"appletree" poems - Hello Poetry

I was such a beautiful child, With my shoulder lengths of Sun bleached barley. Smiled little pearl soldiers in Line. Old glassesless ladies Took me for Girlchild. But I grew twisted like an Appletree around a Graveyard path Lightpost. Teeth came out crooked. Hair fell out at thirteen. I was big for my age; Grew other hair in places I never knew I would. My voice broke as if in Sorrow over the child Inside that had Died. After that I spoke as if Into a bucket. Sometimes I catch my father Gazing at me through a slight veil Of grievance for that same Child. I would never dream To blame him.

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May 24, 2014

May 24, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC

sgholter

Child Inside That Had Died

I was such a beautiful child, With my shoulder lengths of Sun bleached barley. Smiled little pearl soldiers in Line. Old glassesless ladies Took me for Girlchild. But I grew twisted like an Appletree around a Graveyard path Lightpost. Teeth came out crooked. Hair fell out at thirteen. I was big for my age; Grew other hair in places I never knew I would. My voice broke as if in Sorrow over the child Inside that had Died. After that I spoke as if Into a bucket. Sometimes I catch my father Gazing at me through a slight veil Of grievance for that same Child. I would never dream To blame him.

27

Creatively wit, artistically gifted - politically inclined to design any archetype of freedom and how a woman should hold her head up high, like the almighty God she is. Able to disfigure the illusions and misconception that the media and other forms of capitalistic control, teach her fellow sisters and Queen. Prove to them that not only are they more than this 'sex symbol', And being blind to this facts, just helps perpetuate the conditioning of self-hate, that you're not light enough or too dark - you're just something that helps the sun shine on their fare skin. And you're ****** is worth nothing more than it was compensated fo' 450 years ago, to birth being that yet again go through the cycle of supremacy. But you say, **** ALL THAT - I'm a Queen, GOD IS SHE. So kiss my fat *** and my appletree. Because me and my sisters sill no longer accept your misogynistic disrespect and immoral, emotional neglect. