tunnel, breathing on the chamsin turning it into murals of dust forced to channel it and always be levitating in the gushes that shelled drops of rain, and sand in the disturbed electrical animations that made him possessed in the spiers at the mere tone of liquid marble in which they already spoke of Hellenic modernity of barbarism of the Ruah Qadím, banishing the spire from the east wind for fifty days. The lights and festivities could be seen illuminating from the feared height when descending from the diminished light of the amplified candle; everything resembled a dwelling where everyone was seated at a long table that had no end in the center of seven candlesticks, seven bread baskets, with a chalice, everyone gossiping along with the bees of Gethsemane that did everything in their glosses and nectars that they celebrated in the mansions gleaming with the transit of the muffins of San Juan and its Hexagonal. Raeder clung to the red and blue Gerakis with gold seams that talked of dining and their oblate.

They began to sit away from the cruel gods of those gods who deny their children who were engendered by the cruelest and most chaste reconversion by staying on Olympus as guests, as opposed to sitting at this free table of the very well-valued elixir with the deities invited Phrygian women, who only laughed and favored the secrecy of the bread of eternity, and well-being that was subject to the conscious tolerance of who await a lavish banquet on a table in these conditions with mood and prolonged perspective and tablecloths of penance and cross in exotic chores. They drank the hanging sheep on the branches of the fruits that hung from the cornucopia, and the baking that altered the enzymes of some harsh dispute against Asia, which Leiak concocted with benevolent sorcery by giving it sip water from the drinking sea of Asia Minor. in front of illuminated Troy. The table is made of seven bread baskets, seven mistletoes that escorted the gluten bread that was sprinkled by Persephone's strong winds as she fell hastily and longing to meet Demeter; she is picking it up from the gale with her feet pulverizing the soft grains of Hapalos Artos, with goat's milk and olives that she would anoint on the very nails of her daughter Persephone of hers when cleaning them with white leaves of the dough fluffy It used to be called Cappadocia yeast until it reached the edges of the noble bread that were installed on the table as Lakhma bread as a metaphysic of the Eucharist that took place on the white tablecloth that shrank every time it was taken as domestic bread when rolled in the angry parts of the Mataki tablecloth, for healings that continue from the protective actions of those who take advantage of a good alliance of water, and the bread on the table with bad thoughts that anger the battered thick curtains of abundance and prosperity of the ill had. The Iaspis or Jaspers resembled supra scalded as of natural belonging and shimmering authenticity in the rarity that did nothing more than make buffoons from Southeast Asia and not from Asia Minor. The greenish flashes spoke of life at full strength to fit followed by a wisp of flash deposited by Zefian coming and gliding in the seasonal, holding on to some veins of the Alikantus sapphire eyes that were adapted to sipping from the dense spring that floated through the waves. The atmosphere of the Mataki, to later pour it into the chalices absorbed by Leiak's sorcery, speaking of superior lapses of any known numeral but the seventieth preceding the current one. This martyrdom of the Mataki made Leiak's esophagus secrete with the desire of a sommelier who sips the distilled water from the ravines over the chalices that lessened the badly criminal cruelty of those who do not taste the food for another dinner, congratulations if there was a failure of the Caucasus, where elixirs of mixed and sanctified muscatel wine are brought out under the table of San Juan. Everything was of ascending ambition for any liver who coveted this table of Mataki for whom he cordoned off the mountains and made those of the valleys embrace each other, for the uniqueness of the Dodecanese islands. All of those who let go of their shyness and did not allow them to refer to drinking or eating deposed by paying sacred attention to Zefian when he arrived on Patmos as a physical, and not spiritual taste, becoming effective in those who toast with muscatel for all the star maidens who followed him above, violating the seals that held them prisoner, then just then the eye of the Iaspis was made of the karats for its recalculation, subjecting them to the safeguard to signify and meet at this time between seven polyélaios, and seven discopotira immediately to the bag of the phasmatemporos or Enchanted Paneros to taste Self-corrections were approaching with the necromancies of Leiak, they took the seven candlesticks or Polyélaios, and the seven chalices or Diskopótira immediately to the bags of the Fasmatemporos or bread basket, the crimes were archaically repositioned in this Mataki tablecloth enchanted by Leiak, the sin was self-corrected in the parallel line of slip doubly marked as a sin of omission, and concessional violation of the desert's desire to self-correct fully empty having hands with wax from the candelabrum of Kerós' spell or wax made by the bees of Aristaeus to please the avatars present at this inaugural banquet, for libations that spilled part of the lipoids of the bees of Gethsemane, along with those of Aristeo to clean the ground mixed with parasitic spiders that ****** the milk that fell from their rituals. By nightfall of the third dream, the Mataki was wrinkled by thousands of leg joints from mating arachnids from the spider's trochanter drenched in milk and Corinthian wine.

