Vintage
Vintner waits for the new stuff.
Vineyard girls in bloom
and their rouge on cheeks like vine.
He who repents as his youth is gone.
Not like earlier with a glass or two
he will be knockout.
But he likes vine to forget the knotty life!
His dignity is going for a song.
And the soulless man who idles
at tavern doors dreaming
an old friend will offer him a drop.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The True Vine
Everlasting and eternal.
hope in truth, source of life.
Strength in weakness, grace for humanity
companion of conscience, friend of integrity
The true vine feeds the soul.
The unending journey;
service that never cheats,
Freedom that never binds,
hope that never fades.
the true vine: faith beyond horizons.
Glory and bloom,
blossom from death to life.
Honor and praise
reign from the earth to the heavens.
The true vine upon the hill.
poem by Timothy muggaga
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The Tree, the Vine and the Grass
The tree said to the grass, Is it your contentment
To be just at my foot, remain under my shade
Why don't you do as I, my aims are very high
I want to reach the moon and the stars in the sky
With far reaching vision, I stand in dignity
Stand out for the rest of the forest to see
Oh yes, oh yes, my friend, said the vine to the grass
Why do you not aim high, just like the two of us
My stance is upright, reaching high altitudes
I can stand side by side with any tree I choose
Unlike you who remain earthbound without a choice
To you my friend, a tree, I do not want to be
equal to you in height, low I would rather be
For the law of nature, I clearly remember
You stand the higher, you will fall the harder
I do not aim for things I know I would not reach
Earthbound I chose to be, than fail in my attempts
To you my friend, a vine, here's what I have to say
Stand I won't if on borrowed stability
On the arms of a friend you just cling and depend
You cannot stand alone, own strength you do not have
When I pause to reckon and try to look around
In the world of humans, the likes of you abound
They cling to anyone who has money and might
As you cling to the tiniest twig or biggest branch
Wanting not to be low, not to be trampled at
Then a hurricane came with its wind blowing wild
It uprooted the vine, the tree fell to the ground
And there they lay in waste, under the sun they died
The grass is still there, flourishing and alive
poem by Pacific Hernandez
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A Tulip That Does Not Wilt
there is a vine, so green
i put on a vase
of glass, there is water
and pebbles
the vine grows some more
leaves
alive on the filtered light
from the window pane,
there is a red tulip that never
dies there
but also does not
grow,
that plastic one i bought
a year ago,
i do not remember having washed it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Today
This song appears on two albums, and was first released on the an evening with john denver album, and has also been released on the country classics album. some versions of the first album do no
Tain this song.
Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine
Ill taste your strawberries, Ill drink your sweet wine
A million tomorrows shall all pass away
ere I forget all the joy that is mine, today
Ill be a dandy, and Ill be a rover
Youll know who I am by the songs that I sing
Ill feast at your table, Ill sleep in your clover
Who cares what the morrow shall bring
Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine
Ill taste your strawberries, Ill drink your sweet wine
A million tomorrows shall all pass away
ere I forget all the joy that is mine, today
I cant be contented with yesterdays glory
I cant live on promises winter to spring
Today is my moment, now is my story
Ill laugh and Ill cry and Ill sing
Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine
Ill taste your strawberries, Ill drink your sweet wine
A million tomorrows shall all pass away
ere I forget all the joy that is mine, today
Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine
Ill taste your strawberries, Ill drink your sweet wine
A million tomorrows shall all pass away
ere I forget all the joy that is mine, today
Words and music by randy sparks
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: Jesus, the Grape-Vine
“I am the Vine: You be its branch always.”
Jesus is succor and our nourishment;
Allow the sap to flow to bless your days;
There will be no defeat or punishment.
’Tis easy being branch with leaves and fruits;
We help the vine to grow luxuriously;
The starch that’s made makes sturdy trunk and roots;
The wine from grapes will soothe hearts curiously.
A broken branch will lose its life quite soon;
A leafless one is useless to the vine;
A fruitless one is bane and not a boon;
With God, we make our earthly days divine.
