#orchard
Our cherry orchard
is full of glitter-garlands --
Do the birds party?
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 3:17 AM UTC
The white garden of black flowers
A storehouse of letters
It was the quietest party
It was the constant friend
The portable magic
Which can be tragic
The flying vowels
A white garden of black flowers
Gazing at creatures
Which are teachers
The delicate pages
And colorful covers
The falling words
The suspense of a mystery
The tense thriller
The love in a romance
The fun in a fantasy
The white garden of black flowers
A storehouse of letters
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 7:29 AM UTC
Bushels of apples
Picked from the orchard this fall
Ripe, crimson, and sweet
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 6:13 PM UTC
I
I see everyday of my life spread
Before me like an orchard in bloom.
Each branch of tree, every bush and leaf,
A memory for me to consume.
In summer, when fruit is rich,
I tread the path for fruit to pick,
Indulging in the springful life:
The ripened fruit bringing delight.
But with each bite I enjoy
Something is destroyed.
Soon the spoils will reach their end.
II
I feel her touch,
Hands soft from love,
Stroking me,
Providing ease,
Like sliding through
Horizon’s stretch—
To a place where we
Would meet again.
But these moments fade
In solstice’s blaze,
Where the summers past
are lost.
Flowers wilt, their colours dampen,
Trees break on the orchard path.
What remains from winter’s wrath,
Where one has used so much land?
III
The sodden marsh engulfs.
The land itself falls.
The somme-like pit pulls
Into its hefty haul.
But past the glint of glossy eyes,
Lies a world where seeds survive.
We fail to see past lives once lead,
The growth thickening within our heads:
The weeds unkempt, vines in droves,
The bushes tangled with roses, broke,
So concerned for orchards gone;
We never made another one.
‘Cause the trees will grow in due time.
The fruit will ripen with more life.
An Eden will grow to replace
An age, to show, that we can change.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
Every day after school I ran through it,
Skirting around the trunks,
Ducking under the leaves,
My laughter echoing through the trees.
My cherry orchard.
My friends used to walk through it,
And when they got to my house,
They would always have red stains
On the bottoms of their shoes from
My cherry orchard.
Every year when the blossoms came out
In early May, I would take pictures for
Hours, enjoying the peace,
Playing with the symmetry when you looked down a row in
My cherry orchard.
And even though the trees were
Stripped from the ground and burned
I still visit it,
My friends still walk through it,
And every year I will look back at
My pictures and remember
My cherry orchard.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
If poems were seeds,
How many could you plant
If you lived a full life,
And worked like an ant?
It would be amazing to have
Your own poetry forest,
Observing your thought life
Through poems clear and honest.
As this world is changing
And you are moving forward,
Don't forget to keep planting
Seeds to become your new orchard.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 9:58 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
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.
Humbert Humbert 1950
Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
A pine cone swept in the timber
in blow with wooden needles
that a lantern was the wiles of birch
along the frills of enlightened where spores till
this deadwood manufacturing transport
with a pipe cleaner's lore of trees
whether they intertwine on the carpet again
in loom to manifold in the soil.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
Yehudit and I sat
in the small apple orchard
of my parent's garden
it was Sunday
a warm afternoon
and she'd been invited
for tea
as we sat alone
on the grass
cool in the shade
of the trees
she said
you've a big garden
to keep up
do you help your dad?
yes a bit when I can
I say
I studied her
sitting there
with her brown hair
and bright eyes
in a green flowery dress
I wore jeans
and open neck
white shirt
and how often can you?
often as I can
I replied
good
she said
she was silent
a few moments
then she said
if your mum hadn't
invited me to tea
I don't think
my mum would have
let me come
Yehudit said
why?
she shrugged
her shoulders
she didn't say as such
in so many words
but it was implied
in her answer
doesn't she like me?
I asked
you're a boy and that
is as bad as bad
as it gets in her eyes
-she had sons
but maybe they
were special ones-
glad you're here anyway
I said
she looked towards
the cottage windows
and then turned to me
and said
if this was my garden
my mother would be
gazing at us through
the net curtains
seeing what we
were doing
what would she expect us
to be doing?
I said
whatever she thinks
we might be up to
I guess
my mum doesn't spy
she trusts us and besides
we just sitting here
in the orchard
not doing anything
I said
so far
she said smiling
she pulled me down
backward on to the grass
and we lay there
facing each other
eyes to eyes
we kissed
then I placed
my hand
on her thigh
then we gazed
at each other
eye to eye.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
But darling,
He feels lust and calls it love
Plants a tree and calls it an orchard
Breaks a heart and calls it art
Swears that he will stay
and calls it the truth...
When he leaves you,
Tsunamis of tears will crash over your body
Simultaneously streaming from your soul
in waves even greater than his ego...
He could never have truly loved you, darling...
Not in the way that I do.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
Over there I played and Over there I was raised ... That haunted palace was up-stairs and My old school was down-stairs ... I spent most of my childhood Over there happily and gladly ... The green grass , the cactus , the orange trees , Those egg-plants , these green and red peppers ,and Those pretty camels were over there ... The tin houses were installed for Those poor people who lived over there ... It was a long , long time ago , but That Patos Orchard is no more over there Simply because they replaced with some Other buildings ... That Patos Orchard is only stored In my mind ... I am still alive to document it for those who know nothing it About it ... The Patos Orchard is real and I am real ,but Now it's no more ..................... . _______________________________________________________________
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
I move forward to ignore the past
I learned from history in my mind
I did not want to express yesterdays
I ask you
I plead with you
don’t taint this ground
I know the past is colored scarlet
and you will drench the floor in your blood
I am fragile, but you break like time
I climb, but now look to this pit
I am the pit of a pit on the ground, and you wander
I step once
then step again
but it is you who should watch your feet
because I am an orchard
an orchard of mines
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC