"tannins" poems
buckeye flour,
almonds,
acorns,
tree-bark,
cacao,
wine
your only criticism is that i split infinitives and spit bitters.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.
I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.
After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."
Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.
After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.
The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
tea leaves sit soggy, sad
forgotten at the bottom
of the cup
leaching, bitter tannins
now, forgetting the life they led
no one willing to read their fortune
no spilling of the secrets
they never truly had
just detrius now
from dust to dustbin
the cycle of a tea leaf
long or brief,
happy or sad
a parable, in hot water
once green and lush in colour
in essence, verdent's liquid fame
once used and now just *******
every life has limit, every limit claimed
as we sup, we suffer the race of time
running through our fingers
clamouring at our mind
one day we too,
will be *******
waiting for the dust,
one day we too
shall leach our liquids
in the unforgiving dust
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
It's Christmas Eve
and here I sit
drinking a drink
and giving a ****
The mistletoe's hung
way up in the air
on the semi off-chance
that you'll give a care.
With stockings and trimmings
and ho-hoes and tree
and candies and dandies
and gifts not for me.
So welcome to Christmas
a wonderful time
with tannins and balms
and lonely red wine.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 7:14 PM UTC
She told me over dinner one evening
that I should switch to white wine—
less tannins and calories, she claimed.
I smiled and shook my head,
a vintage cabernet stubbornly clinging
to my bleached white teeth.
The next day I found a couple bottles
of chardonnay chilled in the fridge,
a note tethered to one’s neck:
Drink Me!
I did not.
Four months later,
we signed divorce papers;
she packed her things and left.
I drank the chardonnay that last night,
dizzied by the herringbone pattern
of the old parquet floor, and wondered
what would happen if I ate our frozen cake top.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:13 PM UTC
Leatherbound
Tannins have branded
My fingertips
But the steel still feels and heals
right
I'm at home with this
This wooden body
And slender neck of burnt mahogany
Each string a page in the next great novel
It just hasn't been written yet
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
I burnt my hand on the laminator.
You laughed, and continued to talk about tannins,
Drinkable leather,
Even though I couldn't smell them
Over the tobacco from your clothes
That slowly seeps into mine.
I'd come outside with you for a cigarette
A compliment, maybe not to my lungs,
But I don't mind letting my battered bronchus
Take one more hit so I can laugh with you
About the sommelier placing the wrong cutlery on the table.
I have to keep up
Sharpen my tongue, mind, wit.
More so than those blunt scissors
Which crawled through parchment and maroon ink,
Mimiking the nice red from Chile it described,
Goes well with fish.
I can't imagine you crying,
Though I'm sure you did.
Turning away the sellotape-scarred wooden desk,
Blistered from years of frantic Christmas present wrapping.
Your walk, a sound only comparable to
A bold child clambering up the stairs to bed,
A heavy, determined, "I'm fine" step,
All femur.
Out to the tiny garden, more butts form compost for your vintry.
Only there would you let yourself search,
Rustling through your handbag, past papers and lighters,
For a scrunched up tissue.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
We grew in this yard
in between the broken glass and dog ****
vine inches
minutes by hours by days
roots crept in an inconsistent soil
and growing despite
To arrive now with weekend garden centre eyes
you may see weakness in some leaves
that belies the truth of a fragile fruit
long nurtured from blood
and uncompromising viticulture
And if you try to claim the bouquet
or the legs on that glass
or the complexity of hard fought tannins
and subtle warmth
and lasting aftertaste
Then you will see us spit
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 2:02 PM UTC
Captain's Log,
rough seas this morning
as we sailed into
Port Hangover
first mate Asprin taking double shift
as is galleymate Coffee. Unable to make headway against megrim winds.
Also having difficulty navigating nausea reef,
may need to run aground
on Throwasickie island
as vision is becoming blurred.
Put present difficulties
down to attack of tannins, whilst sailing
wide red wine sea,
last watch.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Dean's fists on dashboard
Billie's voice over airwaves
Tannins on our tongues
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 1:14 PM UTC
Love has gone mad, like you my dear
and keeps night in a wine press like a caged bird.
I will save it, says Love, turning the handle
to birth a morning with broken wings of red curd.
Everyone here keeps their mouths in jars
to prevent you influencing their palates, dear.
Anyone with any sense has placed locks on every vine--
all that grows down the rows is the silent brooding volunteer.
Morning whispers madness through your skin,
and wears a crimson cloak made of feathers and strange paste.
I will marry it, says Love, hand in hand with Oblivion
serving wine heavy with grape skins and an odd metallic taste.
I cannot love you anymore.
I cannot argue, not another word.
Love has gone mad, like you my dear--
enjoy together your strange vintage
of dark mornings,
heavy tannins
and Love's dead, wide-eyed bird.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 4:17 PM UTC
We walked to Sealers Bay, four of us, all women
Bleeding Madonnas on a pilgrimage in the rain, together yet alone
each to her own journey
Moving like the floods of 2011, ready to take out any obstruction
Mud ******* at our feet, rainforest leeches suckling our blood like desperate children
The rhythm of my feet set off a reverie of how I lost my mind just a moment ago.
I found it again, blood pumping in my ears, heart pounding like thunder
The sweat running down my neck made me think of you…wondering where, how, who?
A futile fancy
Still the rainforest clings to me, my feet echoing on the boardwalk,
the sound of running water filled with tannins
emotions of the forest flowing beneath my feet to Sealers Bay
A beach once stained with the blood of whales lies calm and blue, deceptive
A moment of sunshine found me sprawled on the sand, waves of exertion washed over me
The repose was fleeting.
Nature interrupted sending a shower, and a chill up my spine
A journey is rarely one way and retracing my steps is like retracing a lifetime
…would it have been better if?..
Eventually I turn my mind skyward to a flock of black cockatoos screeching like banshees at the women trudging one foot in front of the other in a winter forest
Nineteen kilometres of contemplation can quieten a busy mind, it is the number of surrender and endurance
The feeling of my toenail lifting in my boot is strangely cathartic
like a mistress, how pain focuses thoughts on the detail
I see tiny red Correas, the *** organs of plants, there for the pleasure of others
My buttocks and calves scream as the incline of the hill steepens, spurring me on
pleasure in pain makes you forget yourself, and the forest
there's just breathe and movement and rhythm
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 6:39 PM UTC
An ever-flowing chalice
of thick red wine
You could choke before you drown
Damnation in excess
Devilry in revelry
Plenty; a curse
Revenge is in the tannins
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 2:57 AM UTC
Boil, boil, toil and trouble
Yeast ferment, airlock bubble
Honey sugars turn to wine
A bouquet of flavors that taste divine
The raisins help give the yeast it’s power
While we wait hour by hour
The oldest alcohol known to man
So we drink it while we can
We brew the honey we brew the yeast
The concoction becomes a mighty beast
We brew it slow to make it strong
The process goes on for very long
You can add some fruit to give it flavor
Or some herbs given by the neighbor
Caramelize the honey to make a brochette
That will surely brighten your day
Add more honey to make it more sweet
Or add some tannins and serve with meat
Weather you have it outside or you decide to stay in
Make sure to take your metheglin
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 11:00 AM UTC
"I'm building a cult around Your Figure" -Charles Michael Parks, jr.
Go ahead
You are perfect.
For I am edible enough
to break you with
my tongue.
I will
stain you with
tannins
to color your face
with my stink.
For I am as wanton
as an open sky.
Bring me
your sun-lit kisses
between this
black berry bush
deliver me
and make me endless...
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 10:13 PM UTC