Poems about grapes




If we do not inhabit our verses,
What is the use of writing?

Eminescu, Rilke, Byron and Mandelstam

Grapes squeezed in a timepress.

If we are not alive in our images
What remains of poets?

Dew and ink,
Labour, symmetries?

Blood is the only colour
That can't be erased from a book.

Adrian Popescu, from My Cup of Light
Translated by Lidia Vianu and Anne Stewart


Author: irinia
Date: 05/03/2020


Fox and the grapes..

Saw fox
In fruit shop
Buying vintage grapes...

fox,  grapes.

Author: JP
Date: 08/02/2020


The Woman who sold Grapes

She is on the street in her little kiosk,
At the break of the dawn,
When many are still on a lucid dream.

Selling the most delicious of grapes
Sourced straight from the vineyards

Assembling the previous day's discards all in a tray
Discards For humans it maybe,
For her birds its a treat to relish.
Down for it, day after day...

Mostly bought by the morning walkers,
Many in numbers are they
Old patrons, as they say.

Every day she sells her wares
Holding the loveliest of smile
That I have seen in years,
Knowing what she hides behind that, though.

Never misses a day nor business,
And back home she is before sundown.

Only to return the following day,
With a new stock, at the break of the dawn.

grapes,  sold,  woman.

Author: Sarita Aditya Verma
Date: 31/12/2019


The grapes of wrath

It is no crime
To say
€fuck it”
Move on
With my

It took me years
To realize this but
Even now I take it
As a privilege and
Not a rite

Times like these
Always bring me
Back to this debate

And every time
I say no no no
I need to do it
Because I can do it
I gotta prove I can do it
Gotta show ‘em
Gotta teach ‘em
Gotta learn ‘em
About what
Can do

It's times like these
That make me look
Out the window at
The clouds and truly
Appreciate them

The trumpet blares
Out of the speakers
And I realize that I
Might be cut out for
This world after all

grapes,  wrath.

Author: Overwhelmed
Date: 31/12/2019


Strange grapes

What is this nectar,
Swish, swish,
No headache.

grapes,  strange.

Author: Earth Man
Date: 28/12/2019


The Harvest of Grapes is Safe, It is protected by Dragons

The clustered, green orbs, glow with juice and lighted sun,
The leaves wave in the gentle breeze "welcome" to all, have fun,
But seasons ripe for theft and thieves,
Who would steal into these nights,
To remove the juiciest of these,
Bacchus treasures and treats with perfected age,
The hope of pouring a glass
Of crystal clear bliss
Could be gone, amiss,
By some who would crush the cherished taste,
And end this seasons harvest in empty sadness;
Empty vine, oh the shame, the crime
Of stealing grapes that belong to another's claim!

We have found the answer to our dilemma,
"Worry not dear friend, i will be there for you my eyes
Are ever so watchful, and my bright white wing span will
Cause even the hardiest mischief maker to turn away,
While my tail will beat and chase them
Your grounds, God's vineyards
Your bounty
This and every day,
Until you pick your crop at its best
But I have only one humble request,
That you save the juiciest single grape for me
King of the Dragons, that fly. "

Inspiration provided by photo
Provided by Scott Olson

dragons,  grapes,  harvest,  protected,  safe.

Author: Ottar
Date: 24/11/2019



In the ear
Taste like grapes
Sound like grapes
Feel like grapes
For an image i bend
You see twisted lump
Of motion
For no reason
Feet empty
Empty mouth
This empty mouth
Tastes like grapes
You will never know
Your full fine feet
Walk a walk
I admire
In spastic dreams
I prefer
The taste of grapes
Empty feet and mouth


Author: Mark Wanless
Date: 16/11/2019


Grapes and Wandering

It's dusk
Lustful grapevines curl around my ankles
And I'm thankful it's wine season, the pickers should be around shortly to save me
And bathe me in last year's crop to scare the grape vines into submission
It's a decision they have to make
Do they care about a perfect stranger enough to waste
Roads of trucks of crates of bottles of red velvet
Or white sunshine
Or do they allow this ensnarement and turn a blind eye whilst I sink
While thinking; pondering the fertility of the soil under my feet
I'll wait for the pickers, just to see how they view me
And in the meantime the vines are spinning yarns around me
Crawling up my skin, holding me tight while telling me bed time stories
Once upon a time there was a vineyard struck by a drought
Caused by unrelenting calm, and clear blue skies with no clouds
And they resisted, rationed their water between them,
And it seemed then that everything was fine
The crop was harvested and won best wine, but failed to mention how many vines
Died in the making of their own blood
Morbid and dry, a pinot noir fashioned out of pain and scars
And tears in flesh, not human flesh, but the flesh of the landscape
I didn't smile
But it did make me sleepy
I couldn't fight their grasp
Addicted to their emotions
I let them take me down into their fertile ocean
And when the pickers came to discern the source of the screaming
A new grape vine had sprouted and was teething

grapes,  wandering.

Author: Josh Koepp
Date: 14/11/2019