The vine is proud to make the best of wine;
With God’s will done, man’s soul looks rather fine!
poem by John Celes
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Love On The Vine
I came home yesterday
To the love that I left behind
It seems Ive been far away, yeah
But I know that the berrys ripe on the vine
And I know that the grapes will soon turn to wine
Yes I know Ill be there just in time to love you
I guess I just ran away (I just ran away)
Tried to see what I could not find (what I could not find)
Its been a one act play, yeah
But I know that the berrys ripe on the vine
And I know that the grapes will soon turn to wine
And I know Ill be there just in time to love you
Ive been wasting time (wasting time)
With this old heart of mine (this old heart of mine)
Working it overtime, ah, ah, ah, ah
Just another blue day
Like the ones that I left behind
I know its easy to say, yeah
But I know that the berrys ripe on the vine
And I know that the grapes will soon turn to wine
Yes I know Ill be there just in time to love you
Oh and I know that the berrys ripe on the vine
And I know that the grapes will soon turn to wine
Yes I know Ill be there just in time to love you
Love you on the vine, oh on the vine
Love you on the vine, oh on the vine
I love you on the vine, oh on the vine, ah
On the vine, oh on the vine ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Vine and The Branches
Friend, Jesus Christ is the Vine, Christians are but the branches.
And The Lord is indeed Divine, and through all our circumstances.
The Lord Jesus is over all time, and with Him there are no chances.
And as my Savior, He is mine, and it is in Christ I take my stances.
Sure and faithful is Jesus Christ, for The Lord is true and He is just.
Jesus is the very Savior of my life, and in The Lord I place my trust,
As I go through pain and strife, abiding is not an option, it’s a must.
My very being I owe to Christ, for my frame my friend, it is but dust.
When I asked Jesus into my life, He entered my heart to live inside.
To the Living Vine of Jesus Christ, as a branch, in Him I must abide.
And as I go through pain and strife, by Jesus Christ, I’m not denied.
For in my trial I know that Christ, is the fortress in whom I can hide.
It is through the Vine of Jesus Christ, I receive strength and power.
It is there to tap throughout my life, in every day and in every hour.
Friend, when I walk into strife, a peace pours on me like a shower.
And as I hold fast to Jesus Christ, I have no need to fear or cower.
So come from any circumstance, to Christ the Vine and be a branch.
And even though we are but dust, in Him we can have Eternal Trust.
If in your heart, Christ is not denied, with Him you will eternally abide.
Come make a choice this very hour, and be filled with eternal power.
Feast
I drank at every vine.
The last was like the first.
I came upon no wine
So wonderful as thirst.
I gnawed at every root.
I ate of every plant.
I came upon no fruit
So wonderful as want.
Feed the grape and bean
To the vintner and monger:
I will lie down lean
With my thirst and my hunger.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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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 by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Man (Fun Poem 8)
There is a little man who stands on a shelf
He stares all day at a creeping vine
One day he will come alive
Climb down the vine
And runaway
With the sunshine
poem by David Harris
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Long Ago And Far Away
long ago a young man sits
and plays his waiting game
but things are not the same it seems
as in such tender dreams
slowly passing sailing ships
on sunday afternoon
like the people on the moon i've seen
are things not meant to be
where do those golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is this song so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love is just a word i've heard
when things are being said
stories my poor head has told me
can not stand the cold
and in between what might have been
and what has come to pass
are misbegotten guests alas
and bits of broken glass
where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is the song i sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love to love to love
where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is the song i sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love to love to love
whoa no no no no no
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Long Ago & Far Away
Long ago a young man sits
And plays his waiting game
But things are not the same it seems
As in such tender dreams
Slowly passing sailing ships
On sunday afternoon
Like the people on the moon Ive seen
Are things not meant to be
Where do those golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is this song so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love is just a word Ive heard
When things are being said
Stories my poor head has told me
Can not stand the cold
And in between what might have been
And what has come to pass
Are misbegotten guests alas
And bits of broken glass
Where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is the song I sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love to love to love
Where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is the song I sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love to love to love
Whoa no no no no no
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Coronal
WITH HIS SONGS AND HER DAYS TO HIS LADY AND TO LOVE
Violets and leaves of vine,
Into a frail, fair wreath
We gather and entwine:
A wreath for Love to wear,
Fragrant as his own breath,
To crown his brow divine,
All day till night is near.
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine
For Love that lives a day,
We gather and entwine.
All day till Love is dead,
Till eve falls, cold and gray,
These blossoms, yours and mine,
Love wears upon his head,
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine,
For Love when poor Love dies
We gather and entwine.
This wreath that lives a day
Over his pale, cold eyes,
Kissed shut by Proserpine,
At set of sun we lay:
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Rebellious Vine
One day, the vine
That clomb on god’s own house
Cried, “I will not
grow
And, ‘I will
not
grow,’
And, I
will
not grow,’
And,
‘I
will not grow,’
So God leaned out his head,
And said:
‘You need
not
Then the vine
fluttered its leaves, and cried to all the winds:
‘Oh have I not permission from the Lord?
And may I not begin to cease to grow?’
