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He's hardly a sour grape, yet behaves like a raisin.

Arabian proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Georgics

GEORGIC I

What makes the cornfield smile; beneath what star
Maecenas, it is meet to turn the sod
Or marry elm with vine; how tend the steer;
What pains for cattle-keeping, or what proof
Of patient trial serves for thrifty bees;-
Such are my themes.
O universal lights
Most glorious! ye that lead the gliding year
Along the sky, Liber and Ceres mild,
If by your bounty holpen earth once changed
Chaonian acorn for the plump wheat-ear,
And mingled with the grape, your new-found gift,
The draughts of Achelous; and ye Fauns
To rustics ever kind, come foot it, Fauns
And Dryad-maids together; your gifts I sing.
And thou, for whose delight the war-horse first
Sprang from earth's womb at thy great trident's stroke,
Neptune; and haunter of the groves, for whom
Three hundred snow-white heifers browse the brakes,
The fertile brakes of Ceos; and clothed in power,
Thy native forest and Lycean lawns,
Pan, shepherd-god, forsaking, as the love
Of thine own Maenalus constrains thee, hear
And help, O lord of Tegea! And thou, too,
Minerva, from whose hand the olive sprung;
And boy-discoverer of the curved plough;
And, bearing a young cypress root-uptorn,
Silvanus, and Gods all and Goddesses,
Who make the fields your care, both ye who nurse
The tender unsown increase, and from heaven
Shed on man's sowing the riches of your rain:
And thou, even thou, of whom we know not yet
What mansion of the skies shall hold thee soon,
Whether to watch o'er cities be thy will,
Great Caesar, and to take the earth in charge,
That so the mighty world may welcome thee
Lord of her increase, master of her times,
Binding thy mother's myrtle round thy brow,
Or as the boundless ocean's God thou come,
Sole dread of seamen, till far Thule bow
Before thee, and Tethys win thee to her son
With all her waves for dower; or as a star
Lend thy fresh beams our lagging months to cheer,
Where 'twixt the Maid and those pursuing Claws
A space is opening; see! red Scorpio's self
His arms draws in, yea, and hath left thee more
Than thy full meed of heaven: be what thou wilt-
For neither Tartarus hopes to call thee king,

[...] Read more

poem by Virgil
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A Thrill Of Hope

you love and fail
and you want to die
the heart that loves and fails
shirks and shrinks like a drying grape to the desert sun

raisin, look at you, you have become a raisin
wrinkled fruit,
shrinked to the size minimal to the existence
desired, you dry some more, taking away all the life
possible in your skin and bone

the desert sun is cruellest
in you
so unforgiving so determined to shrink you
more than a raisin
this cruelty can turn you into a stone

the night has come
this thrill of hope comes like a comforting friend
to tell you raisin,

keep the sweetness still
for tomorrow's bitterest spill
the cruelest sun
the deadliest ever
on this desert sun the hottest sands

and you will not surrender
the hope is still there

the dream is this oasis somewhere
the bedouin and his coming camel

who knows? and when?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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an unhappy childhood of this man who names himself 'I'.....

i've seen this picture of you
on that far corner of the world

land of snow and you are inside that very thick
winter clothes

there is that smile in your face
and i am taking a closer look

it is sour.

i know what sour is. I've been one for forty years
wearing that

sour smile, and i have many reasons why a smile must be sour
for forty years

the reasons are sour
very sour

beyond those tastes of a hundred green lemons

or a green mango with some disturbing gums on its mouth

i burned all my pictures in college
except those when i was yet a boy beside my mama and our white dog

i was in grade one and i did not like school and mama forced me into it

i was selling chocolates and i ate them all and mama was mad at me and beat me with a stick

papa did not like me reading books as he does not know how to read

i climb trees and hide on the leaves and read stories
in our dialect and draw some pictures of women without their dresses on

you see i still have this picture of myself riding a carabao and hauling some wood and coconut palms

i take a close look of my own smile, It is very sour
and it tastes like yours, but perhaps mine is the worst

but i am happy now, i know how to suppress sour smiles, i know how to manage and project myself

i smile like a cow now, and laugh like a horse
because all of them are dead.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sweet Sour Apple Bites

Orchard of apple and variety
Here you come, the apples lover
Come sing and praise like always
'Shining around the skin
Your colour is my favorite apple
The fresh one
So is your taste'

Apples smile and sing
'If i am green
A sweet sour love
Bite one, bite two
Bite still
Taste me my apples lover
Taste my sweet sour love
I'm green and sour
Pluck me bite me my lover'

The hunter replies
Bite one and some
Tasted your sour love
Bite still because i am the apple lover'

Apples smile continue the song
'If i am red apple
Sweet and moist
Bite one, then two
Bite more
Taste my sweet life
I'm red and taste nice
Bite one bite some
Taste me sweet you will like it'

'Green or Red
Bite sweet or bite sour
I must love you my apples
simply because...
I am the true apple lover'
Explained hunter

Sweet red or sour green
Sugar rich energy will reach your heart sooner
Running in your blood and pump the beat so dear
'O apples my dear i grow you in orchard to be with me so near'
Confessed by gardener, before apple answered
'You work hard and love so sincere, will fruit you love every year'

Bite one, sweet or sour everyday
Promise keeps you away from doctor
Bite one Bite some Bite all say the lover

[...] Read more

poem by Unwritten Soul
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Clusters Of Grapes

as God nature creates complete
a bunch of grapes growing on vine
each grape an interlocked fold skin
of original envisioned composition
so too human architect craftsman
creates cultivates ideas to time define

each grape is picked complete from vine
each grape is perfect as singular complete
an orb idea formed vine ripe fertile complete
each grape is taste savoured relished eaten
peel me a grape of an idea complete eaten
slave starves creates each gilded grape given

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Song Seven

Song Seven
you cant sit up
you fell too fast
you come at the right time
you come too fast
you bloom in spring
you move the sky
youve come in singing
you call me a liar
you were like a cloud
yes you are a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
you were like a flower
you were just like a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
dont give up (I owe you)
no dont give up
oh dont give up
dont give up (I owe you)
you were like a cloud
yes you were a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
you were like a cloud
you were just like a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
here I feel I wish I could just see it
the love the hate the things that separate
forcing conscious to conscious every small attack
it takes a small man to notice but not to act up
confrontation complication needs a foundation
I'm calm baby, I'm calm
you were like a cloud
yes you are a flower you move i love life is all we need
then you were a lime
now our love is so sour you move i love life is all we need
so sour
so sour
dont give up
no dont give up
oh dont give up
no dont give up
start again butterfly
start again butterfly
start again butterfly
start again, start again dear

song performed by Interpol
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Grape, Grape Joy

I am a small and lonely grape,
Clutching to the vine,
Waiting for the day when Ill become my saviors wine!
Oh, wouldnt french cuisine just yearn it,
Ive eternity to ferment,
But knowing me Id end up ripple
In a cellar of cheblis.
Are you a small and lonely grape
Clutching to the vine,
Waiting for the day when youll become your saviors wine?
Dont give up hope ye heavy laden,
You dont want to be a raisin;
Theres a grape grape joy in jesus,
In the vineyard of the lord.

song performed by Amy Grant
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The Helot

I.

Low the sun beat on the land,
Red on vine and plain and wood;
With the wine-cup in his hand,
Vast the Helot herdsman stood.

II.

Quench'd the fierce Achean gaze,
Dorian foemen paus'd before,
Where cold Sparta snatch'd her bays
At Achaea's stubborn door.

III.

Still with thews of iron bound,
Vastly the Achean rose,
Godward from the brazen ground,
High before his Spartan foes.

IV.

Still the strength his fathers knew
(Dauntless when the foe they fac'd)
Vein and muscle bounded through,
Tense his Helot sinews brac'd.

V.

Still the constant womb of Earth,
Blindly moulded all her part;
As, when to a lordly birth,
Achean freemen left her heart.

VI.

Still, insensate mother, bore
Goodly sons for Helot graves;
Iron necks that meekly wore
Sparta's yoke as Sparta's slaves.

VII.

[...] Read more

poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Red Grape

You're like a piece of sugar on the vine,
That's been resisted.
And sitting lusciously delicious,
Waiting to get plucked...
When time comes for the picking.

