"wineglass" poems
"Limousine Eyelash
Oh, baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I am a delusion angel
I am a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don’t want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we’re going
Lodged in life
Like two branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I’ll carry you, you’ll carry me
That’s how it could be
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?"
- From 'Before Sunrise'
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
yesterday, I caught my words crying
not out but within.
cryptic and concealed no more
as the rain poured up
and the ice melted shut. The muscles
isotonic strain kindles heart filled
hurtful strength as
endurance accelerates.
Wasted ones and fives
on groped lonely women.
The ******* forgot the fishbowl
and his keys on government steps
but remembered the leaky wineglass.
Total recall enforced
the key ring's silhouette rolls on by
looking for the keys
to grab a broom and clean up this mess
of market debt and ajar markets.
Ceiling tiles mist and swirl
and wait for mercy to strike again
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?
No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.
The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.
Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.
Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
4.5k
Let me love you. Let me make out with you, then trail my lips from your neck all the way down to just above the waistband of your underwear. Just imagine the feeling of my lips hovering just above that sweet spot where your hot desire is growing. My warm breath across your skin, my lips and tongue and gentle touch in the perfect spot, igniting a flame in the deepest depths of you, striking a match in your heart. Imagine my hands under your thighs, just slightly holding your legs up while I kiss and lick and **** Imagine how the warmth and tingling sensation will travel up your spine and into your head and back down your chest while you breathe, heavy and sporadic. Imagine how much harder you'll get when you see me come up to breathe, smirking smugly, my **** in the air, covered in lacy ******* my hair a mess from you sliding your hands in and out of it, my lips wet, my ******* aching hard and straining my bra. Think about running your hands all along those full curves, like two berries, ripe and ready to be picked. Hold them gently, as if one too-tight squeeze could break them. Kiss my lips as if one too-hard kiss could shatter them to pieces like a wineglass on a wooden floor. Touch me like I'm made of porcelain and listen to me moan "I love you. I love you. I love you."
Do you miss me now?
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
Today, for the first time, I looked at my mother. Really looked at her. I've been watching her for years. I know her habits, the way her face slackens when she's mad. I watch the way she is in the world and I know who she is, what she feels like, how she smells; but until today, I couldn't have told you what she looks like. She is beautiful. Breathtaking. It's Christmas and the house is warm, glowing, smells like food. We had company and she was flitting about, kitchen to couch, apron wrapped around her fancy dress. No stockings or shoes. She was waving her arms, twiddling her fingers around her wineglass, rubbing her feet together, always in motion. Her face slid so easily into a smile, creases outlining her happiness. Strong features: a big nose, defined chin, high cheekbones, easily visible because of her short hair. My mother is not a small woman, nor is she big, but she stands tall with broad shoulders, mine now the same, and her presence is colossal. I could see the 20 some year old that my father fell madly in love with. Gorgeous. Strong. But at the same time, so soft. Every part of her nurtures. I sat in awe, stunned that I had not noticed that she was once so much more than Mom. Still is.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 1:48 AM 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
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Sally
Copyright September 15, 2017
rrab
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
Going in Circles
seems like I've been here before
is it deja vu or really something more
when I feel I have left my comfort zone
here I am again in the looking glass
is it me or just a figment of mind
searching everywhere trying to find
the road that leads me from the garden path
nothing changes only time will pass
the lady that has stolen my heart
she has a smile that sets her apart
but she only comes to me in my dreams
such an unsettling confusing morass
now here I am I have come back to begin
going in circles in a heart wrenching spin
one more time around the trap in my head
have I reached my life's impasse
round and round and nobody knows
I wonder if my pain truly shows
going in circles will this ever end
one last swallow to empty my wineglass
Gomer LePoet....
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
*I'm stuck in this eddy.
And I'm such a poor swimmer.*
I get swirled around.
Like a little helpless fly
caught in a wineglass.
Unbeknownst to the drinker.
*I'm stuck in this eddy.
And I'm such a poor thinker.*
I allow my mind
to get swashed around...
