Blue Reflection

Do not put Picasso in a love poem.
His image might distort perception

and lead to periods of blue reflection
instead of pretending everything is rosy.

Do not let Picasso leave your poem
analyzed, broken up, and reassembled,

which could have your readers
scratching their heads, thinking,

“I don’t get it.” Do not put Picasso
in a poem you write about harmony.

He might question your understanding
of well-known truths. Do not put

Picasso in a poem in which you already
think you know the ending.

"Blue Reflection" was published in issue #43 (May 2024) of Shot Glass Journal.

Eric
 

Untouched

Upon learning my love language
equals “acts of service”
and yours is “physical touch,”
 
            you refused
to ask me for anything—
not a single favor—
lest I express my affection too loudly.
 
You could not let yourself
value my help. You would not listen,
 
which I guess is only fair,
 
since I am rife with trust issues
and can hardly bear to be touched.
I would hold you, if I could.
 
I would shop for groceries,
do your laundry, walk the dogs,
clean the house, mow the lawn.
 
            I suppose 
we had a conversation breakdown
because we do not share
a common tongue.
 
Expressions of love and loyalty
are lost in translation.

 

 

"Untouched" was included in Issue 8 (the Spring 2024 issue) of LEVITATE, the Literary and Art Magazine of the Chicago High School for the Arts.

 Eric

2024 A Book of the Year

    Sometimes the Victim
 

I saw Lady Liberty tossed
into a cage, like a child, curled
into a corner, battered and in tears.
I did not see Justice. She
 
has been kidnapped and sold
to the deep pockets and the
corporate-jet party people.
I heard the good-old-boy network
 
laughing in the background
on speaker phone. The ransom
has been paid by the highest
bidder, with strings attached.
 
Equity has gone AWOL,
and we point our sticky fingers
at anyone other than ourselves.
Sometimes the victim
 
carries the unprovoked,
unearned guilt with them—
the raised  torch, the blindfold,
the mini-skirt and high heels,
 
the glass ceiling, “sweetheart,”
middle-aged, white, male privilege,
the bacon (for bringing home and
frying), the pan itself. Of course,
 
the Ozzie-and-Harriet family;
the traditional, society-sanctioned,
overly commercial, utterly soulless,
artificial archetype of a man.

"Sometimes the Victim" was the winner of contest #32,  the "Courage Award," in the 2023 Annual Contests held by the Poetry Society of Texas.  

-
 
    Contrarian
 

He is and, from now on,
will always be a Midwesterner,
as he may have always been
in spirit.
 
Reverse migration.
 
        For all his life
the Bible was belted firmly
around his neck.
 
His blood remains abundantly spicy,
like East Texas venison chili
or Cajun gumbo.
 
        But now,
he dons his newly acquired,
iron-oxide suspenders.
 
He has migrated backward in time
to the heart
of a region where history
was built
 
with bare hands,
 
where the foundation for global expansion
and all forward progress
was fatefully laid. He is now
a loyal Midwesterner.
 
        Go east,
young man. Go east.

"Contrarian" was the winner of contest #53, the "Anthony Dickson Memorial Award," in the 2023 Annual Contests held by the Poetry Society of Texas.  

-

    A Day in a Life
 

Before I even speak to the mirror, I need
coffee and lots of it. Only then can I wet and
dry my hair in our old-fashion wash basin.
Every morning, I pour the preheated water
from an ornate porcelain pitcher with
 
Grecian scenery etched upon it to rinse my
hair of lather, in search of body and shine.
I wipe foam from my freshly shaved face
just in time to stumble my way into the
kitchen to make breakfast for all four dogs,
 
leash them up, and walk around the block.
Morning is over too quickly, as always, and
noon rushes in, heralding a hectic routine.
On to a dozen afternoon chores, without a
pause in my schedule for a sit-down meal.
 
Quickly, I swallow a cheeseburger, then I am
ready for my next meeting, which is only
seven streets away with traffic and begins in
ten minutes. I will need to make it there in
under nine, so I have time to integrate the
 
video equipment. Recalculating my route
while waiting at another red light, I arrive
x-actly on time. At the close of a crazy day,
your smile still brings me calm and fills my
zzzzzzs with pleasant dreams, till morning.

 

"A Day in a Life" was the winner of contest #90, the "It's All Alphabetical" award for abecedarians, in the 2023 Annual Contests held by the Poetry Society of Texas.  

-

These three award-winning poems are included in the 2024 A Book of the Year, published by the Poetry Society of Texas. Thank you to the sponsors and judges.

Eric

Go with God

She says it under her breath
as I walk out the door

every day, as if 
she thinks I cannot hear her—

half wanting
half not wanting me

to hear her—
because she knows

I am atheist
and she is afraid

I may try to force 
my beliefs on her.

She says it under her breath
as I walk out the door,

always in a whisper
to try to save my soul,

a directive,
whether I like it or not. 

Go with God, she says. 
I will go without.

-


"Go with God" is published in the Fall 2023 issue of The Bayou Review.

Eric

Dreams and Nightmares

    False Hope 

I had a dream about you,
and it was like eating leftovers 
of the veal piccata you made 
that spring eve in 2004
before you went vegan,

save for the few times a year
you crave fish
or when mussels are the special
at one of the Michelin-starred restaurants
to which you are drawn, 

because, to you, life
is all about flavor, or should be,
and you want life to taste rich 
and melt in your mouth
twenty-four seven.

That recollection has left me
peckish and standing in the rain
for eight hours straight
with false hope of getting a seat
at The French Laundry.


-

 
    It’s Not Me

Waking from a dream, you roll away from me, 
toward the wall. I can hear you mumbling something
about “cheating bastard.” I know

it’s not about me specifically,

but your therapist says that you carry
residual PTSD and trust issues

from your mother, your father,
and every past relationship you’ve had.
I know it’s not me. 

Still, you shrug me off, when I try to touch you.
You give me the silent treatment all day,
and I walk on eggshells.

Tonight, I sleep on the sofa in the den,
and, at almost midnight exactly, I stir to the sound 
of you sobbing on the floor by my side.

You say you had a nightmare and you’re scared.
I tell you that you’re safe, and I hold you tightly.
You whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”


-

 
    Remembering the Dream 

I am sleeping tonight
on an overstuffed mattress.
It is lumpy but soft.
I roll into the basin
my body has spent 
nearly a decade perfecting.
It cradles me in the dark,
comfortable and familiar.
I am letting the wind
outside my window
rock me, as I slumber, my 
snoring shaking the rafters.
I am letting the clamor
of my rapid eye movement
act as my exercise 
for the week, and I am
warm for a moment.
I am letting the song
of my digital alarm clock
represent the end of time. 
I am remembering the dream
I had almost forgotten.

-


"False Hope," "It's Not Me," and "Remembering the Dream" are included in Dreams + Nightmares, a 2023 anthology of work by the poets of Poets Northwest in Houston, Texas.
 

Eric

Two Stepping In Texas

    Snowflakes

The fallacy of snowflakes

is that no two are alike, 

because . . . chances are,

given the hundreds of millions  

of billions that fall, maybe two 

are identical, 

just as there are

doppelgangers for all of us, 

and just like, odds are,

given dozens of dice rolls, sometimes craps

is a winner. 

Perhaps planets grow life forms

just like snowflakes 

duplicate themselves, 

casually, as if almost undetectable. 

But,

as has been proclaimed 

by countless philosophers

and in “the Good Book” (at Ecclesiastes 1:9),

there is nothing new under the sun 

or above, or beyond it. 

And, even if the universe implodes,

it will recycle itself,

again and again,

with a bang.

-

    Romeo

O Romeo, Romeo, 

you are my David,

my fair-skinned masterpiece—

my beautiful love-boy.

Romeo, you are 

what is left of my heart, my

misguided youth, faded 

(and fading) memories,

my once-golden rainbow,

my final hope.

O yesterday! My Romeo,

you are my raison d'être,

my last requiem,

my grand opus. 

My faux pas. Romeo, 

you are my greatest loss,

all my hopes and dreams

save dying Juliet,

an adolescent sigh.

My best, Wm. 

-

"Snowflakes" and "Romeo" were winners of their respective contests in the Poetry Society of Texas's 2022 Annual Contests and were published in the 2023 A Book of the Year.

Eric

Acorn Collection

   The Apocalypse

They roam the streets,
brain dead, scorching Mother Earth,
 
leaving a wide wake of waste.
All sentient things
 
recoil from their tactile touch
or die.
 
The atmosphere hangs acrid;
the water, metallic in taste
 
and texture.
Toxic. And they consume
 
and abandon, discard and disseminate
sans regulation.
 
