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Kelly Weaver Oct 2018
the feeling of unwanted fingertips tends to wash over my skin in the same manner that the cold washed over yours
but heat transfers, or lack-there-of.
it was in this way that i became sick,
or maybe the smoke i've filled my lungs with had finally done me in.
i drank cough syrup either way.
i guess i was unaware at the time, but the smell of cherries was what did me in.
cherries, and i felt your hands once again
cherries, and my breathing nearly stopped all at once
cherries, and my hands began to tremble so violently that i dropped the bottle.
cherries, as i leaned over the toilet throwing up sticky sweet memories
cherries, as i drew further and further into myself and, subsequently, closer into your arms
cherries, as my eyes dried from the excessive tears and i could no longer manage any noise.
cherries, as your cold transferred into me and your hands clenched around my wrists
cherries, as the entire weight of your body was laid on top of mine
cherries, and i couldn't move, i couldn't scream, i couldn't see
cherries, as your voice echoed in my mind, preventing me any relief from this nightmare,

no, not even the simplest of coughs could find relief under such strain.
because my cough syrup smelled like your red slushee vape juice,
i froze. and i couldn't pick myself up again
i couldn't front the storm, i couldn't slip you into my pocket
i couldn't put you on the back burner.
i couldn't erase you from my mind no matter how many times i tried i couldn't wipe you off of my skin no matter how hard i scrubbed
i couldn't close my eyes without hearing your voice telling me to stay still i cant stop smelling your ******* red slushee vape juice because the scent accompanies every panic attack and every breakdown.
and i sure as hell couldn't stop the blood from flowing once it had started.
the stress that made it hard to breathe had gotten to you, inside of me
and there was so much blood.
the doctor said it was normal for it to be about the same consistency as cherry cough syrup.

i can't drink it anymore.
you don't deserve to know what you did to me.
Poetic T Apr 2017
I live in the basement, never venturing
upon those stairs, I hear her voice...
"Come up and see me its been to long,
Holding my ears singing my favourite song
repetitively until she is drowned out of
my thoughts. rocks tied to her voice as it
sinks out of view.

I use the stairs that open to the outside,
Lingering looking at this place I called home.
Venturing in the old ford, she lets me drive
it when food is but breadcrumbs and eggs
old enough to birth the dead fetes of a partly
grown bird. I look out though a ***** window
screen, this trip takes two hours each way.

I always wonder if my bald tyres are ever
noticed, but I'm not hindered by the thoughts
of this. So much to see when driving in solitude.
I stop at the side of the road picking cherries,
I slump them in the boot. I may eat upon this
morsel or just hang them outside watching
them swaying in the gentle breeze.

My father just looks out the window.
Doesn't talk much these days his eyes are sunken
like the titanic splintered between two pools.
I move his chair and his arm falls at his side.
collecting it, I put him palms resting on a blanket
He's so gaunt now, he was a strong man now but a shadow.

I look at those cherries lingering above the ground,
shaded from just picked to becoming spoilt, but i
just leave them swaying the aroma fills lungs with
life's eroding perfume, I breath it deeply within.
This is my home, "she never calls me for dinner anymore,
I just make my own, the washing up is festering in
my ignorance, like a garden of petrification flowering.

