words ripened,
noble rot infested,
are soon
ready to pick.
the poet
gathers the harvest
off
the vine,
word
by
word,
until the vat is full.
then,
the process unfolds,
stomping,
squishing each word
until
the juice
bubbles in turmoil
running
slowly
at first blood red
then a bright foaming pink,
as the poet
in a drunken ecstasy
laps self serving
platitudes
from the holy grail.
(9-12-2015)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'as the poet in a drunken ecstasy laps self serving platitudes from the holy grail.' loved the opening lines of this poem, right through until the wonderful fermentation of the ending :) 10+++