Darwin’s theoretical specter shrugs.
This species has made
 
the idea of natural selection
wholly unnatural.
 
Tides churn into tsunamis.
Fracked earth trembles and quakes.
 
Weather rages. The wind storms.
If they were zombies,
 
we could end those brain-dead
monsters.

-

    Buyer’s Market

 
That house in the middle of the block
is empty in the suburbs.
 
The house is empty,
and it is not the only one—
 
the grass is long. There are
cracks in the sidewalk.
 
Junk mail overflows
the mailbox.
 
There are no curtains
on any window. It’s quiet;
 
there is no laughter.
There is no streetlight
 
on the far-right corner,
where the neighbors sleep.
 
The news stacks up daily
on the curb in the suburbs. 

-

    Cats and Dogs

It's pouring outside,

so my muscle memory

vacuums the living room floor

instead of mowing the lawn.

I don't have gills, so

instead of walking on water,

I moonwalk to “Billie Jean”

on my iPod.

 

All of a sudden,

I am Robin Williams

dressed as Mrs. Doubtfire. I am

letting the vacuum lead.

 

It's raining cats and canines,

so my muscle memory

sweeps the kitchen

instead of raking the yard.

-

    Dissolutions

There is nothing left

after a day of SAPCR petitions

and discovery. The divorce

he filed today was not his own,
and it was paid for in multiple ways;
money is always a figure.
 
Day after day,
he aids client after client
dissolve
 
that which once made them whole,
divide community assets, fault.
Or no fault.
 
            If love was ever a factor,
a numerically critical part
of the equation,
 
it is now known as x—
the one variable neither party can
solve for. Primary
 
possession is nine-tenths,
and the final tenth is unspent anger
and negative regret.

Sometimes, they add
subtraction of family names

out of spite.

-

    Ice Packs

I thought I was dead,
because the sidewalk under the overpass
is ice cold
 
and I huddle there alone
for warmth,
 
while the rain falls frozen
around me
 
and the frostbite on my fingers
packs the throbbing pain
in numbness.
 
Street dogs cozy up
around my cocooned body,
 
which I have tucked
against a concrete wall
 
to evade the wind.
 
If we wake in the morning,
I will share scraps

of gratitude.

-

Mostly Swamp

I am watching the trees sway

as the warm wind whips. It is

not yet hurricane season, 

but along the Gulf Coast,
where the terrain is mostly swamp
and delta,
                        storms swallow trees.
 
The soft terra firma gives way
when roots push to the surface
and trees lie down.
 
For a moment, perhaps,
its lumber becomes a dam,
rerouting city planning
 
                        and the water rises.
 
Boats launch from driveways
and tow trucks get to work
towing flooded cars.
 
This bayou city is mostly swamp,
and its civil engineers

are swamped with calls.

-

    Oh, My Stars

            —Dear Urania
 
Give me the blue moon
to hang outside my window,
buxom and bright. Let it
linger until fingernail slight.
 
Consider. Yes, reconsider
the arbitrary eight orbs
of my youth.
Give me back my Pluto!
 
To hell with Haumea and Makemake.
Give no weight to Eris.
Don’t recognize Ceres.
 
Affirm the time-worn truths
of childhood dioramas. Styrofoam
spheroids never decay.
 
Let Orion and the two bears
battle for another millennia. Who cares?
Give me back my memories.
 
I ask this with all humility.
            And, please,
do not send a giant asteroid

to smite me.

 

-

   Second Chances 

The field glows emerald  
at dusk,
            and the sky is cool blue.
It is cloudless.
 
Yesterday was so warm.
 
We have been given a second chance
at springtime, and there is
a gentle breeze
 
            blowing
from the west.
Crickets chirp
 
in the distance,

and the scent is jasmine.

-

    That je ne sais quoi 

I could tell that he was kin
before I saw him.
 
His blood rang clear in his voice,
as Cajun as it comes—
 
not broken English
or even patois français.
 
            Perhaps,
it was the washboard rhythm,
 
the jug beat,
or the way he said “sister”
 
and “Baton Rouge”—
mais, c’est le je ne sais quoi.
 
He looks like one of our cousins
from Shreveport
 
or one of the Abbeville twins,
            the angry son.
 