The precautionary did not wake them from the third sleep when they had just broken the bread and made the libation for the first time with alcuzas that shone superimposed on the icons of the Attic vases, here is the lavish clothing of the entomological world under thousands of overloaded spiders in the Mataki, and it is overloaded on the oak inn that supported it towards the entirety of the Tagmati in the formation of a model of hoplite spiders that would transform into specialized units formed by the deprecation of the bees of Aristeo by balancing the unevenness of the tables by attaching them with the figured beards in the icons of the vases, where they saw these images of the future and past with the Tagmati with Byzantine expressions of Constantine V, and with Philip II dispensing financing for the new military uniform of the hoplites completely financed by the Greek coffers, naming him hegemon of the Amphictyony after Philip entered central Greece and won the battle from Chaeronea (338 BC) to the Thebans and Athenian allies, here seven thousand of the fallen Athenian and Theban allies graced the figure of Demosthenes, for new vessels encrypted with Philip's iconic images "Lover of Steeds" where a spear crosses hearts in the offspring of his horses in his heart too, wronged by the page Pausanias of Oréstide as royal guard. Gradually the table was made with more guests represented in the numismatics that ran through the drag of the cornucopia, and in the majolicas that classified the blood represented right there on free floors to self-correct for all the ****** campaign carried out by Philip and his corrupt but unifying mission to dissuade providential enemies unworthy of sitting at the historical table of the Amphictyony remembered in these vessels, on top of the Mataki that absorbed liters and liters per second of the blood that was drained by the description made of the hoplite representatives, who for the first time They once sat next to the close track record of a hegemon. The Sibyls arrived commanded by the Herophile Delphic, they were served wine of conjectured blood reverted from the Mataki but from the ground preceded the greatest libation on spring propination equipment that made amnesty bonds where everything reigned for self-correction of the brutality of the symposiums, where nothing made to have Bearing in mind what would happen to Vernarth's stipend, he was still delighted to see more guests come up from the wind tunnel of the Profitis Ilias that expelled them.

