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annh Apr 2020
You caught my eye but once,
You caught me eye but twice,
Then popped them in a cocktail glass,
And topped it up with ice.

Vermouth you added first,
And then a shot of gin,
A squeeze of lime, a dash of tea,
With salt around the rim.

‘One martini coming up!’ you drawled,
You slid it down the bar,
And so returned my eyes to me,
Like olives from a jar.

To those who swear that love is blind,
You've surely never been,
The subject of a stolen glance,
From a barmaid named Nadine.
A repost from the dim and distant past.
Am I back...I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that sitting with the warmth of the morning sun on my back, iPad in my lap, scrawling and trawling, scrolling and trolling (I jest - couldn’t resist the rhyme) is the most contently anxious I’ve felt in weeks. Stay safe! :)
Betty Jan 2020
Olives are round

They don't make much sound

When slipped in a drink

Plink!

Green or black

Think how far back

Man decided to eat

This little treat

Romans on couches

Those toga wearing slouches

Enjoyed them

Employed them

To liven their food

It would be rude

Not to give them some praise

So please stand up and raise

A glass

To pure class

[I give you the olive]
Zywa Mar 2019
Winter light eats the wide hill
ever barer, buzzards hover over

the headstones in the fertile soil
that had olive trees for centuries

The souls are elsewhere, where Israel
brings them, the remains perish

in black cloths to be the first people
to enter the new world on the day

that the gate of mercy opens
because the dead have lived

and fought for that
won from the god of war for that

they've conquered the city and the source
that breaks out of the earth

Jerusalem, where I suffer
from divided togetherness

Will children of my grandchildren
collect their bones, honour them and

grow olives here again
with sky-high branches of peace?
Israel = Azrael, the angel of death, who transports the souls of the deceased

God of war: Shalem, after whom Jerusalem is named; today Jerusalem presents itself as the "City of Peace"
Mary-Eliz Aug 2018
gently interrupted by velvet mountains
burnt sienna soil stretches through olive trees
that lift their limbs toward blue expanse
where pillowy clouds drift with ease

shadows lengthen as the sun spreads
a warmth perceptible to the view
energy and life pouring into ripening fruit
soon harvest gathering will be due

tracks of vehicles between the rows
show signs of tending that's been done
through summer's growing season
and years before when they were begun

saplings planted there with care
by tanned, robust yet gentle hands
have grown taller year by year
where now a stately orchard stands
A picture prompt - reminiscent of van Gogh's paintings of olive tree groves.
dina Jun 2018
tangerine and cerulean
cool beneath our feet
in a spiraling mosaic
while we rest and eat
olives from the groves
salty as the sea below
lapping on the shores to touch
fields marvelously aglow
with the shimmer of the fireflies
as they perform their dance
a lilting, evanescent display
that leaves us in a trance
we amble back to the villa
as the setting sun paints the air
a dazzling vermillion
that reminds me why i'm there
aurora kastanias Nov 2017
November first, all saints
Celebrated canonised or not.
Recognition left as beauty
In the eye of the beholder.

For sinners accomplishing
Something worthy of holiness,
Something worthy of humanity,
Its nature, the Universe.

Compassion, aidance, honesty.
Truthfulness, chastity intended
In its purest sense. November first,
Olive picking day for me.

Harvesting season's yield
After the longest drought as I feel,
The warmth of an obstinate sun
Pierce skin through bones

To my very core. The same,
Beams granting abundance
Of golden juice to the gently
Reaped pearls of black and green.

From fingertips runs
An inundating sense
Of blessing, intrinsic unity
Of substance shared.

Only anticipating taste,
Fluidity slithering on tongue,
An exquisite elixir caressing
Palate as globules fall like rain

From branches onto
Sheets meticulously laid.
An event unknowing solitude
For it demands collective efforts,

While the distant village band
Plays hymns to the dead I praise
The living and their worth,
Waiting to imagine hundred

Kilograms render seventeen
Precious litres of ******
Olive oil. Chastity unfolding
In its purest form.
On olive picking
It were perhaps too good to preen,
This thing, this much elided stream,
To rest therewith, tremulous ream
Of thoughts forthwith from misery.

Let not the beggar hear my words:
There is no hope in timely dress;
World it cares not for men deferred
From caring press and relatives.
Too much it cares for common things,
A word said soft, need not for pain,
Yet broken in its gleaning thoughts,
Suff’ring not well deserved stains.

These things, I say, they cast a sea
Before dim eyes, make blind men cry,
Rob their sight, ev’n in sight’s drought;
This I say, casts little more t’me.

— The End —