#olives
Haven't
The weight of a home:
Just misery, in a wait, saving meant
For a friend, a shape of things to come
To come in a reign
Of symmetry, any old heart
Of wishes will do; a hunger for fame
That esteem, is an escort to choose smart
From a handier salt...
The world to confirm, candor
Of a needy walk with fault
Before a care has the truth, to serve
A shadow, a fear's angel...
With a borrowed tear...?
Fly away, and heed the gait of hell
Is my nobility, a truer crush of we're?
Pipe's of hatred?
Introducing a friend
As a copious blossom of a time, to lead
Another nefarious and austere means, away from sin...
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 3:55 PM UTC
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.
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 6:31 PM UTC
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]
Jan 6, 2020
Jan 6, 2020 at 8:01 AM UTC
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
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
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
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
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.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 9:28 AM UTC
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.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC