wine connoisseur

poetscorner

wine connoisseur

 see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
spit
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spit
blahblahblah full bodied blahblahblah
see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
spit
blahblahblah woody notes blahblahblah
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see, swirl, sniff, sip, savour
slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp, sluuuurp,
blahblahblah flubalubalub blahblahblah
hic
hic hic
zzzzzzzzzzzzz

The Volcanologist (Mr X)

abstract active ash color

The Volcanologist (Mr X)

Looming cautious, he peers like a jaguar in a tree,
an addict, on the edge of a big mistake –
mind split, fractured by equal needs to flee
and stay, here with the sacred magma lake,
to gaze, heart aching, on such magnificence,
ever moving, potent beauty and force,
he stares and drowns in true ambivalence,
to leave or join Gaia, to stay the course.
~
Obsession took its hold from early days –
a younger Mr X devoured all the words he could
on the marvels of earth’s seismic rage displays.
But that was not enough, he understood
his studies heart would need to be insitu,
so travelling far he searched volcanic forms –
those most fiery, not subdued.
This fascination deepened into swarms

of thoughts, so strange, they frightened him, in ways
not clear, but also a calm, they did provide,
a balm to life’s disasters and dull days,
a twisted but faithful beacon to guide.
~
The earth rumbles, lava blobs and hot spits
sulphur breath into the air, hissing yes,
or was that no, his ears are playing tricks
and his feet move closer, as if to acquiesce,

his face glows in the heat of his adored,
his lips dry and crack in desiccated air,
but his eyes crave more than he’s had before,
never tiring of this burnt burgundy affair.

So he moves in, closer still, skin all but touching
the creature that is this moving lava flow.
Such crushing heat and smells, the flooding
of agony through every synapse – No!

Sheer panic rises in his throat, he turns for flight,
the heat so strong his boots have all but melt,
his shirt melds to his skin, the glaring light.

He flees, goat-like, far from this earth’s death belt.

_____________________________________

I may have tracked down Mr X 🤣:

Hawaiian local suffers serious leg injury being ‘lava-bombed’ while sitting on porch

Note: Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

OCD

room

My parents divorced when I was five;
I swore never to eat another tomato.

I  line up condiments and cutlery, never
step on the cracks, and everything

must
pair.

I will check that the stove is off,
once, twice, thrice and again.

I will touch wood lightly
four times, before speaking.

a place for everything
and everything in its place

the house is neat and clean,
but the weather outside is wild,

the house is neat and clean,
and I am calm inside.

I grew tired of matching the colours
of pegs on the line,

so now I use
a clothes dryer.

I will not eat a tomato;
my parents are still apart.

_________________

Note: This poem is based on an old friend of mine who has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) – she told me the tomato story and it stuck with me – she knew how irrational it sounded but she understood that that is the nature of OCD – the desire to control the uncontrollable world around us.

Nuddernote: OCD stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Time flies …

Baby Tessa

What happened to

yellow rubber duckies, floating with permanent optimism,
tough board books with simple pictures, words and chewed spines,
soft pink and white elephants and squidgy rattles,
tiny stretchy baby suits that were too small too quickly,
(stretch the clothes, not the baby laughed Mum)
nursery rhyme nurseries with stick-on stories,
musical mobiles, warm nightlights and rocking chair
soothing on sleepless nights,
pastel coloured throws, floor mats, and nappy bags
with enough supplies for a trek to Nepal,
baby slings and prams, capsules and car seats,
and choice magazine advice for new parents.

They have all disappeared, along with the babies,
replaced with children who need less scaffolding.

I will come back to haunt you

 werewolves

 

I will come back to haunt you

Slumped nightly in your La-Z-Boy sprawl,

collecting zzz’s before the game is finished,

predictably inebriated with ghastly breath

expelled and sinking in the airless living room.

I will yank back the stale, putrid curtains

and shove open the window,

so the rain, thunder and air, chilling to the bone,

can make an entrance,

that would wake the

dead.

I will press my icy fingers on your lips,

a kiss would be too much for your heart,

and place the burden of my discontent

on your cowardly chest, for greater weight.

And you will wake, with clammy skin,

heart palpitating, knowing absolute terror,

force of the unknown, dread of the end,

you will try to stand,

like the hairs on the back of your neck.

You will struggle to scream and flee

but your limbs will feel restrained like a

dead man

in a cement boot anchor,

ready for the mantle of the river,

and your voice will go missing,

like I went missing.

 

__________________________________________

Published in ‘Werewolves and Other Bitches (Prospective: A Journal of Speculation)’ 2012

Ghosts of Boggo Road Gaol

BRG

spirits released on execution
(hanging from the gallows beam)
souls rising with the slashing of the throats
(payback time in the prison heirarchy)
ghouls let loose from suicide
(despair in the dark of brick walls and cold sweat)
spectres emerging with death from old age
(lifers lament)

ghosts forever bound,
an eternity
behind bars

 

Warning: This Poem is Revolting

The reader’s face was blank
the words had not sunk in.
The poem had been read
but then he chucked it – in the bin!

He didn’t like that poem,
didn’t ascertain its meaning,
he was busy contemplating pies
and the cost of his dry-cleaning.

But this story is just beginning
for metaphor was pissed,
his very being was compromised,
he didn’t like being dissed.

Simile was outraged,
like a prisoner denied a smoke,
he didn’t like this reader
who was slow beyond the joke,

narrative was spewing
she was livid, through and through,
she told as much to subject and shape,
and they were fuming too.

Symbolism was gnashing teeth,
cross tattoo on her back.
Infuriated – an understatement –
she wouldn’t take no flack.

Outrageous cried the first stanza,
turning to the next,
this reader is beyond the pale
with no clue about the text?

K’noath, that’s how I feel,
my tone is smoky red,
I’m only short but misunderstood
is not the way I’m read.

By now allusion was going crazy,
cartoon smoke came out his ears,
bit like the lies from Abbott’s mouth
before he engages gears.

Rhythm and rhyme were plotting,
they were going with the flow,
let’s take revenge on this dim dude
he knows not how low he will go.

Attributes of the poem united,
in ranting and conniving.
The theme would be taking revenge
– there would be no surviving.

Gathering their weapons so swift –
knives, an axe and chainsaw
oh yes, they were ready for battle –
the reader nowhere to withdraw.

The readers face was blank
as you’d expect from someone dead,
he had failed to hear the music,
so they cut off his empty head.

(soundtrack to the poem)

______________________________________

The perfumer

perfume-bottles

The perfumer

By night he dreams of three exotic ladies in harem pants, adorned with beads and misty coins, whirling together in a heady dance.

The dance of the three ladies, beginning with the light touch of one that awakens his senses to the fleeting now, shimmy from the top; then the heart and body of the second dancer snaking and shivering with the middle notes, the music punching the air, staccato hips; joined by the final dancer, who lingers over rich, base notes, infused in the atmosphere, undulating torso.

Arms and bodies fuse in a confluence of silk, flesh and hazy smoke, forming a pyramid of inspiration burning in his

nose.

 

______________________________

 

 

Note: the fragrance pyramid consists of top notes, middle notes and base notes to create the perfume, that the perfumer will create