Saying bye to my dad, I get in the old ford.
Its time to pick some fresh cherries, the tree
is looking unkempt. Its blossom is in honour
of a mother, I hang them all there. My
Mother hung there for a long time ,but she's
long gone. So I bring other cherries to the tree
to show that she'll never be forgotten....
Part of my serial killer series
nellie May 2019
have you ever tasted cherries on warm summer nights?
the cherries that sparkle when you bite,
that drip down your lips
melting with the slick of your tongue.
high up the trees, unattainable, beautiful.
that for a moment relieve you of your deityless existence.
I ,too , have met someone
unattainable, beautiful, high up in the trees
a dancer
with subtle glances at her own posture
as she pursues her lip
and tips her feet forward
as she moves to the beat
of life
her breath tucked in
making sure that every muscle is
her nerves singing and
her gaze
oh the gaze of someone of lustrous
held tightly to yours never letting go
oh those twisted violets
like the deepest of blue
unattainable far away
in a distant land the darks of
the rocks that perk up high mountains
that rise up to the skies and tell you
the stormy winter nights that hodl tightly on
and never let go and
her that sits barely glancing your way as you conjure up memories and
imaginations of her of stormy days
of the clouds that waver over your face
that do not let you go.
She is all that she is intense.
She is mystical
out of this world
not one to know not one to be whispered to, beauty she is.
aphrodites daughter.
Even if she is unknown to you
the world knows of her. For she screams
she screams and is grabbed the attention of
7 billion. she is
a haunting memory.
The touch of a spell that binds you into
horror filled
trenchuous nightmares.
And when He
holds her it crushes your very being
you cannot breathe cannot see cannot be
you are all hers
you are devoted
you have become the very essence of Her
You cannot seem to look away.
She exists ingrained into your eyes
as you close them
in your dreams enchanted
into your heart
she is the mystical of the world
the fairy tales told by generations
of generations,
my love.
whom i devote so strongly to
whos cherry picked stares
fumble up into a
I am a meer mortal in her presence
not one able to make her smile
trying to get an ounce of her attention
of her anything,
her everything
Please be mine
please be mine
please be mine
          you chant
But you know He is there.
The **** the wilderness wolf, cheating abyss. He has done her wrong but
she does not see her as she dances the gentle way she moves
black swan
blue dozens
the galaxies
containing the answers we have seeked
she does not look at you
you are invisible
He does not see Her for who she is
a painting
a beauty
out of this world
she is not mine.
not my best work . but very intense
After many lost and half-won battles,
I never thought it would come to this.
I know your bliss and know your burdens,
Do not put me on your list!

I'm not giving up, I'm rearranging.
Towards you, I'd never be remiss.
I love you so much, I let you go,
And off I will ride, blowing a kiss!

I've fought so hard to climb your rankings,
I've cried many tears and slammed my fists.
When you run away, I will be thanking
That you gathered enough sense to abandon ship!

I love people who've moved me down
Or even crossed me off completely.
If I don't provide you with any fulfillment,
Why on earth would you not delete me?

Where you're on my list is a secret,
Do not take that into account.
Consider only how you're treated
And let your list battle it out!

I never want to outrank you,
Your academics, or your friends.
And if you're lustful, as I imagine,
I could never quite outrank ***!

Sometimes for you, they come in twos,
A two for one deal, so to speak.
You identify a perfect specimen,
Disclaimer; it is not me.

Anyway, this beautiful human,
Might have some *** appeal and more!
I realize you'll see them as having everything,
And rework your list in an attempt to score

I've seen such changes, such drastic switches,
When physical connection's on the line!
You cling to dreams, you make many wishes,
But this? Oh, well, never mind.

Regardless, don't make your list shared,
Like a group project google doc.
Only you can make the edits!
And make edits, don't ever stop!

Follow your ambitions, do what you want,
Travel, love, sing, and dance!
Study hard, go to the gym,
And give your wildest dreams a chance!

I was once a list climber,
I'd walk right up and say add me!
I'd walk right up and say higher!
I'd walk right up, but now I'm free!

Your list is on you! Take responsibility!
Don't let any list climbers climb!
Move them around like little cherries,
But don't you think of touching mine!

Some list cherries will be quite ripe,
And some rare ones stay ripe forever,
Some are rotten through the spine,
But they might hide it to be clever!

The scariest of all the cherries
Are those who look good, but contain
Poinsonous juices and false fairies,
To choose to be one is insane!

But rotten cherries need not worry,
For these cherrries can learn self control.
Once they realize their toxic nature,
They can completely reverse their goal!

Move up a list? They instead attempt
To hide away and be avoided.
I, my friend, am one of those cherries!
Do not drink my poison!

It's said that there are some brave souls,
Who would sip poison every day
Just to get closer with these cherries
And immunize themselves day by day!

And then, once their immunity stabilizes,
They'd move these cherries up the list!
This challenge is not to be taken lightly,
And it goes awry whenever it is!
Trust me, for some have drank my poison,
And they never want to see me again!

Be patient Nick, my therapists say,
Brave souls will wow you off your feet,
They'll drink your poison easily
And ask you when you're free to eat!

It's not easy to let me fool you,
It's not easy to try to not hide,
But don't be worried! I won't trick you!
I'll just show you what's inside.

And add me to your list? You'll know,
This would clearly be a gainless act
I love to love you so much and want what's best,
Thank goodness for my caring tact!

I can't believe I was a climber!
I'm so sorry world, never again!
And this poem is just a reminder
About how your wishes to list me should end.

