Best Zinfandel Poems
You didn’t notice my tears.
As you both kissed each other
like two lonely plungers
who just escaped from plumber’s solitary confinement,
your eyes open and wander up.
You didn’t look across that banquet hall
with my feet planted against wood polished tendencies.
Its creaks motioning time towards yellow-signal identity.
As my breath declares sudden death
against lake’s dripping reflections…
…you didn’t think to set your photo album on private.
Advertising lust
wrapped in pretentious cloak
sewed in recycled fibers of “love”.
With ignorant enablers speaking chic-flick tongue,
“Oh My Gawd! I’m so happy for you! I wanna ovulate!”
As I, put my head down
returning to this moment in time,
I had to let my song…cry.
Lenny Williams begins to exude “cause I love you” chorus,
as I walk towards bar
sensing your seductive retinas
stroking against my Latin swagger.
Your ring finger
chained by 3 carat, naïve cut, diamond
motions an intense, streaking caress
against wine glass filled with Zinfandel sin.
Because you know I am your addiction.
Your diabetic lips never forgot
that taste
of my
brown
sugar.
But, you didn’t notice my tears.
I wish you had.
For all this time, these tears
were of joyful splendor.
Because solace holds my hand
with candlelight warmth.
Slow dancing with my soul
in mystery Salsa sway.
While you stand on home plate,
holding your 2nd place trophy,
with 3 strikes against you.
A reminder that my heart,
was flexible enough
to dodge
a bullet.
© Drake J. Eszes
Mid-April evening, overlooking Clear Lake
at Chelsea’s Wine Bar, a party of one:
Sipping white zinfandel, I feel the chill
of my half-empty glass while fancy-free
flatware clatters impassive pageantry.
A moment. An hour. Another, until,
on the wooden veranda, I see you take
a familiar draw from your lipstick stained
cigarette. I thought you had quit awhile back.
I couldn’t - and step outside where the
unchanged breeze holds a subtle hint
of perfume. That hasn’t changed. I hesitate,
but then say “hello”. Turning away, you say
“it’s late”. I nod. Unnoticed by agreement.
5/1/2017
For Fancy Free Poetry Contest
I can think of no better contentment that can be had,
Lounging in my robe and slippers comfortably clad,
Than relaxing by the hearth in my favorite chair,
Gazing at the dancing flames, ah, nothing can compare!
A winter storm rages outside piling up drifts of crystal snow.
I checked the thermometer and it read twenty degrees below!
But what care I as we settle in for an evening of respite,
Sipping Berringers White Zinfandel on this Holy winter's night!
We reminisce about the past and things for which we aspire,
Dreamily watching the glowing embers of the dying fire.
With music softly playing and the lights turned down low,
I light my pipe, savoring the aroma and its mellow glow!
I make room for dear old Simba as he curls up on my lap,
Purring contentedly and taking his usual evening nap.
My spouse prepares a bowl of piping hot popcorn for a treat.
I couldn't ask for anything more to make the evening complete!
In the autumn of my life, such simple times I truly treasure.
With my love by my side, I'm satisfied beyond all measure!
The grandfather clock measures time in its inexorable way.
Oh, that time would stand still that I could forever relish this day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Linda-Marie's "Holiday Hearth" Contest - November 2011
Zzzzz
Zzzzz
-Zzzzz
Zzzzz
Zz...
(???)
Zoe?
-Zzzzz
Zzzzz
Zoe??
-Zzzzz
Zzzzz
ZOE!!!
-Zz...!
Zane?
'Za,
Zucchini,
Zinfandel?
-Zzzzz
Zoe!
-Zz...
Zane?!
'Za,
Zucchini,
Zinfandel?
-Zaxby's
Zalad
Zaxby's
Zalad?
-Zzzzz
Zzzzz
ZOE!
-Zz...!
Zane?!
Zaxby's
Zalad???
(???)
Zoe,
Zaxby's
Zalad?
-'Za,
Zucchini,
Zinfandel
Zzzzz
Zzzzz
-Zane?
we dine on memories
chocolate caked cherries
glass of White Zinfandel
moment blowing a kiss
I s-i-e-g-e
brief moments he is mine
nights and days together
have always intertwined
a gift of love divine
never letting it fade
6/8/2019
Poetry Contest: A contest on aging'
Sponsored By: Emile Pinet
My stained glass image
was a ripe peach
with spilt Zinfandel
like electric rubies
pooling around a gentle ray.
It was a colour hungering
to weave spirit out of light,
so that all my prism
touched felt nothing
but the energy of day.
Then there was Love,
A star brighter than the sun,
halting Sol Invictus
and his fiery chariot
before Aphrodite’s temerity.
But Love’s luminosity burned
a fearful depth of heat
until all my eyes witnessed
was overexposed film
begging for clarity.
My stained glass design
mixed metallic salts
fortified at melting point,
colour forever permanent
to mark my very being.
You dipped your brush
on a pallet of your vision
and Trust let you paint over
my very soul,
creamy light forever fleeing.
Your paint, by the very nature
of it belonging to you,
curator of my love,
fused to my glass
as if cooked in a kiln of fire.
Never could I have believed
you to devise a colour
so terrible and diseased
that sickness would filter
where light used to transpire.
Stained glass window,
more true the words appear,
But where others fear
I can shatter my own
glass or heart or soul
and clean the tarnish
by leaving out every piece
you painted with twisted stroke
and amass myself together
until the colour of my light is whole.
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
They say Cabernet Sauvignon pairs nicely with steak
Pinotage, they reckon, for cheese
Tempranillo is the choice for Mexican grub
But, I'm somewhat easier to please
I've tried a fair few "Reds", on a weekend night
While chilling to some melodic jazz
I've had the brave, the bold and the border-line nasty
But I've never had a "Shy Shiraz"
I once had a good round Pinot Noir
And I've tried a spicy Grenache
I've felt the cranberry burst through a daring Gamay
Which cost me lots of cash
I've had a Beaujolais, which wasn't too pretty
Bought from a dodgy guy named "Baz"
Found a corked Chianti - rather a pity
But I've never had a "Shy Shiraz"
I've had a monster of a Monastrell
And a beautiful Petit Ver
A Mataro, which did nothing for me
A Malbec, which made my mind whirr
Yes, I like a glass, on a weekend night
You may prefer beer, whereas
I must keep looking, 'cos it's quite off-putting
That I've never found a "Shy Shiraz"
A Zinfandel gave me heartburn hell
And a Claret once cleared my head
A Merlot can make me beg for more
Rioja sends me merrily to bed
Yes, I like a bottle, on a weekend night
It gives my mind pizzazz
Then sends me mellow, like a good old fellow
Who's searching for a "Shy Shiraz"
This earth is fine, for those who love wine
I've had the old world, and the new
But until I find a "Shy Shiraz"
I'll just keep trying - as you do.
For a bottle of red, on a weekend night
Is a blend of razzmatazz
You can find me drinking, while secretly thinking
"I hope I never find a Shy Shiraz"
We dine on a bowl of berries
a heart of Almond Roca
and chocolate covered cherries
a glass of White Zinfandel wine
scent of white carnations
Holding his soft warm hand with ease
I s-i-e-g-e he is mine
Will you be my Valentine?
A moment with blowing kisses to each other
Temporary tingling feeling going up my spine
Reminiscing of the pass and how much our grandchildren mean to us
Our nights and days together have always intertwined and still remains
A gift from heaven with a pinch of love divine
Being with you has changed my life with so much love
I am never letting go
3/12/2016
Of the many things that I like I could go on ad infinitum,
But it would take reams of paper should I list every item!
So I'll confine myself to ten or so things that I like best,
And at some other time I'll bore you with the rest!
I like inscrutable cats and crispy onion rings,
And light classical music featuring melodic strings.
Although some persnickety folks may have their doubts,
Fiddle faddle! I happen to like Brussels sprouts!
I like folks who practice The Golden Rule.
I just happen to like my spouse - she's a real jewel!
I like juicy beefsteak termaters fresh from the vine.
I savor Beringer's White Zinfandel for my taste in wine!
I like concocting poetry though a Shakespeare I'll never be.
I like autumn when crimson and gold cloak every tree!
I could write of pickles and Snickers Bars but I'm limited to ten,
So I must meticulously edit this "masterpiece" and set aside my pen!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 5 in Joe Flach's "Top Ten" Contest - July 2010
Drinking
Remember the evening before the open mic
When we went to that pizza place in the Village
And bought two beers
Wrapped in brown paper bags?
We guzzled as we
Walked city streets
Carrying our precious guitars,
Giggling like misbehaving schoolgirls
And how about that Passover
When I came to visit
And all you had in the house was Manishewitz wine?
The sweetest, most vile concoction!
Still, we drank and laughed
As though it were the finest Bordeaux
You were a Merlot Ho
I was a White Zinfandel aficionado
We enjoyed our bottles
While eating the birthday dinner
You'd made in my honor
Complete with chocolate cake
You read to me from your journal
About your trip to Nepal
Later, we watched Absolutely Fabulous
And I loved hearing you laugh
Whenever drunken Patsy keeled over
Now that you live in Atlanta
I have no more than a couple of beers a year
And a glass of wine is reserved
For special occasions
But whenever you were near
I would drink you in
And you always made me giddy
dark
red wine
zinfandel
or cabernet
by a warm fire place
in tall stemmed glass
sipped slowly
in the
dark
hawks circle high
over ripening vineyards...
rabbits with red tongues
hawks circle high
over ripening vineyards...
bees sip zinfandel
hawks circle high
over ripening vineyards...
dusk brings wine splashed skies
___________________
i have been reading the contents
via, printed correspondence
for some time now
and so it was only natural
there’d be a moment
i’d pour, to
sip the promise
when switching from merlot to zinfandel
a tipped glass need not be
shattered into shards
time only knows if; when
the chance will come to
escape to your serenity
and charming ways
visit for an eternity; or
just a few days
so until then;
let us drink a toast
to a marrying of such
savory flavors
Subconscious thought periodically drops you into my cotton candy dream world.
The FM dial drizzles my mind with syrupy sweet remnants of the past.
I bite through the chewy nougat of what-could-have-been.
Zinfandel-laced thought processes amplify the rich, chocolatey memories, and morph them into an overindulgence that make my teeth ache.
A need, a craving.
Forgotten are the bitter lies, the lies beneath the lies.
The shattered promises.
The salty tears.
The not-so-decadent degrading words that whisper up my spine.
The surreptitious, wicked little black book with names and numbers written in code.
The rancid smell of your latest addiction on your breath.
Your vitriolic tongue, continuously degrading and reminding me of my faults.
Forgotten... until they are remembered in a moment of natural, unadulterated clarity.