You're like a piece of sugar on the vine,
That's been resisted.
And sitting lusciously delicious,
Waiting to get plucked...
When time comes for the picking.
By someone patient,
Who sits wishing for you to lick.

You're like sugar on the vine,
Not ripe to lick.
You may be a nine in someone's mind.
But not quite ready to snip and pick.
Or slowly drip from someone's lips.

Red grape...
You're not quite ready to squeeze between teeth.
Red grape...
Your sweetness teases tongues among some.
And,
Red grape...
You look so ripe,
For an easy pick to lick!

You're like a piece of sugar on the vine,
That's been resisted.
And sitting lusciously delicious,
Waiting to get plucked...
When time comes for the picking.
But,
Red grape...
You're not quite ready to squeeze between teeth.
And,
Red grape...
You look so ripe,
For an easy pick to lick!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Facial Expression Redefining the Meaning of Love

Love

Like a raisin
Dried in the sun,
Hardened by time,
Sweet to a choke.

The difference
Between a grape
And its transform:
Liquidity.

Rape the juice
From a ripe grape,
You get extract
In solid form.

Sun toughens life,
Dehydrates cells,
Leaves leaves lacking
Cracking color.

Wrinkles written
On a surface
Rough of desire,
Size down to daunt.

It once ago
Was, no longer
Is its old self,
Just a raisin:

A sweet re-treat!

poem by Kh. Qa.
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The Lemon's Quest

The whole of the fruit world were assembled
to hear what the lemon had to say.
In anticipation the fruit sat and trembled,
would it be the lemon’s day?

“Why can’t there be a sweet tasting lemon? ”
Said lemon in a tone of revolt.
To the fruit world this was open rebellion
and had to be brought to a halt.

The atmosphere turned sour towards lemon,
as he said, “This is not a lot to ask,
it’s a reasonable enough question,
and I’m sure not a major task.

I cannot understand your objections
about a fruit that wants to progress.
I’m open to all and any suggestions,
but until then I’ll sit and digress.”

The avocado replied to the question,
“The lemon is bitter and that is that! ”
“That’s an unfounded objection, ” said lemon.
“It maybe, ” said the Chairman, “but it is a matter of fact.”

The language was now strong and offensive,
as Chairman Plum called out for restraint,
“Order, fruit please, we must not be derisive.”
The tangerine looked likely to faint.

Chairman Plum summed up with a speech,
“This raises many questions for all nations, ”
he was then rudely interrupted by the peach,
“Just think about the complications? ”

A voice shouted from the back of the room,
it was grape with an answer to the problem,
“A sweet lemon must have its own bloom,
without it there will be no conclusion.

The answer is simply, graft and propagation,
a vine, with a lemon tree shoot.
It’s straight forward and without complication,
and should produce a sweet lemon fruit.”

The assembly calmed and became much quieter;
grape was thanked for his solution.
The outlook was now decidedly brighter,
bringing an end to the lemon’s resolution.

[...] Read more

poem by Orlando Belo
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Overload Sugar Rush

Candy coated apples

Chocolate ice cream with just a bit of sprinkles

Tangy mike and Ike

Skittle flavored milkshakes with cherries on top

Gingerbread cookies with a strike of milk

Watery lemonade

Cupcakes of wonder

Twisted vines of vanilla extract

Banana cream pie with whip cream on top

Just the perfect life full of innocence

Sour patches running through the veins of angel cake

Dry gumdrops running the chocolate wafers

A Fein for the extra sugar planted down the roots which she dare not goes

The black roses that stood from the berry rush

Just a strawberry ruining the veins of innocence

The black licorice is was just so irresistible wanting to try it

But too afraid for it gives you addiction to the darkness

The rotten sweetness of a teenage girl

A strawberry to a blackberry

Consideration and a fan of sweet suicide

Vitamin pills that scream “eat me I’m death! ! ! ”

Tempting to do it, she asks for a peck of beauty to awaken

No savior from the ugliness of the sour patches

She cries watery fruit punch that gives diabetes

She shall never have candy coated apples again they all say

[...] Read more

poem by Marie Jones
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Deepness In The Throat

Like a deepness in your throat
I'm here to make you choke.
A miss step to the abiding course
Scream of the divorce of those of fantasy and the real.
No concept is ever a far cry from the from the truth.
Of the abused
Mentally used
Confused
Bitter
Sour
Anger
Ha te
In everything we relate
So do not agitate

Look at yourself making so many miscalculations
In your proclamations
As am I
We speak, we learn
We follow through
Like an oppression upon the chest
Looky their its sitting on that shelf
Just reach for it.