The pity add is quite common,
Let climbers climb, they'll never know
That their addition to the list is false!
You take these climbers and their hopes

And raise them up and slam them down
Once they get too close to you!
How do I know this viscious pattern?
I have been pity added too!

Desperate times, desperate measures,
You hope to placate a climber's drive,
You think your attention is their treasure,
And will them to plainly survive!

It's a long way up and a long way down
When you are upon someone's list.
When you think upon your items,
Think long and use a steady wrist!

After many lost and half-won battles,
I never thought it would come to this.
I know your bliss and know your burdens,
Do not put me on your list!
It's about priorities
Jacob Oct 2018
smelly cherries
taste quite subtle
Like stale dr. pepper
With no fizz

One Thursday
In a dream  
Stinky cherries spoke to me
Do not eat us!
Or we eat humans
Said they
But I like smelly cherries
And I continued to eat those
Until next Wednesday
They squeezed past my door
Walking foot by foot
With big mandibles
For chomping humans
And I scream
Don’t eat me!
But they speak
So i cry to myself
As the smelly cherries
Eat me alive
KM  Oct 2013
Cherries and Pears
KM Oct 2013
I don’t know when but one day past,
I preserved our love so it would last.
Jars of cherries and pears line the case
Our love hidden in its secret place.

Over time the room grew musty,
I used the pears and cherries thusly,
I left the room dim and quiet
Then soon forgot what I left inside it.

After weeks or months or years,
I find myself searching again in here.
I’ve forgotten what I lost,
But I will find it at any cost.

In a nook, I spot a single jar
Hidden in dust as thick as tar,
I approach it slowly without fear
Recalling now what I stored here.

I wiped the grunge and twisted the cap
Stopped a moment, taken aback.
Our love escaped and dissipated
I grab the air as if to save it.

I throw the grimy jar to the ground,
Burn it to guarantee it won’t be found.
I close the room and turn the lock,
My wooden heart begins to knock.

I light a match and don’t look back
Gasoline drowns the past.
The pears and cherries are now homeless
Thrown to the street without notice.
CJ M  May 2016
Winter Cherries
CJ M May 2016
Winter cherries
My heart is one of warmth and color, but a rarity in all aspects.
Like winter cherries
Sweetheart swarms in sudden bursts of imagination, stopping my heart and purifying the air with each breath she takes.
Never has the silence sounded so sweet as when it comes from her.
Never has invisibility been so noticeable as when she does it.
Never will I be able to share or distribute such a purity as she has.

Her chill is so obvious that there are no boundaries to the conversations we inaugurate. We ride the waves of giggles and chuckles that we form, playful arguments made and led into deeper conversations never finished.
I love the way we converse like buddies yet everything about us speaks of distant strangers. I wonder does she feel the same.
It’s something in the way her voice shakes or the way her eyes dart through mine when she looks at me. It’s something about the way she smiles in a way that shows she’s fighting it.
It’s her personality
It’s who she is.
And I’m shocked to say that I’m being struck down by her energetic placidity.
I wonder more about her than any other possible that I’ve ever known. I think of what she’s like and how she’d treat me if she knew me more. I wonder what I look like in her mind and what I look like out of her mind as well. I wonder how much she thinks about me, if at all. And the only answer I get is that of cherries in calmed snowstorm
Stems filled with white crystals as light as air itself when alone, yet at the collected fruit they weigh tons.
Falling in slow motion as the last crisp it could bare falls to a rest on its ruby red outer shell.
Frozen in air as I walk past and see it. Only wondering how long it should stay before it succumbs to the inevitability of gravity.
And her voice cracks my concentration.
It falls.
But no noise shall it make, it shall stay as quiet as the snow itself and remain a music in my mind.
The befalling of her voice
The falling of winter cherries.
Caroline Grace Jul 2014
As an offering of peace
she brought him cherries
to sweeten the tense air.

Plump black cherries
mouthwateringly ripe,
polished to perfection.

'Shall I come with my brimming bowl?'
she asked.
'Shall we selfishly gorge in secret before
they are over?'

Desiring her sweetness
he feathered her with kisses,
dropped the blind against
a flaming sun and callers-
yielded to sweetness.

Sweet her cherried fingers,
sweet her skin, her lips,
her tongue.

She plied him with cherries,
fed his desire stalk after stalk,
the whole room burnished
with passion.

When twilight seeped in,
they lay cherry - heavy,
clinging to sweetness.

'The secret is ours, he teased,
thoughts turned towards
a handful of dropped,
forgotten stones.
Amy Perry Aug 2013
Cherries are sweet
Yes, it's true
But damaged ones are
So sweet too
They may look unhappy
Or maybe scary
But tarnished cherries are
One I would marry.
Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck'd cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek'd peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;--
All ripe together
In summer weather,--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.-"

               Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow'd her head to hear,
Lizzie veil'd her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
"Lie close,-" Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
"We must not look at goblin men,
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?-"
"Come buy,-" call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.

"Oh,-" cried Lizzie, "Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.-"
Lizzie cover'd up her eyes,
Cover'd close lest they should look;
Laura rear'd her glossy head,
And whisper'd like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen ***** little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.-"
"No,-" said Lizzie, "No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.-"
She ****** a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One whisk'd a tail,
One *****'d at a rat's pace,
One crawl'd like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl'd obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

               Laura stretch'd her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
When its last restraint is gone.

               Backwards up the mossy glen
Turn'd and troop'd the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
"Come buy, come buy.-"
When they reach'd where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heav'd the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
"Come buy, come buy,-" was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Long'd but had no money:
The whisk-tail'd merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr'd,
The rat-faced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
Cried "Pretty Goblin-" still for "Pretty Polly;-"--
One whistled like a bird.

               But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.-"
"You have much gold upon your head,-"
They answer'd all together:
"Buy from us with a golden curl.-"
She clipp'd a precious golden lock,
She dropp'd a tear more rare than pearl,
Then ****'d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow'd that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She ****'d and ****'d and ****'d the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She ****'d until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather'd up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn'd home alone.

               Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
"Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Pluck'd from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.-"
"Nay, hush,-" said Laura:
"Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more;-" and kiss'd her:
"Have done with sorrow;
I'll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.-"

               Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down in their curtain'd bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipp'd with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gaz'd in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Not a bat flapp'd to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Lock'd together in one nest.

               Early in the morning
When the first **** crow'd his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetch'd in honey, milk'd the cows,
Air'd and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churn'd butter, whipp'd up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sew'd;
Talk'd as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
One longing for the night.

               At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie pluck'd purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.-"
But Laura loiter'd still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.

               And said the hour was early still
The dew not fall'n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
"Come buy, come buy,-"
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to ***** along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

               Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?-"

               Laura turn'd cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy.-"
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life droop'd from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache;
But peering thro' the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudg'd home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnash'd her teeth for baulk'd desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.

               Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
"Come buy, come buy;-"--
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon wax'd bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.

               One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dew'd it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watch'd for a waxing shoot,
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dream'd of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crown'd trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

               She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetch'd honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook

               Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy;-"--
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the ***** of goblin men,
The yoke and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Long'd to buy fruit to comfort her,
But fear'd to pay too dear.
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter time
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

               Till Laura dwindling
Seem'd knocking at Death's door:
Then Lizzie weigh'd no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kiss'd Laura, cross'd the heath with clumps of furze.
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.

               Laugh'd every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes,--
Hugg'd her and kiss'd her:
Squeez'd and caress'd her:
Stretch'd up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and **** them,
Pomegranates, figs.-"--

               "Good folk,-" said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
"Give me much and many: --
Held out her apron,
Toss'd them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,-"
They answer'd grinning:
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry:
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.-"--
"Thank you,-" said Lizzie: "But one waits
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I toss'd you for a fee.-"--
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One call'd her proud,
Cross-grain'd, uncivil;
Their tones wax'd loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
Elbow'd and jostled her,
Claw'd with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soil'd her stocking,
Twitch'd her hair out by the roots,
Stamp'd upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeez'd their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

               White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,--
Like a rock of blue-vein'd stone
Lash'd by tides obstreperously,--
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire,--
Like a fruit-crown'd orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee,--
Like a royal ****** town
Topp'd with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguer'd by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.

               One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuff'd and caught her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratch'd her, pinch'd her black as ink,
Kick'd and knock'd her,
Maul'd and mock'd her,
Lizzie utter'd not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laugh'd in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syrupp'd all her face,
And lodg'd in dimples of her chin,
And streak'd her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kick'd their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writh'd into the ground,
Some ***'d into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanish'd in the distance.

