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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Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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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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From Grape To Wine
If you were to say I don’t exist
This grape would not argue
Longing to be wine
Makes me disreputable
Lowers self respect
A grape begins to become wine when it says
“Pressure is necessary to burst open”
Sweet wine flows from surrender
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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This Bread I Break
This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.
Once in this time wine the summer blood
Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
Once in this bread
The oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.
This flesh you break, this blood you let
Make desolation in the vein,
Were oat and grape
Born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Purple Grapes
Fresh purple grapes,
Dried raisin cakes
I love the seedless kind.
Grape fruit essence
The fruity, tasty kind.
Give it as presents,
I'll tell you I don't mind.
Grape fruit essence
As good as Merlot wine.
Water into wine
Once upon a time,
Jesus, who called himself the true vine,
turned water into wine
in an act of love.
All over the world, right now,
a million grape vines
are performing the same miracle
slowly; silently; aided by the sun;
their roots, like farmers, coal or diamond miners,
searching in the earth
for the most precious;
it doesn’t hit the headlines
but who dares say
a patient, silent, unsung love
is any less a miracle?
Who dares say that grape vines
do not seek and love
their beautiful perfection?
miracles, an act of love;
love, that miracle unearned –
what may we do to earn, to drink,
that wine of Love, but love?
*
[with a bow to Hafiz]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My Days of Wine and Roses
A Tangerine sun glazed The Travis Vineyard
While the Deep Purple haze, just glowed
The aroma's from all of the picked grapes
Filled Napa's Colored-flavored show!
The Valley 'tis filled with a bounty
Of future vino's of varying kinds
Aged and then tingled to the palate
'Tis Ambrosia, most divine, from the vine!
The succulent grape and its splendour
Shines the California's-near-by coast
The valley, itself, 'Tis a purple Wonder
Growing the most primo for its hosts
Perhaps a wine tasting party?
Hmmmm, wonder, if The Gallo's might attend?
It will truly be a celebration
As the days of Wine, are just 'round the bend!
Oh, did i leave off, The Roses?
My mistake, Mon Amore.
The title would not be complete
As it was, in the days of yore!
Back when it was a Movie
Back when it was a romantic song
Back in the time of old actors (Jack Lemmon)
Back when the wine could do no wrong!
'The Days Of Wine And Roses'
It taps at my long ago memory
Taking me back to a time
When the grape was truly very new to me!
poem by Theodora Onken
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I Am More a Ripened Melon
Squeeze,
Easy sexy.
When assessing me.
I am more a ripened melon.
Than a young grape,
Dangling from a vine.
Squeeze me easy sexy.
Like an avacado you do appeal.
With two tomatos I could taste your hold.
To feel as if chipped in dipped guacamole.
Squeeze,
Easy sexy.
Gently and not to crush.
Think of me as lemonade,
You prefer to sip and not gulp to rush.
Squeeze,
Easy sexy.
When assessing me.
I am more a ripened melon.
Than a young grape,
Dangling from a vine.
You would rather see picked...
To mash quick into fine wine!
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!
Some men build a wine cellar after only finding one grape.
Some men will build a wine cellar when they have found just one grape.
Passion Wine Heritage Inspired
soil grape vineyard
starlight
golden nectar
ambrosia
mountain wind
river valley
salient light
earth sky firmament
soil nutrients
soil soul embodiment
soil fingertips
blood flow wine
hunger allure
siren vine original
soil dry
struggle character
define vine
soul
essence
hungry
insight
instinct
awareness
hardship
struggle
enlightenment
nose smell aroma
colour clarity texture
elixir extraordinaire
taste palate tongue
roof inspires trace oak
season aged barrel
cooper creation artist
wooden ribs melody effect
fabric harmony stir ferment
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Bacchus
BRING me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer'd no savour of the earth to 'scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl'd
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mould of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well:
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,--
Music and wine are one,--
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quicken'd so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of me and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair;
Reason in Nature's lotus drench'd--
The memory of ages quench'd--
Give them again to shine;
Let wine repair what this undid;
And where the infection slid,
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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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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In the spirit of Rumi: 55: Patience
Patience
turns mulberry leaves into silk
through the silkworm
Patience
turns water into wine
through the grape vine
Patience
turns a man into a beloved teacher
through stillness
poem by Michael Shepherd
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April Two For NPM
a prose poem
a rose stinks it smells like the thorn bush surrounding it the petals make perfume they call it attar and they sell it expansively in the stores they have a purple bottle eye purchased one for ewe in secret and she has it my love inside her heart so true this thorn is now her cause she loves me eye am special and one of a kind of a fellow that only she could love me like a lover satisfied the purple prose releases me like wine is called purple passion the grape of time tis of the essence smells like love is the glue is hard to shiff it gets me high on the hog the love is closer to the truth is better then the llie it fools no one is worried now for referances will be added the addition to the ell is longer then the house itself will never fall the freeway will expand contract and kill them all the drivers all the passengers take off the runaway beast is amuck us helter skelter the beatles bark the old cliches may seem atrocious is the amswers to the questors as they drink more sodden wine is the color of the grape on the vine is green is this prose poem in the money for the running water washes clean lucky ewe the end of story
poem by Charles Hice
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Vintage Purpose
Oh God, to worship Thee with praise;
I, but a mere grape from hallowed vine;
May your gift of poetry, flow through me as Christian;
Likened to a sweet vintage wedding wine?
Alas, but for a season amidst the cluster,
Amongst clusters of sweet notes raised;
Lyric this hour of sunshine luster;
A cup of blood crushed, to God's glory be praised!
poem by Gary Bitson
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Two Gentlemen That Broke Their Promise
There is no faith in claret, and it shall
Henceforth with me be held apocryphal.
I'll trust a small-beer promise, nay, a troth
Washed in the Thames, before a French wine oath.
That grape, they say, is binding; yes, 'tis so,
And it has made your souls thus costive too.
Circe transformed the Greeks; no hard design,
For some can do as much with claret wine
Upon themselves; witness you two, allowed
Once honest, now turned air, and à la mode.
Begin no health in this, or if by chance
The King's 'twill question your allegiance;
And men will, after all your ruffling, say
You drink as some do fight, in the French way:
Engage and trouble many, when 'tis known
You spread their interest to wave your own.
Away with this false Christian: it shall be
An excommunicate from mirth, and me;
Give me the Catholic diviner flame,
To light me to the fair Odelia's name;
'Tis sack that justifies both man and verse,
Whilst you in Lethe-claret still converse.
Forget your own names next; and when you look
With hope to find, be lost in the church-book.
poem by James Shirley
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He's hardly a sour grape, yet behaves like a raisin.