Like a deepness in your throat
I'm here to make you choke.
A miss step to the abiding course
Scream of the divorce of those of fantasy and the real.
No concept is ever a far cry from the from the truth.
Of the abused
Mentally used
Confused
Bitter
Sour
Anger
Ha te
In everything we relate
So do not agitate

Bang bang the drugs take effect
Are you hallucinating yet.
Don't fret
You'll be soon enough
Think you got it rough
Come on now be tough
Stand up for yourself
Emotional distrust

Like a deepness in your throat
I'm here to make you choke.

[...] Read more

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Georgic 2

Thus far the tilth of fields and stars of heaven;
Now will I sing thee, Bacchus, and, with thee,
The forest's young plantations and the fruit
Of slow-maturing olive. Hither haste,
O Father of the wine-press; all things here
Teem with the bounties of thy hand; for thee
With viny autumn laden blooms the field,
And foams the vintage high with brimming vats;
Hither, O Father of the wine-press, come,
And stripped of buskin stain thy bared limbs
In the new must with me.
First, nature's law
For generating trees is manifold;
For some of their own force spontaneous spring,
No hand of man compelling, and possess
The plains and river-windings far and wide,
As pliant osier and the bending broom,
Poplar, and willows in wan companies
With green leaf glimmering gray; and some there be
From chance-dropped seed that rear them, as the tall
Chestnuts, and, mightiest of the branching wood,
Jove's Aesculus, and oaks, oracular
Deemed by the Greeks of old. With some sprouts forth
A forest of dense suckers from the root,
As elms and cherries; so, too, a pigmy plant,
Beneath its mother's mighty shade upshoots
The bay-tree of Parnassus. Such the modes
Nature imparted first; hence all the race
Of forest-trees and shrubs and sacred groves
Springs into verdure.
Other means there are,
Which use by method for itself acquired.
One, sliving suckers from the tender frame
Of the tree-mother, plants them in the trench;
One buries the bare stumps within his field,
Truncheons cleft four-wise, or sharp-pointed stakes;
Some forest-trees the layer's bent arch await,
And slips yet quick within the parent-soil;
No root need others, nor doth the pruner's hand
Shrink to restore the topmost shoot to earth
That gave it being. Nay, marvellous to tell,
Lopped of its limbs, the olive, a mere stock,
Still thrusts its root out from the sapless wood,
And oft the branches of one kind we see
Change to another's with no loss to rue,
Pear-tree transformed the ingrafted apple yield,
And stony cornels on the plum-tree blush.
Come then, and learn what tilth to each belongs
According to their kinds, ye husbandmen,
And tame with culture the wild fruits, lest earth

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Bridegroom Dick

1876

Sunning ourselves in October on a day
Balmy as spring, though the year was in decay,
I lading my pipe, she stirring her tea,
My old woman she says to me,
'Feel ye, old man, how the season mellows?'
And why should I not, blessed heart alive,
Here mellowing myself, past sixty-five,
To think o' the May-time o' pennoned young
fellows
This stripped old hulk here for years may
survive.

Ere yet, long ago, we were spliced, Bonny Blue,
(Silvery it gleams down the moon-glade o' time,
Ah, sugar in the bowl and berries in the prime!)
Coxswain I o' the Commodore's crew,--
Under me the fellows that manned his fine gig,
Spinning him ashore, a king in full fig.
Chirrupy even when crosses rubbed me,
Bridegroom Dick lieutenants dubbed me.
Pleasant at a yarn, Bob o' Linkum in a song,
Diligent in duty and nattily arrayed,
Favored I was, wife, and _fleeted_ right along;
And though but a tot for such a tall grade,
A high quartermaster at last I was made.

All this, old lassie, you have heard before,
But you listen again for the sake e'en o' me;
No babble stales o' the good times o' yore
To Joan, if Darby the babbler be.

