In the cellar,
green‑glass vessels lean
one against another,
their shoulders dust‑padded,
throats sealed tight.
Some wait decades,
stoppered against the tremor of hands
that might one day twist them open.
Others burst early,
foam rushing into the air
as if silence itself were unbearable.
Life is a rack of bottles—
some forgotten in the corner,
labels blurred,
contents thickening into memory.
Others are restless,
pressing against their corks,
uncontainable,
a fizz that refuses to be archived.
And we—
we are the corkscrews,
spiralling into the grain of our days,
levering against the stubborn seal,
wondering whether release
is celebration,
or just another form of spilling.
.








Is release a form of celebration? that is a question to ponder on. Interesting
Aye. And possibly fodder for a next poem or two. 🙏🏻🕊️
Aye. And possibly fodder for a next poem or two. 🙏🏻🕊️
I really like this
The forgotten and the ones who have so much to say
End then the poets…
That was my take.
I’m going to wait for the rest. Eagerly.
Your take is brilliant and most definitely part of the scope of the poem. Thanks so much 🙏🕊️
My pleasure, poet. Have a spectacular day.
Powerfully penned, kesner. Amazing write my friend. Welcome to Stars Rite. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thanks for the warm welcome, Damian. 🕊️🙏
Life is one of choice: perhaps be briefly advised but – more importantly take a small and slow sip. Pause, freshen thought. Another sip or two perhaps, decide as to what lingers: your apprectiation or distaste.
The only problem is over-imbibing and losing any sense of good taste!
So true! Thanks, emmagreen 🕊️🙏