To the toes that crushed the grapes
Upon that first day
To those that tasted juice upon ferment
To wine in all its – thank you, fuck, it’s Friday –
To those toes, and Aldis, bless you,
Heaven sent
To the toes that crushed the grapes
Upon that first day
To those that tasted juice upon ferment
To wine in all its – thank you, fuck, it’s Friday –
To those toes, and Aldis, bless you,
Heaven sent
He had the look of sailor
Bushy trim, inbled ink
Lips to liquid elegance
Gave me cause to think
I saw his soul
People passed in passing
As they passed and passed on by
I was caught from passing
By reflections in his eye
I saw his soul
In vino told his verity
Crystal goblet crimson stained
Identity invisible
Absent but for pain
I saw his soul
He mused of distant lands, he spoke
Of places he had been
Of service, home, his children
And a wife he’d hardly seen
I saw his soul
He told of losing hope and faith
Of wishing death’s release
Of deepest well he’d ever known
Of falling to his knees
I saw his soul
I asked him frankest questions
And he did not balk from truth
He analysed and after thought
Depicted foolish youth
I saw his soul
He did not ask, I never said
His wine was eloquent
I lived a little of his life’s
Redemptive glass, a gent,
I saw his soul
He gave me food for future
In the telling of his tale
I gave him gloves and scarf, a coin
And wished him fair thee well
I saw it all
What to do, what to do.
Totally out of – what is it family across the pond call it- left field?
Taking it, from my movie going experience, that means somewhat unexpected. A long shot as it were.
Busy wee day here. Shopping. Groceries. Crap. Crap. And then a side order of shit for good measure. You know, typical weekend. Catch up on what work prevents you from doing sort of crap.
So I figured a wee while round at my sister’s – seven doors away- lucky me, was the order of the day. Some r&r. Bit of a chat. A few giggles. Well, lots usually. Guffawing is more like it and quite a few snorts at life and love and lewdity. You know. Sisters.
I left my trusted 18 year old with the pans and knew that after a day of not eating – I do that a lot – I could come home to one of my favourite meals. Spaghetti bolognaise. I know. It seems boring. But I’ve trained my crew well. Some of them. David now has it off pat. Although, watch out for the garlic and his consumption of my red wine. I’ve nearly been pissed a few times after eating David’s offerings.
So, I thought, a bit of a chin wag, share a couple of glasses of red, home for dinner.
I thought.
Twenty-four year old son not to be reckoned with.
He ate my fucking dinner. He never eats what we are eating! He’s one of these high protein-no carbs-shall-pass-my-lips sort of freaks. Ask him if he’s eating with us and the answer over the last couple of years has been, ‘No way. I’m hitting the gym and my body is a temple’, kind of garbage. Because I know he lets loose and orders in chicken chasni pizza when he has company. What a gross combination I always think. Whose bright idea was it to merge pizza with Indian cuisine?
He ate my dinner. I can still smell it. What I missed. Bastard child.
I’d been salivating at my sister’s. Red wine cultivating an appetite too often absent. Juices flowing thinking of the prospect of just the right amount of red wine added, pasta cooked to a T, parmesan grated lovingly, garlic wafting deliciously from seven doors away.
And Joe ate it!
And I can’t even give him a row! He’s off out with the current girlfriend.
And I settled for a few bacon sarnies with brown sauce. Very nice, it was. But not when you were expecting spag bol. I’m feeling quite gutted. And a little pissed. Might get a bit more pissed now.
Sometimes I hate weans.
Slainte! to the grain
Salut! to the vine
Yeia sas! to what mirth may be blest
in joy, celebration,
Dionysus’ gift, by man’s hands,
Redolent, relaxation and rest.
In Troy, the horse was taken in,
And so, too, was that nation.
Drunken celebrations followed.
Much happy jubilation!
But, enemies, within the gates
Bided their own time,
Till battle-scarred citizens had,
Imbibed too much of wine.
Lulled to sleep by Dionysus’ best,
Heads on arms, and arms on breast.
They fell.
Watchfulness and trusting soul,
Blinded by another’s goal.
And prize was claimed,
Helen, named,
The face that launched
A fleet.
Decided to dance a little deeper in life, and wow can spirit dance!
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