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rig May 13
it was watermelon air; but not real
               jennifer aniston will never know my name.
watermelon, no; that fake, chewinggum
               just a fact, and i only mean it, nothing
watermelon, bright and punchy, like
               hidden in the words (a movie of hers was
an ammonia shot to your happy place…
               playing during my lunch break. i wasn’t
i don’t remember the face. i don’t want to.
               paying attention; i was reading hamnet.)
a doublepoem
Captain Trips Apr 12
sometimes, my mind
puts unpleasantly
pleasant images
into my head.
like, if i were
to crack my
head on the
corner of my
dresser, who's
to say it wouldn't
look like the juicy
explosion of a fresh
and ripe watermelon?
Laokos Mar 13
break the poem
open like a pomegranate

spill the seeds
squeeze the juice
and
**** the flesh

when we were kids
we played in
mother's garden:
carrots, strawberries,
rhubarb, tomatoes,
plums, raspberries,
cucumbers, pumpkins,
green beans, watermelon,
onions, potatoes
and
a goldfish named Pierre

he died after
my parents
cleaned his tank
and didn't rinse
it properly

done in by soap--
life can be such a
fragile thing sometimes

we buried him
in the garden
and marked his
grave with a
smooth river stone

one summer
we picked a great
big watermelon
from its dirt nap;
heavy as a bowling
ball and green
as a cat's eye

we heaved it onto
the picnic table
and carved it into
smaller
and smaller wedges
until each one
of us was holding
our very own
chunk of melon

everyone dug in
after admiring their
piece for a moment;
eating it with
their eyes
before their
mouths

but as I went
to bite into mine
I noticed a seed
in the way

so I peeled
at it to free it
and as I fingered
the dripping flesh
of the fruit
the 'seed' revealed
itself to be
not a seed at all

but the eye
of a goldfish
staring back at me
lodged in the melon
in its death throws
gasping for
breath in the
open air

its mouth opening
and closing like
it had a secret
to tell

I stood there
in stupefaction
when suddenly
it slipped free of
its womb
and landed in the grass
behind me

but when I
turned around
to retrieve it
I couldn't find it

there was no goldfish
anywhere in that yard
I checked under
my feet
under the picnic table--
under other people's
feet--nothing

"what are you
looking for?" someone
asked

"nothing," I said,
because who
would've believed it
anyway?--I'm not
even sure if I did--
"just thought I dropped
something."

I stood back up
feeling different
about the world--
like the mystery
ran deeper than any
of us realize--
looked at
my hunk of fruit
and discovered
I wasn't hungry
anymore

so I put
it down on
the picnic table
and walked over
to Pierre's grave

there, underneath
that river stone,
was a watermelon seed
just beginning to
sprout

I smiled in
bewilderment
and gently covered
it with fresh soil
moving the stone
a few centimeters
off the sprouting seed

'Pierre, the watermelon
fish,' I thought--
wiping the dirt
from my hands--

'I wonder what
death has in store
for me?'
Abby Jun 2020
Hello Summer
I’ve missed you
Feel free to stay a while
We could all use your help
2020 ***** guys hopefully summer will be better
ms reluctance Apr 2020
naked feet submerged
in the freshly watered grass –
balmy summer breeze



the loud twirling fan –
last slice of watermelon
hesitating hands



lazy guilt dissolved
laundry postponed once again
excuse in the rain
NaPoWriMo Day 18
Poetry form: Haiku
cade Feb 2020
this morning is watermon

a smiling friend
and a hug

reminder of a relationship
and a cut tongue

waxy wrappers
and filmy dreams

watermelon sugar flavoring
without the seeds
jolly ranchers are better, and i owe hat secretary a lot of thanks (and maybe some money)
Mick Feb 2020
Sovereign, star-flower,
Sorcerer-painter.
Essence
of pink Skittles
and air incised by blue-lightning.
My lady hums fire between lines in lips
-- smoke
and perfume watermelon.
Inspired by a stranger at the library who seemed to have fallen for a woman like a sunflower who liked Skittles.
Dayna Aug 2019
Down by the watermelon patch, where the wild watermelon grew, only my brother and I ever knew. Knew where the watermelon patch was, knew where it grew. In the woods far beyond, where the wolves lived too.
Chris Saitta Aug 2019
My finest dusk was the watermelon kind,
When bats skitted in the shortcomings of light,
And on a picnic bench in the cool June of outside,
I felt the dogwoods and pines and other apple-greens
Fidget with insects in the newness of night,
I felt the only grace was
The watermelon kind, and though the world was newly
Dying in its freshness, the pulp squirmed
From my bloated, gleaming lips like
Blubber split from a whale’s side.
No, I do not condone killing whales.  Just a carefree, reminiscence of boyhood and little-boy grossness of imagination.
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