A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun,
Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs
Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung
Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes
And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints,
The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain,
Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots,
The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons
Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt,
Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves
Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man
Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow,
Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.

Fruit goes off.
It gets mushy and smelly,
losing its colour and beauty - losing its taste,
eventually drying out,
losing all resemblance of what it once was,
only good for waste.

But fruit nurtured by a master grower,
a seasoned gardener,
fruit watched and watered til ripe and at its peak,
this fruit is harvested, fermented,
blended til building to a fuller physique,
brought to full maturity til ready for the table
and the banquet where no one's poor
and no-one is able to maintain a semblance of meek.

- where the gardener and the wine maker,
sit at the top seats smiling their blessing.
And the table branches out
giving room enough for the whole family gathering.

And the feast to end all feasts begins.

Intoxication won't bring solace.

Neither it bring back the person over whom you got intoxicated every single night...

Honey brown eyes
Yet cold as ice
Whenever
They look into mine
They look straight into my soul
They are of those kind
Those brown eyes
Whenever meet mine
They looked lost and amazed
Filled with enormous emotions
But precise same vibe as wine
I'd get drunk drown and lost in them
Till I feel sick and fine
At the same time
So many truths
Your  lips defies
But brown of your eyes
Never lies.

Welcome to Home School today,
A typical mum might say,
We''ll start with Maths, okay,
First,  I have an empty glass,
There is 0 wine here for a blast,
Then I'll pour in half,
Before I top it up,
Now I have 1 whole wine to sup,
Home School does need wine o'clock,
For mums, not kids, quite a shock,
Stop laughing at Mum, okay,
She flunked Maths too, along the way,
Some Mums are not teachers, okay,
Now who farted? She's say,
End of home school for the day!

Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the lake,
There was a peony.
Amidst a solitary night, bound by sorrow,
I Inquire the peony.
For whom do you shed your petals and leaves,
for whom do you bloom?

Wine, a drink to some, a comfort for others.
The mind is drunk, yet the heart is not.
It’s a source of medicine to forget one's sorrows for a long while,
Yet to many, a poison to numb the heart.
Recalling the melodic song looming over nightfall breeze,
My sorrow slowly eased.

to you, I am a fine wine
sweet, silky, at times aggressive
housed in glass, i'm delicate
to be enjoyed on occasion

by my neck, I wish you'd grab
hold me roughly without a care
take all of me selfishly
until nary a drop is left

for you are water to me
cool, calm, and most refreshing
constantly i thirst for you
to drown me in waves of pleasure

i kneel at the water's edge
wishing to see that calmness break
to feel the ripples of want
overtake and overwhelm me

Sitting ashore, I offer my friend a cup of wine,
I ask what place he is headed to.
To my regret, there is no-one to hear.