He did not order the mud bugs,
like his buddies did,
 
because this is H-Town,
and he knows better.

-

These nine (yes, 9) poems are published together in the 2021 issue of The Acorn Review, a publication of Grossmont College.

Eric

Grapes of Wrath

I am wine as it comes 

from a bottle or a box. I am nectar

of the gods, 

stomped under men’s feet, 

placed in a cask or casket,

in damp cellars. I am

sweet and slightly toxic.

I have legs. I will give you 

my warm body, my delicate, 

almost acrid nose. I will

knock you on your sweet ass.

I am fine wine. I am

the grapes God—

the one true god’s wrath.

As the day breaks, I am

another pressurized cranium,

a numb reminder of excess,

a subtle sense of regret,

stomped under men’s feet.

 

-
  
"Grapes of Wrath" received a 3rd-place award in Ohio Poetry Day 2022 poetry contest #12, Non-traditional Narrator. It is published in the contest's compilation book, Ohio Poetry Day: Best of 2022.

Eric

 

Texas Trio

    Banging Cabinets

I had almost forgotten 

how quickly change can happen. 

The day may appear almost

calm in the morning. But then, 

without warning,

a cabinet door in the kitchen

bangs shut,

just one, at first . . . just one.

Fight, flight, freeze.

Wait for the inevitable echo

to reach the den. 

Another door bangs shut. Then, 

in rapid succession,

three or four more

pop like popcorn,

a burst of gunfire.

Maybe, one last bang for luck. 

Morning songbirds 

turn to a murder of crows, 

an unkindness of raven, in a flip 

of a switch, without warning.

It might be too late.

-

    Naming My Friends 

when I die,

you will recognize me by my tattoo.

—Zeina Hashem Beck

I am listening to Pentatonix

and Walk Off the Earth on YouTube 

when a video of your

recitation of “Naming Things”

queues up next. And that poem

carries me like a refugee on its back, 

packed in a duffel bag, rucksack, kit bag

with all its worldly belongings.

We are on the lam,

running from our past.

I carry my home with me,

or it might be carelessly dragged

in the dirt behind me.

I have been naming my friends—

loneliness, darkness, regret.

And I fear I will never return 

to the city where I was born. The walls

have crumbled like Jenga,

and we are suddenly nomads again.

I have named myself “goodbye.”

And the bombs have fallen,

strafing our memories, our recollections,

our nostalgia. I survive because 

I carry my whole life with me

in this rucksack on my back. 

-

    Dear Poet

I want to ask you about technique

and your reasons for doing one thing one way

as opposed to some other. Should I 

do it that way too? Is there a method?

Could I borrow your mindset

or, maybe, some madness?

Where should one line break?

Should I combine multiple lines to make one very long line? Should I

chop them

into tiny phrases

or drop them 

one

word

for

each

line

on the page?

It is important to know these things:

technique and reason. 

But which 

is more important?

When should I indent?

Or should I?

Or should I

repeat the last line?

-

"Banging Cabinets," "Naming My Friends," and "Dear Poet" each won 1st place in their respective contest categories in the Poetry Society of Texas's 2021 Contests and are published in the Society's 2022 A Book of the Year.

Eric

Two More from 3rd Wednesday

     Dances with Dogs

It is barely six a.m.,
and he dons his coat and boots
in silence. He tries, but
the dogs are not having
            the silence.

He’s a sidewalk rhythmic gymnast,
wielding leashes wildly.
Like computer-cable spaghetti,
they intertwine
            and twist and tango.

There is no open field,
where a pack can run free.
The lots are edged with curbs.
There are doggy-bag dispensers
            in the park.

He dances with dogs,

come rainy day or shine. 

Neighbors cross the street, 

but smile when they see him,
            hands indisposed.
 
They give hesitant waves

and, sometimes, a sympathetic 

greeting, knowing that 

he has himself a handful

            or two.

-

 
    Missing the Last Train
           
The last train came and went,
and I waited for you. I must have
missed your phone call
last night. I waited,
            and the human shadows
dispersed. I was sleeping
on the subway bench all night.
The morning air turned cool,
and the damp was like a kiss
            to wake me.
The first train came and went,
and your smile is like the sun.
 

-

"Dances with Dogs" and "Missing the Last Train" are published on at 3rd Wednesday online  and will be included in the Spring 2022 print issue of 3^rd Wednesday. Thanks for reading!

Eric