Like a lone sock
in the washing machine.
Lost without its other.
*I'm stuck in this eddy.
And I'm such a poor survivor.*
So I just submit
to the will of the currents.
Like an empty bottle.
Stuck head down at the neck,
in the bathroom floor trap.
Sink or float...
I can do neither.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
and there's something about
turning 16
and filling your lips with
the deepest red
in the mirror
how it feels
like you've become a rose
freshly unfurled from
some skeleton,
your colours as rich and
viscous as your dripping blood
yet a rose that's closed
in a glass jar, you are
turned and admired, you are
twirled in fingers
like the stem of a wineglass
because at 16,
you feel you are something
refined,
mature and flowing and
beautiful
older
but it's only
your mother's lipstick;
she too is getting old.
at night you take
the crimson off,
and the rest of you
comes into focus.
all your yellows, all your blues;
you will need to love them too
and don't you let the laughter
slide off from
your new scarlet mouth
because you're 16 now.
it will try to
and you will need to pick it up
off the floor
because you're 16 now
but remember one thing for me:
you are far more sturdy
than just a rose
you are a girl
you are every colour
you think you haven't become
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
i sip from the wineglass
holding the stem as though I am
high class
the liquid splashes into my mouth, waking my tastebuds
the bubbles burn my throat as I
chug and chug and
no - i lightly sip
and wait for the days when it is socially acceptable to my mother
to drink something stronger than red
mountain dew, mixed with juice
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
Accidentally locked out
Of my cavern,
With cold for company.
Cold, and thoughts
Uncold:
Kept hot in the thermos in my chest,
Kept sweet:
Borrowed juice of a ripe fruit -
A peach, do let's say a peach -
Uncold company,
And in loneliness
A warmth...
A neatlyfolded
Origami Man is going 'round
Cleverbuzzing and kindsmiling
At little sillyshining things
That sometimes climb Him,
With My name folded up inside
And warm in the thermos
In His paper chest -
The stem of a mouse wineglass
Is not so delicate
Nor is He any less
Solid than the granite
'Pon which I'm resting -
That something fragile should be
So arresting...
The thought pins me warmly
In place,
So what of a wait?
Inside or out, hot or cold,
Somehow somewhere He is
Impossibly folded up
Around Me.
I can wait.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
It cut deep
deeper
darker
Deeper than the blackest, greenest trenches of the Atlantic
Your knife was sharp
sharper
colder
sharper
Sharper than the words off of the tongue of the Evil One
I fell hard
harder
weaker
harder
Harder than a wineglass full of rocks, hitting the hardwood floor
You ripped me apart
tore me in two
How can I ever forgive you?
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
Red – the colors match underneath
the mashing of trashed feet. A bittersweet
scent swishes around our soft palates
until intoxication renders us useless.
The artificial artisan could’ve gone lighter,
but she knew it wouldn’t have been as
beautiful. I gasp and gaze, looking for the
fake signs that she had felt the same.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
For our son we lost to brain cancer 2009:
memorial
a crowd
candles lit
songs sung
words read
memories shared
hugs and tears
Butterflies released
"Ah!" breathed
in unison
Monarchs
so rare
filling the air
for those few moments
with their delicate
flittering wave
wafting in a clear royal sky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
one week
at home
family of four
intimate sharing
candles lit
words read
words spoken
memories shared
wineglass toast
eyes drift to the window
"Ah!" in unison
and amazement
Monarch
rare and magnificent
out the window
on Butterfly Bush
posed at that very moment
for us to sense
his transformation
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
Her eyes jaunted through my
Oppositional ghostliness,
Her hair screams “soft” in my
deaf but imaginative hands,
Her wineglass-visage stripped
My hollow strings of anomie,
Her uncorked skin spraying
On my lust-parched and sobered soul,
Her moonstruck glow poisoned
The rivers of my reveries,
Her poise dialectic
With wonders of the infinite,
Her breathe is shattering
The nihilistic love below,
Listless ears loosen by her
Magnetic harmony, “Hello”
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 9:19 AM UTC
Multicolored streamers and confetti
decorate the room.
