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J Valle Nov 2015
Eve shared it and
Condemned human kind.

Newton felt it and
Changed the world's mind.

Snow White tasted it and
Proved love at first sight.

Turing used it and
Left the world behind.

That is how
I realized
It was me, who
Gave you the power
To change
Or ruin
My life.
Pagan Paul May 14
.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)
.
Paul Hansford Jul 2016
The gardener
This is my garden; my apple tree
has over-reached itself.  The branches,
weighed down with fruit, threaten to break.
If I had read the signs, thinned out when it was time,
the crop would be less heavy, the fruit less small.
And what there is, is damaged.  If it’s not birds
it’s caterpillar, wasp, or earwig.
It will all be rotten soon.  I don’t know why I bother.


The blackbird
This is my garden; this tree I sat in
and proclaimed my own when it was full of blossom
with war-cry love-call song.
Then mating, nesting, bringing up the brood.
The days were scarcely long enough, but that
was long ago.  My children gone,
there’s time now for myself, time for a treat.
My yellow chisel bill breaks in the flesh
of these fine apples. Delicious. This is the life.


The wasps
This is our garden – insects do not have time
for individuality.  We built the colony, us lads,
chewed wood to make our paper nest, and now
we work to feed the grubs.
“Lads”, that is, using the word loosely – for us
gender is not important; that’s for the queen,
and, as it may be, the ones who service her,
none of our business.
But we need food too,
and if sustenance gives pleasure,
so much the better.  When we find a fruit
where blackbird’s chisel bill has broken in,
we eat our way inside, till only skin and core
encase our private eating/drinking den.
So what if it’s fermenting?  If we get tiddly,
and roll about, and buzz a drunken hum,
then who’s to care?  And if they do, we’ll sting ’em
.
Inspired by finding a completely hollow apple skin (with the core in place) under a tree in my garden, thoroughly cleaned out by wasps.
Mykle Matwaya Feb 14
Here's to new beginnings,
same'ol same'ol's-
fresh starts and repeated whims.

By-gone's n by-gone's,
buried hatchet's-
to getting even and sweet revenge.

To bitter bast ards,
forgiveness masters-
letting things go,
reeling them in.

Un-answered questions,
raised suspicions-
the benefit of the doubt,
and dust in the wind.

Here's to decisions-
freedom to choose,
consequences prisons,
and county blues.

Impulsive actions,
cool headed rational-
baby steps and the choice to loose.

Cheer's to the children-
the seed's of Adam,
Daughters of Eve
and the things they do.

The misdirected,
and the rejected,
the rebellious and ****** too.



Immovable-
A little girl
has two apples in her hands.
"Can I have one, sweetie?" her mother
asked. The girl looked at the two apples
in her hands and took a bite out of both
of them. The mother tried to hide her
disappointment of what her daughter
had just done. The little girl looks
up at her mother and hands
her one of the apples.

"Here mommy,"
she says,
"This one is sweeter
."
Sometimes things are not the way they look. Don't judge by what you see just on the outside.
King Panda Oct 2015
everything is on sale
and I eat and eat
and yell at the couple
arguing in the ATM line
and smirk at the pharmacist
as I toss my meds in the
can behind the counter
king soopers
my realm
of crushed potpourri
honeycrisp apples
black cocktail dresses
stuck
shut with
peanut butter

I love grocery
shopping.
Nicholas Booth Nov 2018
I used to think apple were apples
     As long as they weren't oranges

Then I got wiser;
learned it isn't just a roll,
     It's  Kaiser

     And then you asked to play
Mcintosh? Oh, Macintosh

But I was a honey crisp       
And let's face it, you're a gala full o' ****

But I took a taste,
and with such haste
Then followed with vigor
making you feel bigger

But only at first,
with such intense thirst
   it's over now
     Thanks for playing? I guess

Take a bow
The first poem I wrote in a short series - processing an emotional set of circumstances I found myself in. The series took about 2 months to complete, although it still feels unfinished. Will be posting them as I work through their content.
CK Baker May 2017
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore

reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)

bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!


duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields

meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar ***** wedged on the white wash dock)

baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
Ash Slade Aug 2018
packed in the family car,
going slow down the smaller
roads. radio set to a classics
station. we talked about
the latest news, things
we've heard, how work was.
sitting in silence for part of
the ride, as we listened to the
wind from the sunroof and
windows.

the apple picking harvest
is back again. I can't wait
for supple afternoons with
a crisp breeze. drinking
sweet cider and munching
on powdered rounds.
walking orchard rows of
tower trees \plucking red
noses high and low.

sneaking bites in between
picks, juice dripping down
face and sticky fingers.
it's like you're a child again,
on slow weekend mornings.
dragging day passes on,
the parts tied in
conversations and quiet
moments. ***** of twigs
a crushed creed

that fills the spaces of apples
falling to the floor, bruised
by a sharp hit. I pick them
up to look at, taking in the
dents and gray flesh. I
throw them back to the
compost beneath the fruit
tree. the pieces that escape
scars, I plop into my sack
that's gradually getting
heavier.
Sonu kumar Dec 2018
girls
Are like apples
On trees.The best ones
Are at the top of the tree.
The boys don't want to reach
For the good ones because they
Are afraid of falling and gettting hurt.
Instead,they just get the rotten apples
From the ground that aren't as good,
But easy.So the apples at the top think
Something is wrong with them,When in
Reality,they're amazing.They just
Have to wait for the right boy to
Come along,the ones
Brave enough to
climb all
the way
to the top
of the tree
Mygreatestescape Sep 2018
In the morning when
I have spent myself,
I am serene like
a hurricane,
--(I will call myself
Katrina)
a giant conspiracy
of lovers,
I took a step
without any feet,
the preacher
speaks of god,
of a childhood innocence
that was lost before
it begun,
the stillness of
the soul,
living in the
abyss of
my loneliness,
I cannot believe in
a god that lets
the world rot,
that lets flies die on windowsills,
but yet I believe in
a beloved that
makes me sweep
the ground,
stoop till my back aches,
who looks at me
without any eyes,
and brings tears
to mine,
everything that I ever
loved grows like
flowers
when I see this beloved,
if I know of love
--like a child,
I only know through
my beloved,


and yet,

yet  

    yet


god is a tattered
coat that my grandmother
wears,

to have you listen
to me -- that is my beloved,

spilling my tears onto
ginseng leaves,
dust gathers
like grime,
a second layer of skin,
watching Aphrodite rise
from homes riddled
by ****,

this whole nation cursed,
and yet here is mecca (Medina)
here is Bethlehem
where apples grow freely,
and Eden lies north,
where money rains onto
nudists,

here lives the prowling
sphinx,
here Thebes rises
from the gold dust of
the Sahara ,
her salivating tongue
licks up our dissent,
and our leaders
drags Artemis by
her hair,
the sinners of
earthly ****,
Lucifer wears
armani suits
and defiles cherubs,

they have lit our
children on fire,
and have called
it a sacrifice,
we watched kindness
fall into the deep marrows
of the Styx,

living in a nation
of free will,
undressed free
will and
ravished her against her
will,

my beloved
who wears my anger
like furs,
and milks the world
like a daunting king.
suis-je en train de mourir? - Am I dying?
PEELING APPLES SOMEWHERE IN 1914




the War not yet
a week old
already tears that will last years





she can still see
his pale hands
peeling apple after apple





the apples
looking startled
**** beside their skins




the ***** apples
the flamenco swirl of their skins
his hands pale as death





now where the apples lay
that day
the telegram of his death




she can still see him
turning into the shadows
throwing her an apple with a smile




she is angry with him
for dying
her love not enough to protect him





under her apron
the baby kicks
it will have his smile
Saraphina Dec 2018
Smooth as whiskey
Sweet as tea
Savory as honey
this apple seems to be
Peel back the skin
Close your eyes
Open your mouth
to enjoy the bite
Alas it's rotten
Dark is the core
Cancer has seeped
into the pores
Brandi Aug 2018
One squirt, one pump of my Christmas in a bottle
The ultimate cure for late summer anxiety
Which most certainly exists when one's life has changed so drastically And will soon be put to the test
Literally...piles of notes translated into tests

HOW DID THIS BECOME ABOUT SCHOOL??!!

Being lotion would be liberating
So smooth
So satisfying
And if you were part of the signature collection
You would likely be a fan favorite of sorts
A must have in a bathroom cabinet
Purse
First (or last) date
Bringing delight in a nice portable cream

To my bottle of lotion
Thank you
Stay awhile
I don't mind the occasional mess you make in my bags when the cap is open

Keep the candy apples picked and ready
All year long
And to all a good night

                                             © 2018
                                        Brandi Keaton
Francie Lynch Nov 2018
Have you met the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man?
He scammed fig leafs in the garden,
And **** cloth in Ottoman.

     outside-in, inside-out; upside-down, right-side up

The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can cuss.
He offers snake oil, spins a tale,
So you feel smart, healthy and hale.

     from top to bottom, bottom to top

The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can't stop.
He swrawls with a Sharpie pen.

     right is left, left is wrong

That's the Who-Gee Boo-Gee song.

Consultation for now is free,
No hidden added extra fees:
You buy two, you get three.

     north to south, east to west

The Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man won't rest.

I've heard his feet are cloven;
The eyes are yellow, lips look swollen;
He has *******, wears silk- woven.
He sweats like water to the lowest level;
He's quicker than the slyest devil,
Selling ****, but we hear heaven;
Doing so twenty-four seven.

He photo-shops secret desires,
Twists truth-tellers into liars;
Artful, wily, scheming, subtle,
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee's a hungry jackal.

     today is the day, yesterday's late,
     tomorrow's a place that just won't wait


I met up with the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man,
Peddling apples from my jardain.
Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.

Perhaps I should be.

I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
hidden.
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.

If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would
erupt?

I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
awake
and am greeted by
no one.  
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.
Pyrrha Jul 2018
You are the poetry I wish I could write
Every feeling I get around you
Every word of yours I absorb
Every stare I wish I could immortalize
You are the poem I read over and over in my head
The one I wish was mine

Your words are like luscious braeburn apples
Sweet and transcendent
You are the very definition of oenomel
Combining strength with sweetness

Even when you are far away I feel your presence near me
I feel your gaze, your love, your heart
I can hear the beat as if you were right next to me
Like the heavy bass of a metal song it hits every note
Lulls me into tranquility

You are the reason I love to write
You challenge me to describe how I feel
Even when none of these words feel just right

How can I explain the feeling of your eyes, your smile
How can I define the connection I feel
With such a limited word bank
How could I possibly explain why you feel like poetry to me
Why your words are like a braeburn apple
And why your heartbeat is like the bass of a metal song?

If I could I would illuminate you with more light than this world could possibly contain
You'd be brighter than the sun and all the other stars
Perhaps that would help you understand
Just one drop from my sea of love for you
grace Aug 2018
crisp clean cold air
fills my delicate lungs
leaving traces of sweet
cinnamon and sour apples

soft breeze blows through
my already tangled hair
finding comfort in
my brown locks

crimson stained skies
kiss goodbye to day
outlining city silhouettes
as it goes

brown leaves laced in gold
crunch beneath my feet
searching for a way back
to their ***** home
Daddy liked his whiskey
Momma liked her smokes
Momma cursed like crazy
Dad told ***** jokes
To all the people 'round here
They was ordinary folks
Momma puffed on camels
Dad drank whiskey cokes

I dropped out of high school
By the time I was fourteen
I had no direction
And I got mighty mean
Sis, she had two babies
But neither one was seen
And to all the people 'round here
We were just both normal teens

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
You do not want to grow and be like me
Listen to what I tell you, don't you do the things you see
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
Nope, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree

When ever there is fighting
Folks 'round here go  blind
They all have got their secrets
they don't want us to find
That apples in around their house
Are not quite as designed
It's best to look at others
For the truth, it isn't kind

Momma kept on smoking
Daddy drank his rye
sis and I both left here
No one ever asked them why
Nothing changes ever
so nobody will try
and all the folks around here
live inside this little lie

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
You do not want to grow and be like me
Listen to what I tell you, don't you do the things you see
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
Nope, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2017
A crimson boat waives
the flow of the waves
as a blonde figure craves
an infernal sun.

Next to the maiden
and the dandy-fella,
blossoms a vermillion
umbrella
whose role was to play
a timid cellar
for two red apples
and one apricot
the blonde damsel
could have brought
to quench her burning  
want
of the lustful monster.

Closing her ice-blue eyes,
the fair woman,
her sinful inspiration
did summon
to come carve
on her body so sullen
the orange vision
of the new Benzart bridge.

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUNISA


*"Benzart" is the Tunisian name for “Biserta” or “Bizerte”- a beach town on the northern coast of Tunisia.
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