The ashamed gods hid behind the candlesticks that shone with the ****** waxes of Aristaeus, and the polis that harvested the Sponde, sipping the effluvia of Persephone in the meeting of the canticles with her mother, pouring out the earthly gynaeceum that awaits the ceremonial, before only those who observe and correct themselves. Spray water fell from tidal waves from the Aegean with throats plagued by a ravenous and invasive rain of flavonoid metabolites; of the plants that poured down the gorge that Demeter burst upon, flat and monumental goblets for all who arrived with skillful fists to give rise to the mixed consumption of libation with essences of the sleet turned into the blood for the chalices on the table next to the Mataki, which began to replenish pure essence of necromancy to start with the suppressions of evil eyes on the hoplites that began to pierce them and protect them from a certain visual intoxication.
Vóreios
They began to sit away from the cruel gods, from those gods who deny their children who were engendered by the cruelest and most chaste reconversion by staying on Olympus as guests, as opposed to sitting at this table of gratuity, of the very precious elixir with the invited Phrygian deities who only laughed and fostered the secrecy of the loaves of eternity, and well-being that was subject to the conscious tolerance of those who wait for a lavish banquet on a table, in these conditions with mood and prolonged perspective with tablecloths of penance and cross in exotic chores. They watered the hanging sheep on the branches of the fruits that hung from the cornucopia, and from the bakeries that made altering the enzymes of some harsh dissolution against Asia, to which Leiak devises benevolent sorcery by giving it to sip water from the drinking sea of ​​Asia Minor. in front of the illuminated Troy. The table made of seven bread baskets, seven mistletoes that escorted the gluten bread that dusted strong winds of Persephone, when falling precipitously yearning to meet Demeter; She picks it up from the gale and with her feet, she pulverizes the soft grains of the Hapalos Artos, with the goat's milk and olives that she would anoint on the very nails of her daughter Persephone, by constituting clean them with white sheets of the spongy mass. It used to be called Cappadocian yeast until it reached the shores of the noble bread that were installed on the table like Lakhma bread, as a metaphysics of the Eucharist that was carried out on the white tablecloth, which shrunk every time they took it as a domestic bread rolled around the angry parts of the Mataki tablecloth, for healings that continue the protective actions of those who enjoy a good alliance of water, and bread on the table with bad thoughts, which enrage the battered thick curtains of the abundance of the prosperity of evil. The Iaspis or Jaspes, resembled supra-scalded of natural belonging and of glittering authenticity, in the rarity that made no more than to make jesters of a Southeast Asia and not of Asia Minor. The greenish flashes spoke of life in full force to fit followed by a wisp of flash deposited by Zefian, coming and gliding in the sapphire, holding on to veins of the Alikantus sapphire eyes that were adapted to sip on the dense spring that floated by. the atmosphere of the Mataki, and then pour it into the chalices, absorbed by Leiak's sorcery, speaking of higher lapses than any known numeral, but the seventieth preceding the current one. This martyrdom of the Mataki made Leiak's esophagus segregate with the desire of a sommelier, who sips the distilled water from the glen over the cups that lessened the cruelty, badly criminal of those who do not savor food for another dinner, congratulations, if there was the failure of a Caucasus, where elixirs of mistelated and sanctified muscat wine are brought out from under the table of St. John. Everything was of ascending ambition for any liver that coveted this table of Mataki, for whom he cordoned off the mountains and made those of the valleys embrace one another, for the uniqueness of the Dodecanese islands. The totality of those who let go of their shyness, and did not allow them to refer to drinking or eating, deposed by putting a sacred ear to Zefian when he arrived on Patmos as a physical, and not spiritual, tasting, becoming effective in who toast with muscat for all the star maidens that followed him. above, violating the seals that held them, prisoner, then just then the eye of the Iaspis was made of the carats to recalculate, submitting them to the guard to signify and meet at this time between seven polyelia, and seven diskopótira, immediately to the bag of the fasmatémporos or Breadbasket Enchanted to taste.
Sorcerer Candlesticks
Aye dream of Genie (as a Lad din)
     Schwenksville, Pennsylvania -
     keystone state abbreviated as Pea Yay,
this stupid non huge poem
     really...a boot nuttin
     butta an overrated allay
zee good for nothing, bay

     sic ****** slob, bray
zing as a ("FAKE") pence heave
     trumpeting (Don Key Oat Tee),
     chutzpah twittering Prez, -
     whom stoop “To **** a Mockingbird”
activate hocus pocus “Go Set NRA
as a Watchman,” yepper, hip pip hooray,
whose **** sitters un mensch hen

     nib bill, one important,
     non binding ***** nilly play
book title, sans how to acquire,
     tousled windswept coiffed soufflé
rooted under sworn confidential heady
testimony (top secret only known
     between POTUS, FLOTUS,
     and hairstylist Tiffany Kaljic)

     helped grow "The Art Of The De..." lay
sham (poo poo) headline kept under ray
dar only "How To Get Ri." Dove lousy
tonsuring service, and how easy
to get Head & Shoulders above fray
dee cats - me owing over petty files

     versus joining gray
vee train via tracking
     "FAKE" ***** footing
     faux Trump wannabes, hence ICE hay
Immediately railroad competition
     viz, against ISIS speck did
Amazon tubby a root cause
thus resorting to

     "Midas Touch: Why...Ent...er
risk to get scalped, when,
     (though periwig poor
     hirsute substitute), I belay
burr the point far y'all
     (get a Fred – Roger over) to hoist
     by one's own petard oye vey,
while channeling das directv gray

gore re: haired (50 shades), and
     direct descendent from Kublai
Khan, a moost deplorable display
     yellowish, venomous, serpent,
     which poisonous scorpion size prey
with deadly fangs straight
     (tinned by orthodontists),
    a perfect set pearl whites in an array

as daggers hissed ("FAKE")
     snaky intergenerational viper, and
     true tomb ice elf flave
     heard like a pampered baby
(nick named Keebler Khan)
     unthinkable alternative
     (forever shunned near and faraway)
if this poetaster doth betray

his (my) devote followers, no matter
     admirably, dutifully, and gracefully
     fulfilling role as sommelier
     replenishing wine goblets
     with vintage chardonnay,
nonetheless reprimanding recalcitrants,
     who opt to breakaway
slamming, shaming, and scathing

