"tannin" poems
I became Holmes, past knowing true:
In every sense, I'd seek for you.
Now, taking the cobbles consciously,
Sick, mad, of the essence of this construct,
Dismantling the ancien régime to see
That I am all your stains in concert -
I am made up of every last touch -
Originality's a lie, save in
The combination that you see - as such
It is unique, but I still cave in
At the dawn that nothing is my own,
And much like as if you were a coffee
I'd downed: I could not, for my life, disown
The five million senses cutting me
For the time, for every conscious cup
I'd take and take again: Why should I dull
And cut myself this way, a life made-up
Of such a tannin-full ideal?
My way as a writer is to fall
In love, in my eyes, in yours, in raptures,
In despair, in tough crowds, on God, to call
On my muse and survive the ruptures
Of worlds and heavens, both real and made,
And feel the rain upon my face, but Lord,
How often do I feel, and feel the raid,
Engaged by scent, blush, needle, salt, word?
All too much makes nothing, and I can't flee
To seek another cup: I must seek me.
Mar 28, 2023
Mar 28, 2023 at 12:58 PM UTC
It was a glass of liquid sunshine
If I were to believe the waiter
My senses would be flooded
With essence of vanilla and
Glimpses of the land.
There would notes of citrus,
Faint odor of old leather
And deep berries would overwhelm.
If I shut my eyes
I could relish the peppery finish
And the buttery after taste.
I would be a fool to overlook
The healthy dose of tannin
Balancing the sweet cherry, plum and cassis.
The wine swirled in my glass
The fragrant bouquet filled my nose
I’d be lying if I said
The anticipation didn’t create
A certain aura of arousal.
Not just the sunshine in this glass
But all four seasons inhabited
My crystal goblet,
And the sheltering moonlight
Was in there too.
This wine surely has character
Like Gandhi or Churchill perhaps.
And legs. What legs.
Slender and vibrating
Long and glistening
I could stare at those legs
Until dessert.
Having passed the cork test,
All eyes were upon me
Lifting the bowl of undulating liquid
To my lips.
I sipped.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Hello sawdust.
I’m back.
Scent of sap,
taste of tannin,
tickle of fine grit,
after rehab pain,
through every portal
you awaken my brain.
Powder of sun ray,
powder of fog’s drip,
powder of soil ******
through roots to the sky,
hot breath of the forest
you complete my healing.
Such a feeling!
Sing to me the rhythm of craft.
Guide my fingers, the work will flow.
Sing, sawdust.
Hello!
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
A seed
as trim
when frills
are mine
in Roanoke
shall shine
Blue Ridge
Mountain Skies
again with
appellation contrôlée
in my
appetite and
a year
away in
Virginia and
tannin taste
sure today.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:08 AM UTC
Light slowly rises,
Milky sun, soft, tannin mist—
Coffee in morning.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Light slowly rises,
Milky sun, soft, tannin mist—
Coffee in morning.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
the amber liquid
pours into the fine
porcelain bowl
swirls and settles
a few leaves dark
and sombre settle
at the bottom
and remain
unfathomable
i drink of it's heady
fragrance
the steam a line of
smoky memory
again i inhale
and again the years
fall away
the first sip
is bitter
tasting of tannin
and loss
the fine china
sings at the touch
of my tongue
and my memory
hums with words
of wisdom and friendship
i drink down to the
recumbant leaves
and the swirl the fortune
twist and tip the cup...
and read the leaves
with the same wonder
as i read the clouds...
unsuprisingly,
the leaves
speak to me of you....
as the scent of smoke and
camelia lingers on the evening breeze
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
If I had an addiction it would be to chocolate dark,
What a laugh, what a lark.
I cannot be out of my mind, in any state!
If I had an addiction it would be to wine red,
What a joy, tannin's tasted, straight to my head,
I cannot say my life like a bottle emptied, was a waste!
If I had an addiction it would be to the written word,
Not what I have inked, typed, read or heard,
I cannot put on paper, with what the Bible fills me, till I am sate!
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
Light slowly rises,
Milky sun, soft, tannin mist—
Coffee in morning.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
My Tea ain't sweet no mo,
Did I leave it out too long ?
The sugar left and the caffeine is way too strong.
My Tea ain't sweet no mo,
I can smell the tannin double ,
Then my Tea cried "you nothin but trouble, ain't no more sugar in this couple."
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
The soft breeze shifts bringing the scent of brackish water to quavering nostrils.
Salt, oyster shells, and the wonderful smells where three waters of disparity come together. Inlet, bay, and waterway push and pull like struggling personas.
Strong fragrances of salt, fish, black sandy mud with tiny bits of shells, burnt diesel, and syrupy brown tannin from the trees. Large patches of reeds built up on mounds of mud and oyster shells, held in place by marsh grass and sea oats.
The oysters in their beds spit little streams as you pass by, beckoning, come closer. The little bearded bivalve’s mouths gaping to say we will shred your flesh if you give us a chance, wooing…step closer in the slippery slimy mud.
Small ***** sit by their holes in the black goo. The fiddlers march as though carrying a violin, their songs are clicking all the same pitch with no discernible harmony. They roll out tiny ***** as expert excavators leaving hole for escape from man and fowl.
The little birds, sandpipers scurry around- their skinny twig like legs moving faster than the eye can follow, putting one in front of the other, always moving forward never backing up making quick tight turns running from the water then chasing the bits of food as the foamy crooked line of surf pulls away.
Pausing to pick up a tiny speck of food too small to notice, her bony toes mark the mud writing in a cuneiform like language, probably a dead tongue not spoken for millennia. Beautiful shapes pointing, spelling out instruction and direction.
Lasting only seconds until the wind and water wipe the earthen canvas clean. A new page is opened tempting and luring the small writer with tidbits of food, enticing her to write line after line of an ongoing novel that will never be finished.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
Give me
the darkened doorway
the cause behind
the bricked up window.
Indigo shipwrecks
of tatty saloons
on ill lit streets of moody repute,
where the glorious truth of
of all imperfection
is welcomed,
accepted,
made beautiful.
Here I am among my people.
Give me the handshake
of needle on vinyl,
the tannin stained chapters
of Gideon bibles to burn
in the grate of
a derelict crib.
There is nothing as wry
as the smile
of children, in thrall
to the cancerous faiths
they were given
who grieve for the loss
of a parent still living
in legends.
Those
hereditary tenants of sediment means
examining tea- leaves in tardy
canteens off a tenement floor, while
studying fates in a library of faces,
one eye to the weather.
So waltz with the dealing
Phoenician itinerants, clevered
in scandal of travellers tattle,
to bring out
the stories of war.
I embrace Undesire
Come
tambourine laughter
of river Bohemia redeemed
with the nurturing sapphire of gin,
that I take as a galloping flame
to a dry August heath.
We are
all of us ever
but one step from ******
All of us ever
one breath from release.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
Light slowly rises,
Milky sun, soft, tannin mist—
Coffee in morning.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
Dusk is brief in valleys.
but daytime slowly washed, skin, scraped carefully
to eat, covered in
scents delivered by transparent bag
mingling with garden trees and the cattle flies from fields nearby.
Rare, imported light-bulb light
passes through hair,
hands sit dwarfed
and distort in wine glasses,
the split *** mumbles rises on the hob
for Callisto outside, dancing prosaically about a very thin pole.
Conversations become excuses to stare at lips,
and songs suggested without conviction
play unfinished.
The music is softer now, the group diminished.
Getting heavier things.
Extremities in particular, and a few more sophisticated objects.
Corkscrews like ingots and eyelashes masscarad in lead.
There are the last lights and the thin summer sheets
that get in the way; stuck to sweaty –‘tertwined and clumsy--
Ash and tannin obscure the smell of gums
(and sometimes even the folded sent of neck and jaw).
More sweat is generated
Sleep does not come
or so it feels
when
morning is slightly too soon
bright and curtainless
and the beauty is sifted fruity and fuckless soft but moaning.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
Loneliness-seeking shock flares up daily in the trenches of my deserving face! In my brain, harsh thoughts strike a pinch: what a horrible joke every single charm-smile, art-liver-like mimicry stray look! When the immortal Universe sins with glittering stars - the happy destruction of fearful momentary moments may be the most important thing! Your budding vortex, my pathetic attachment to Being turns you into another world and your watchful gaze is crushed into millions of shards by the bitter loneliness of uniqueness!
The unconditional, gloomy nightmare of the Night is ingrained among my sighing bones; tearful and weary tears of my eyes are embodied in unshakable figures! "You wake up so many blind dark, many sparkling pills, in the shadow of a wounded Spirit, because there can be little vi kiss medicine for my wounds!" Between the flames of my hidden demons and my digestive Hyena hells, I still live persistently! I am a punching, drooping wanderer, I can hardly want to find my place many times, and my mood - which will one day click out - started to suddenly turn rancid!
I would call on my immortal Beloved, only to be able to listen forever to the courage-pouring, lily-loving voice of the south company, the chirping of his silky ***** as a tannin — and I still couldn't solve the big riddle: Who is the goddess on earth?! Until the bleeding twilight bleeds on the web of embezzled minutes: What else can I have to do with the Savior Light at all?
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 12:01 AM UTC
Love waits around the corners of the house-
playing hide and seek-
ready to jump out and into my mouth.
- a cup of tea, and cigarette betwixt lips
the fresh air newly delivered into my mind
pouring through the open window invisible-
with all the tannin and nicotine on my tongue
-you can see it moving through the trees
-the oxygen of love found out, watching
while changed into the words of a poem
the little I need to keep on going, sighs deep.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Night is black card
with chicken moon
pecking holes for stars
day is broken egg
with tannin yoke for sun
and insects let from jars
afternoon is worn
slow weather in vain
like leaves falling or
the smell of rain.
twilight is hidden
a mere surprise
feeling shapes through wrapping
watching the chicken rise.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC