To whom shall we drink to present
or past to a mistress who boasts
no borrowed rhymes or sadly a
lass rolling in the clover of Eyre
to those that are absent or late for the task.
To all our dead we loved with sorrow
of heart or the living and breathing who
are still with us now.
I toast thee to my friend of my youth who
once dear to my bosom and cast away beyond
eternal rim lives alone rotting away
with his bottle of gin.
He once traveled in the warmth of sunshine
standing with virtue as he graced life with
gentle moods so I toast the gleams and
gloom of our boyhood thoughts lived in
dangerous alley ways and neighborhoods.
I make a toast to dreams that cannot die but
come over me with a chill yet soothe my
restless feeling heart sprinkling my noon
of time with freshest morning dew and
kissed by blueberries growing on the hill.
A toast to the maidens who’s pillows I shared
and tossed back their long locks and lifted
their bosoms and offered them bare while
flowers pressed about their feet in bloom so fair.
God bless be to all those who watched over
my youth and saved me from grace as I fell
from it often to find my footing at Heaven’s gate.
Toast not my wretched soul torn and weary yet
give me rest and old wine to drink the gods
slippery juice of grapes plucked from the vines
clinging to the sun drenched southern cliffs
of ancient times.
Now in the ocean’s deep red vintage melts the
sun we toast from a single vine of which we
drank our fill to taste the salt sea wine divine
as mermaid’s beauty shone beyond the coral reefs.
So let’s lift up our glass for this last will be our
epitaph of tears till early morns light will flow
into evenings dew while this poet’s pulse races
and chases all the places from days gone past
of so many lost faces I toast thee.
© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.