     rants against brand name
     Matthew Scott Harris
     finds himself a castaway,
     thus unsure, how to write without delay
An insipid poem to pay
(overtime) homage about Labor Day
prepping mental gears
     glommed together like clay

while cruising at mock speed
     faster then (Tom Hawk)
     along the (Al Gore) rhythm information
     super highway expressway
axe chilly (sh...dont tell a soul
     lest I club burr you -
     ha juiced tees zing),

     yours truly intends
     to play umpteen (close
     to a bajillion) rounds of golf
     on the Harris fairway
Lest a Tony (nay)
boar hood tiger jumps
     out of the woods painfully sinking

sharp teeth into mine flesh for play
     jour quickly making mince
     meat then fillet
mignon before (prestidigitation
     i.e.presto) magically
     regurgitating my self fully intact
     as repurposed slimy trumpeting popinjay.
Caroline Shank Jul 2022
Noon
Turns
and night
Is the
Bridge.

You step. Forward.

I cannot sommelier
The moment
Of drunken sorrow.

We made love under
Lies and the trumpets
Were off key.

The question never
asked was when
did you know?

The tattered fragile
rain of love runs
out the window.

Where was i when
time leaked out?

A cold sidewalk.
A faded flower.

The remains of love
is an urn.  
Smashsd sideways.
Rolls away toward the
Avenue A terminal.

The sounds under the
Bus were all the
Music  we ever

Sang.


Caroline Shank
7. 11. 2022
Aye dream of Genie (as a lad din)
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania -
keystone state abbreviated as Pea Yay,
this stupid non huge poem
deployed courtesy scholar
really...a boot nuttin
butta an overrated allay
zee good for nothing, bay
sic ****** slob, bray
zing as a ("FAKE") ex pence heave

trumpeting (Don Key Oat Tee),
chutzpah twittering Prez, -
whom stoop “To **** a Mockingbird”
activate hocus pocus “Go Set NRA
as a Watchman,” yepper, hip pip hooray,
whose **** sitters un mensch hen
nib bill, one important,
non binding ***** nilly play
book title, sans how to acquire,
tousled windswept coiffed soufflé

rooted under sworn confidential heady
testimony (top secret only known
between POTUS, FLOTUS,
and hairstylist Tiffany Kaljic)
helped grow "The Art Of The De..." lay
sham (poo poo) headline kept under ray
dar only "How To Get Ri" Dove lousy
tonsuring service, and how easy
to get Head & Shoulders above fray
dee cats - meowing over petty files

versus joining gravy train via tracking
"FAKE" ***** footing
faux Trump wannabes, hence ICE hay
immediately railroad competition
viz, against ISIS speck did
Amazon tubby a root cause
thus resorting to
"Midas Touch: Why...Enter
risk to get scalped, when,

(though periwig poor
hirsute substitute), I belay
burr the point far y'all
(get a Fred – Roger over) to hoist
by one's own petard oye vey,
while channeling das directv gray
gore re: haired (50 shades), and
direct descendent from Kublai
Khan, a moost deplorable display
yellowish, venomous, serpent,

which poisonous scorpion size prey
with deadly fangs straight
(tinned by orthodontists),
a perfect set pearl whites in an array
as daggers hissed ("FAKE")
snaky intergenerational viper, and
true tomb ice elf flave
heard like a pampered baby
(nick named Keebler Khan)
unthinkable alternative little cookie

(forever shunned near and far away)
if this poetaster doth betray
his (my) devout followers, no matter
admirably, dutifully, and gracefully
fulfilling role as sommelier
replenishing wine goblets
with vintage chardonnay,
nonetheless reprimanding recalcitrants,
who opt to breakaway
slamming, shaming, and scathing

rants against brand name
Matthew Scott Harris
finds himself a castaway,
thus unsure, how to write without delay
an insipid poem to pay
(overtime) homage about Labor Day
prepping mental gears
glommed together like clay
while cruising at mach speed
faster then cruising (Tom Hawk)

along the (Al Gore) rhythm information
super highway expressway
axe chilly (sh...don't tell a soul
lest I club burr you -
ha juiced tees zing),
yours truly intends
to play umpteen (close
to a bajillion) rounds of golf
on the Harris fairway
Lest a Tony (nay)

boar hood tiger jumps
out of the woods painfully sinking
sharp teeth into mine flesh for play
jour rising quickly making mince
meat then fillet
mignon before (prestidigitation
i.e.presto) magically
regurgitating my self fully intact
as repurposed slimy trumpeting popinjay.

— The End —