But that wise God had pondered on the vine
Before he made it.
And all the while it laboured not to grow,
It grew; it grew;
And all the time God knew.
poem by Harold Monro
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The Growth of Lorraine
I
While I stood listening, discreetly dumb,
Lorraine was having the last word with me:
“I know,” she said, “I know it, but you see
Some creatures are born fortunate, and some
Are born to be found out and overcome,—
Born to be slaves, to let the rest go free;
And if I’m one of them (and I must be)
You may as well forget me and go home.
“You tell me not to say these things, I know,
But I should never try to be content:
I’ve gone too far; the life would be too slow.
Some could have done it—some girls have the stuff;
But I can’t do it: I don’t know enough.
I’m going to the devil.”—And she went.
II
I did not half believe her when she said
That I should never hear from her again;
Nor when I found a letter from Lorraine,
Was I surprised or grieved at what I read:
“Dear friend, when you find this, I shall be dead.
You are too far away to make me stop.
They say that one drop—think of it, one drop!—
Will be enough,—but I’ll take five instead.
“You do not frown because I call you friend,
For I would have you glad that I still keep
Your memory, and even at the end—
Impenitent, sick, shattered—cannot curse
The love that flings, for better or for worse,
This worn-out, cast-out flesh of mine to sleep.”
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Norse lullaby
The sky is dark and the hills are white
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;"
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
"Sleep, little one, sleep."
On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing,
And only the vine can hear her sing:
"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
What shall you fear when I am here?
Sleep, little one, sleep."
The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The tree may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best,--
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
Weary thou art, anext my heart
Sleep, little one, sleep.
poem by Eugene Field
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Vines of Love
Two hearts beating as one
Entwined like a vine
The many colours of love's curling ends
Rolling fingers on canvas
Like soft gentle flaps of butterfly wings
Toe curling sighs of delight
Eating juiciest fruit from the vine
Creeping crawling whatever the calling
Under the moon's light
Twirling curling consuming
Caressing with words
Touching souls
Vine steadied around pillars of stairway
Love shading the night
poem by Persian Khushi
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Catawba Wine. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
This song of mine
Is a Song of the Vine,
To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins
To darken the drear Novembers.
It is not a song
Of the Scuppernong,
From warm Carolinian valleys,
Nor the Isabel
And the Muscadel
That bask in our garden alleys.
Nor the red Mustang,
Whose clusters hang
O'er the waves of the Colorado,
And the fiery flood
Of whose purple blood
Has a dash of Spanish bravado.
For richest and best
Is the wine of the West,
That grows by the Beautiful River;
Whose sweet perfume
Fills all the room
With a benison on the giver.
And as hollow trees
Are the haunts of bees,
Forever going and coming;
So this crystal hive
Is all alive
With a swarming and buzzing and humming.
Very good in its way
Is the Verzenay,
Or the Sillery soft and creamy;
But Catawba wine
Has a taste more divine,
More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy.
There grows no vine
By the haunted Rhine,
By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor on island or cape,
That bears such a grape
As grows by the Beautiful River.
Drugged is their juice
For foreign use,
When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,
To rack our brains
With the fever pains,
That have driven the Old World frantic.
To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,
And after them tumble the mixer;
For a poison malign
Is such Borgia wine,
Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.
While pure as a spring
Is the wine I sing,
And to praise it, one needs but name it;
For Catawba wine
Has need of no sign,
No tavern-bush to proclaim it.
And this Song of the Vine,
This greeting of mine,
The winds and the birds shall deliver
To the Queen of the West,
In her garlands dressed,
On the banks of the Beautiful River.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Now, most dentist's chairs go up and down, don't they? The one I was in went back and forwards. I thought 'This is unusual'. And the dentist said to me 'Mr Vine, get out of the filing cabinet.
An Order of Decay.
The morning sings a song of sadness
As the chaos of the day becomes an order of decay.
Each second loosing prestige unto the next
Each future deluding itself to mimic the past.
Look – Stare into the looking glass
What do you see? Aging skin, smoked yellow teeth
You’ve grown fat on whiskey boy.
Still, it is no sin to swim the waters of indulgence.
All senses overwhelmed,
From chaotic earth the vine has stemmed
We are left suckling pigs
Dancing Dionysian rhythms in mountain top abodes.
Here below the crimson sky
We erect our temple within the movement of the dance.
Demented glares abstracting stars
Receiving transmitions – evolving within transmutations.
To Gold! To gold! The secret told.
Forever young and never old.
Come dance the dance divine
Come be suckling upon the vine.
poem by David Lacey
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