They hang from the wineglass rack
and family members alike.
Frank Sinatra sings with all his might,
but the orchestra of noise makers and laughter
plays a more beautiful tune.
Eyes wide open and observant
I soak in la fiesta.
Poppa twirls Nenita
around the kitchen,
Uncle plays a tune on la guitara,
some sing along,
primos play Mother May I
in the hall,
and everyone drinks
to health,
to love,
to money,
and to time.
Papo cracks the champagne.
Las tias gather the troops
to prepare for the toast!
Los ninos lift empty glasses
“We want some too!”
receiving the un-intoxicating
alternative instead.
Wishing to be older.
Wanting the real thing.
A toast is said in unison,
for it is one we all know.
It is one that I am old enough for.
“Salud, amor, pesetas, y
tiempo para gastalo”
then we all drink
to health
to love
to money
and time to enjoy it all.
Dean Martin sings with all his might,
But the laughter and merriment
play a more memorable tune.
The morning sun
will take us our separate ways,
so for now we drink
to what matters most.
Salud, amor, pesetas,
y tiempo para gastalo.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
I Love your poetry.
Your few words can portray emotions,
that take forever to get out into the open.
Every time I see,
your name in my notifications
I feel giddy
knowing a true poet has seen my poems,
out of all the better ones on this website.
First time I saw you,
you had talked about Hello Poetry,
and I thought of how wonderful,
you made it sound.
Because it is.
Every word you write,
has a heavy meaning.
And every punctuation you added,
carries a strong emotion.
Your simple wineglass,
seems to define so much,
yet nothing I could ever understand.
I just want you to know,
that your poetry is unique,
and if you are ever in need
of a helping hand,
I’ll be happy to give you my left.
So, keep this poem in mind,
because it took me so long to think of.
I couldn't digest the right words,
but they were there,
in the open air.
Your poems leave me speechless,
I guess.
Since I can't seem to compliment you,
that easily.
But if I were to just use words,
in no order,
they would be:
Spontaneous. Brilliant. Amazing. Magnificent.
To describe you through
your infinite poetry.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe
In new blue denim,
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau
Stared straight through me
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.
Being screamed at in Pigalle,
And then howled at again
By some kind of wild-eyed
Drifter who told me to go
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting ****** in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
Cash squandered
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
Metro taken to Montparnasse,
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
THE PONIES IN SNOW PARK
Under flapping green and white awnings
On a wide Toronto street I feel your gloved hand on my tweed coat.
You are cold. We run. It is one o'clock, winter afternoon.
Waiting for the car to warm up we touch mouths and tongues.
This is what I always wanted. We are young. We are wearing
Our favourite clothes. The green and orange plastic pennons
Of the service station slap in the wind. The ponies stand
Far away, at the edge of the woods in Snow Park.
Some bear their share of the burden of the meaning of life
More easily than others. I know that
When you are alone you must build walls
And figure ways to smash them down.
I know how some mouths opened over you
Like Borgia rings over a wineglass, and how, therefore, it was
Hard for you to abandon the problem many of us loved:
How can I avoid doing harm; how can I avoid harm?
Out of the changes in human emotion,
Out of the changes in faces and lives,
You took the power to do with me what once
You might have done for sadness, or for love, alone.
Our shape refuses depression.
I point at birds. There is music on the radio.
I grin and hug. A few silver minutes now
Of ponies, music, dull orange breast feathers.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
This poem was published in WAVES
[email protected]
Copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Disillusioned by the open market,
he polishes his glasses and stretches,
running a hand through hair made artistic
by the blunt scissors of the philosophy major
who lives downstairs. It was a trade,
he tells me. Short back and sides for a batch
of macadamia nut cookies. Barter economy.
He mutters about measured value,
divides a piece of paper, and breaks a pencil
while forcing the verses of quarter sheet poems,
recounting the night he stole four sponges
from a craft supply store in town,
a drunken fuck-you to the establishment-
but also, he admits, it was late and
he had to do the dishes.