Babbler?--O' what? Addled brains, they
forget!
O--quartermaster I; yes, the signals set,
Hoisted the ensign, mended it when frayed,
Polished up the binnacle, minded the helm,
And prompt every order blithely obeyed.
To me would the officers say a word cheery--
Break through the starch o' the quarter-deck
realm;
His coxswain late, so the Commodore's pet.
Ay, and in night-watches long and weary,
Bored nigh to death with the navy etiquette,
Yearning, too, for fun, some younker, a cadet,
Dropping for time each vain bumptious trick,
Boy-like would unbend to Bridegroom Dick.
But a limit there was--a check, d' ye see:
Those fine young aristocrats knew their degree.

[...] Read more

poem by Herman Melville
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The Life of a Grape

On the vine, the green fruit ripens,
Becoming fresh and well-rounded,
And such is the life of a grape.

In the sun, its sweet skin softens
On the branch where it's been bounded,
And such is the life of a grape.

The others grow fairly often.
Eventu'lly, it's surrounded,
And such is the life of a grape.

Then one day, away from the flocks,
It's plucked, dried, put into a box,
And such is the life of grape.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Englishman in Italy

Piano di Sorrento

Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,
Sit here by my side,
On my knees put up both little feet!
I was sure, if I tried,
I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.
Now, open your eyes,
Let me keep you amused till he vanish
In black from the skies,
With telling my memories over
As you tell your beads;
All the Plain saw me gather, I garland
--The flowers or the weeds.

Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn
Had net-worked with brown
The white skin of each grape on the bunches,
Marked like a quail's crown,
Those creatures you make such account of,
Whose heads--speckled whlte
Over brown like a great spider's back,
As I told you last night--
Your mother bites off for her supper.
Red-ripe as could be,
Pomegranates were chapping and splitting
In halves on the tree:
And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,
Or in the thick dust
On the path, or straight out of the rockside,
Wherever could thrust
Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower
Its yellow face up,
For the prize were great butterflies fighting,
Some five for one cup.
So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,
What change was in store,
By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets
Which woke me before
I could open my shutter, made fast
With a bough and a stone,
And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs,
Sole lattice that's known.
Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,
While, busy beneath,
Your priest and his brother tugged at them,
The rain in their teeth.
And out upon all the flat house-roofs
Where split figs lay drying,
The girls took the frails under cover:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

I
AWAKE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

II
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

IV

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

V

Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamsh{'y}d's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.

VI

And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to' incarnadine.

VII

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII

And look--a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke--and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:

[...] Read more

poem by Edward Fitzgerald
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The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Translated into English in 1859 by Edward FitzGerald

I.
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

II.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

III.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted -- "Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

IV.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

V.
Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one Knows;
But still the Vine her ancient ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.

VI.
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!" -- the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.

VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly -- and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life kep falling one by one.

[...] Read more

poem by Omar Khayyam
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The Englishman In Italy

PIANO DI SORRENTO

Fort, Fort, my beloved one,
Sit here by my side,
On my knees put up both little feet!
I was sure, if I tried,
I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.
Now, open your eyes,
Let me keep you amused till he vanish
In black from the skies,
With telling my memories over
As you tell your beads;
All the Plain saw me gather, I garland
---The flowers or the weeds.

Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn
Had net-worked with brown
The white skin of each grape on the bunches,
Marked like a quail's crown,
Those creatures you make such account of,
Whose heads,---speckled white
Over brown like a great spider's back,
As I told you last night,---
Your mother bites off for her supper.
Red-ripe as could be,
Pomegranates were chapping and splitting
In halves on the tree:
And betwixt the loose walls of great flint-stone,
Or in the thick dust
On the path, or straight out of the rock-side,
Wherever could thrust
Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower
Its yellow face up,
For the prize were great butterflies fighting,
Some five for one cup.
So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,
What change was in store,
By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets
Which woke me before
I could open my shutter, made fast
With a bough and a stone,
And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs,
Sole lattice that's known.
Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,
While, busy beneath,
Your priest and his brother tugged at them,
The rain in their teeth.
And out upon all the flat house-roofs
Where split figs lay drying,
The girls took the frails under cover:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning
Added by Poetry Lover
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