The red wine blues have taken hold,
with wispy sobs, now uncontrolled,
as dreams of youth come rolling back,
reminding of success I lack,
of accolades I once foretold.
I sit and wallow in the cold,
my wine glass full of crimson gold;
for this my spirits have the knack,
the red wine blues.
Events, in fuddled states, unfold,
the play-by-play I must behold,
another sip, my mind goes black,
I spill a bit as hands go slack-
I think I'm getting far too old
for red wine blues.
Though indecision weighs on me,
and output stands in disarray,
the world can wait, my time is free,
for I've gone fishing for the day.
See, angling clears my cluttered brain,
as casting takes my line away,
there's nothing new to ascertain,
for I've gone fishing for the day.
The winter's done, the weather warms,
and blue replaces skies of gray,
a calm appeared between the storms,
so I've gone fishing for the day.
There's nothing crucial on my plate
with consequence if we delay,
there's always verbs to conjugate,
... (gone fishing) ...
The drab and bleak existence set aside,
my corner of the neighborhood, secured,
to go beyond would fight the rising tide
of factions gathered, waiting for the lured.
I shuffle by on paths of comfort, eased,
to work assignments sheltered from the hordes,
and home again, without a moment seized
to recognize the richness life affords.
Sometimes our spirit shakes itself to find
that status quo and safety can't replace
enrichment of the soul, still intertwined
with nature and its awe-inspired grace.
The world is there for humans to behold
and interact as spectacles unfold.
With harvest time now months ago
and fallen leaves long whisked away,
a grapevine seems to suffocate,
its barren limbs a sad display,
a remnant of its life before.
A passerby might mourn the loss,
remembering the green of spring.
For now concern would be misplaced
as dormancy will keep the sting
of winter from its living core.
If only humans had this lapse,
protection from these hardened times,
a dormant season sans the pain
of money, love or social crimes,
of life too tortured to ignore.
Alas, the vines know fully well
that warmth will soon awaken roots.
As slumber ends the green will find
recovered leaves and growing shoots,
a vineyard's luscious spring decor.
Regardless of the time of day,
or if a tempest's rain is cold,
my mind will wander to the place
where first we met, that quaint cafe,
when both our lives were still on hold;
we hadn't had our first embrace.
The world had left me to embrace
a job I suffered through each day,
no inspiration taking hold,
relentless as a common cold.
But in this picturesque cafe
my life was never out of place.
I hadn't known that in this place
I'd found a reason to embrace
my future and this old cafe.
I made my mind up on this day
that though the season's turning cold,
the promise of its warmth I'd hold.
A notion started, keeping hold,
that there was something in this place
which bore the brunt of passions cold,
where many felt love's kind embrace,
escaping from their trying day--
I'd someday own this aged cafe.
The atmosphere of my cafe,
an ambiance of which would hold
the patrons' kindness through the day-
this would be the only place
to offer all a warm embrace,
a lively shelter from the cold.
Through summer's drought and winter's cold,
my friends would come to my cafe
to help each other, love, embrace
camaraderie, while couples hold
each other, like no other place
to spend their lives day after day.
I longingly embrace the cold
and greet the day in our cafe,
take hold of this, our perfect place.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.