Does not bleed.
Funny how some things
Are quite indifferent to how they’re perceived.

Is this my blood then?
That I watch flowing out.
Since I was a kid,
I knew only one way out.

Matter to matter,
Ashes to dust
When you’re truly gone
It’s too late to regret
Giving it up.

But let’s not end on a sad note.
Instead let us rejoice.

For truly, if a blood orange doesn’t bleed
Then the pulp must be richer than its seed.

When the Spirit's around
- that's the third of the Three -
He regularly raises
fresh questions for me:

The sought and the seeker
the truth and the teacher
the help and the helper
the gift and the giver?

The breath and the voice
the chooser, the choice
the anointer, the oil
the peace and turmoil?

The joy and the cries
always there to baptise
the bearer of fruit
with fresh gifts to boot?

As wild as the wind
He'll breeze where He will
I've tried to contain Him
but He won't remain still.

I won't ever define Him
or assign Him a lable
just accept He's my God
and that my God is able

to be true to His Word
while resisting defining
He'll still leave me questions
but that's not surprising.

He kicked off creation
was around from the start
and I'm just the latest
to play my small part.

Took a little trip down the garden of Eden

And it had the best fruit I've ever tasted.

i ate a plum today
the deep purple hue
and melting red juice
dribbled over my chin
it wasnt quite ripe
and this is how my poem begins
you arent really my type
standing all akin
mind all a luce
but im drawn to you
what might the knights forsay?
when they see me run
for fun
into your arms
might their ears shriek in alarm?

i ate a plum yesterday
might it have been ripe this day?
leaving my mouth dry and bitter
i would like another bite
my poem is not over
men do not think me polite
i cause their knees to jitter
and this is what the knights forsay
when i ran to your arms that day

"he is a reminder, that looks deceive, a ripe plum is not ripe at all, the act is clear, shouldnt the juice be sweet? shouldnt the corners of your mouth lay sticky? you are instead left bitter, running to an unsavory fruit that longs for your tongue. you do not eat unripe fruit, you throw it aside. this fruit will quake and die quietly where you have left it... do not be a fruit fly, they crave lifeless desperate sweets."

we are not shaped like apples or pears
we are not rotten or ripe
we are not fruits to be eaten
forbidden or otherwise

we are not yours

Fall is an empty street in Rome,
Of byways of dry-leaf stone and moth-haunted hours,
Of market stalls with their over-haggled and fingered rinds,
And melons moiled over and palmed and bruised.
The light blows like once-told ripeness from the basket of fruit.