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 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