If you want to see how big the world is,
he says, take off your belt. Now
tighten it to the usual hole, put it down,
and look. You are a speck of dust on
the wineglass of human existence.
Don't let it get to you. You are smaller and better
than you think. Another quarter sheet finished,
he slumps back on the defeated sofa
and reads me Desiderata, putting on airs,
grappling with devotions to poke holes in certainty
just as I do now to the worn leather strap,
shrinking my claim to the wineglass with each punch
of the silver awl, and after years, still waiting
for the clink of his belt buckle,
the moment when, humbled,
he remembers he is only
a child of the universe.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
That perfect letter, The wishbone,
fork in the road, empty wineglass.
The question we ask over and over.
T.11.I
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
Kids count kisses in Liverpool,
Romancing their way through school,
Boys whispering to the liars by streetlight,
Softly dancing with the girls tonight.
Sixteen rooms fall into place,
All the boys, they grab at Grace,
Louise can't hold on to her hair;
She touches a cigarette,
Smokes a pair.
Necklaces taking gently,
I stop to taste the smiles,
Frowning skeleton resents me,
She should stop for a while.
Sitting slowly,
The velvet petticoat sings,
Running underground,
Wineglass without wings
Cheap windows feel the high heels,
Dancefloor crawling, we're made of steel.
Necklaces taking gently,
Stop to taste the smiles,
Frowning skeleton resents me,
She should caress me for a while.
-Jamie F. Nugent
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
and i’m glad just to be
floating around in your atmosphere,
because the view is so lovely
from here. your face like marble,
carved out by the the wind,
and I dare you to bend
like winter twigs or golden light,
one of those things, you never could hold.
one of those things were never here at all.
nor the curve of the wineglass,
as your fingers twisted through air,
and the pieces scattered like mercury,
gleaming as bright as your teeth;
licking for something more tender,
something more meek.
i steal flashes of light and pin them
to the sun’s greedy eye for you,
like the brink of extinction.
it is more like a rebirth; the trees burning
and heaving their limbs like lungs.
it is a changing of seasons, and
it is all, it is all that I can do.
i linger at portholes shaped like your eyes,
gorged somewhat with nostalgia,
but i can move on through the chemical highs
and the lovely dramatics of reds on a stereo blue.
i can stand on things that are uneven.
oh, see how we’ve grown.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 9:41 AM UTC
Slick with self preservation,
I moisturize away the blemishes.
Night masks alone in the apartment.
Mane too long they dampen
Dark lines on dark skin, strands
stick to me blacker than kajal.
I’ll shower in the morning.
Grabbing at the extra, cupping
Slapping and ******* it in.
I’m so much when i think
I’m not enough.
Wrapping it in lace,
hug where it goes in
Abnormal hourglass,
I turn around to examine
The lightning storm around my
thunder thighs too thick to gap,
Just a small wineglass
Under a coarse tangle.
“Need to workout again.”
Dimples press and flatten,
Tattoos jiggle and beckon.
The hairs on my legs are fine
stand straight in the cold
My feet are sort of dry,
I dip them in cream
And slip on soft socks I could
Never wear in sleep,
I think of a silly dream
where I’m blonde and very thin
Like the best friend
Of every man I’ve ever been with
The one they crush(ed)
on only just a little-
but that was a long time ago.
Such a funny pattern,
Such a common trend.
I wonder if I’m meant to
bring myself to that.
But to change so quickly-
I’d rather be fat,
dark and dead.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 9:45 PM UTC
My solution was not at the bottom
Of a tall proud wineglass
In the middle of a stuffy bar
Or lust found in the shadows
Of five 'o' clock bedsheets
It was with you
You held it in your grasp
Only you had a band aid so pure
So untainted by judgment
And provoked by labour
So I was deemed worthy
By the choices I made
Which brought me closer to you
Happiness relief and joy
Is what you ever bring
And I'm glad you save it for me
Never dwindling in love
And I will give mine in return
After all we became an orb of cognition and infatuation
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC