Two Poems By Eric Forsbergh

Damariscotta River Oysters   

From Damariscotta’s bridge to the sea
measures twelve miles, flickering in the sun.
A river’s feast is laid, so all can see
what walrus and carpenter had begun.
Deep-cupped, these oysters wear the Eastern crown.
Maine’s cold slows growth, yields rich and springy flesh.
A pearl-lined slipper sup, they slither down
with taste informed by briny versus fresh.
Though water folk sling terms we’ve never heard,
for their oyster beds, terroir is allowed.
Now, along the coves, neighbors spread the word
that charter boats pair tastings for the crowd.
Perhaps a red or white may suit the mood?
Champagne? And sake never fights with food.                    

My Beaded Words
 
My beaded words will scintillate in strings.
Loops of rubies reflect from onyx night.
The major, minor, phrases coil in rings.
 
Bazaars within the eye display their things:
gold, jewels, kohl, silk, or image sharp and bright.
My beaded words will scintillate in strings.
 
Unwrap this gift of words, lines, bare inklings.
Lockets open for meanings out of sight:
the major, minor, phrases coiled in rings.
 
My lover is my theme. What pulse she brings,
for whom, her skin and necklace sparking light,
my beaded words will scintillate in strings.
 
The poet picks a word that calms, or sings,
or loops back. My lover’s touch will invite
a major, minor, phrase to coil in rings.
 
I see, from e.e. back to Homer’s kings,
sharp insights last, like wasps in amber flight.
My beaded words will scintillate in strings.
The major, minor, phrases coil in rings.

Forsbergh”s poetry has appeared in JAMA, Artemis, Zeotrope. The Journal of Neurology, Streetlight, The Ponder Review, and other venues, including the Northern Virginia Review, which awarded him a Pushcart nomination in 2016. He is a Vietnam veteran. To allow safe voting, he is currently a medical volunteer in polling places to prevent the spread of COVID.