               In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro' the furze,
Threaded copse and ******,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse,--
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she fear'd some goblin man
Dogg'd her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin scurried after,
Nor was she *****'d by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.

               She cried, "Laura,-" up the garden,
"Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, **** my juices
Squeez'd from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.-"

               Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutch'd her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruin'd in my ruin,
Thirsty, canker'd, goblin-ridden?-"--
She clung about her sister,
Kiss'd and kiss'd and kiss'd her:
Tears once again
Refresh'd her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kiss'd and kiss'd her with a hungry mouth.

Colten White  May 2015
Colten White May 2015
Her cherry wood hair,
and rosy blossom cheeks,
combine to make a dear so sweet.
Moments with her are cherries of time,
nectarous instances,
an oh so fulfilling fruit.
May 4, 2015
Olive  Sep 2010
Your Cherries
Olive Sep 2010
I'll never forget the first time I saw your cherries
Who'd have thought I would be so attracted to some berries
As I wandered aimlessly from scene to scene
from the weird to the wonderful, to the  grossly obscene.

Then I happened upon this beautiful sight
Suddenly all around me was so still and so quiet
Never before had I had such a feeling
from a piece of art that was more than appealing

What seemed like a thousand cherries, here before my eyes
lovingly depicted by an artist more than wise
A painting of fruit had taken on a new dimension
One that could easily remove all tension

Each tiny little sphere, with a life of their own
had come to live in this new little home
some with shadows, some with shine,
once fresh and growing wild, now were mine.

I wanted to dive right in, to be in the midst of all sin
Enveloped in a strange sensation, would bring much elation
To hide beneath all this red, or to lay on top of this bed
and close my eyes and take a deep breath
I would die happy, if this last breath, brought death
Wrote while looking at artist Lisa Keegan's painting of Cherries, has to be seen!!
Life for me has been no crystal stair.
No steps of marble, granite or gold lay apt for my ascension.
No—I have climbed through thickets and thorns.
I have persevered—I have triumphed.
Yet it seems, despite these hardships,
life has always afforded me second chances.
The delicacy of my actions,
the sensitivity of negative repercussions
scarcely affected my younger self.

Opportunities always seemed to present themselves.
Though money and its evils have graced my experience,
my soul remains relatively innocent and refined.

Though I have, on past occasions,
become enveloped in the physical substance,
I quickly learned the long term suffering that these ideations efface
far out-shadows the temporary pleasure of the immediate.
I have overcome afflictions both physical and mental,
and lingered in the pleasure of remission.
Quickly to be reminded how easily diseases can emerge
when disregarded.

I’ve learned that of all things in life—
love, above all, deserves attention and sentiment.
Love, with all its purities and imperfections,
more often fruitlessly sought after than easily attained.
Love, above all other things, cannot be imitated, falsified or forged.
And though I spent some years deprived of this blessing,
I am none the more depraved for it.

I am lucky to say that I have loved.
My heart, delicately and handsomely entwined with another.
And that I am loved in return is a blessing beyond bounds.
Adoration and all its accompaniments are the greatest treasure in a lifetime.
For, what are treasures worth without anyone to share them with?
Any other accomplishments and joys are devalued without companionship.
And indeed, a faithful companion is most appreciated in times of hardship—
the throes, truncheon and tribulation of the everyday
faced alone can prove debilitating.

A great man once said “Life is a bowl of cherries.”
It took many years for me to understand the full meaning of this declaration.
But now I understand—
that each of us reachs into life,
like we reach into a bowl of cherries.
We know not whether what we receive
will be pitted and bitter
or sweet and juicy.
We will not know;
we cannot know,
not until we take a bite.
And if there is anything I have learned
it is to live and let live.
It is to reach into life, unbridled yet controlled,
with morals and constraint
and yet bereft of the fear of outcome:
the guilt of the past,
the impeccable omnipotent pressure of the present,
the trepidation of the future,
and the transience between the three.
The acceptance of this passage through time:
making mistakes,
making new mistakes,
this is how to live.
For, if we fear time,
which we cannot control,
we will always be afraid.
To live a life afraid is to embrace hardship.
Any semblance of hope or happiness
is abandoned with the acceptance and embrace of fear,
for fear, without use or cause
is the impetus of great misjudgment and injury.
We must, to avoid this,
relish in moments of happiness
and string them together
with the constant felicity and solace of companionship.

— The End —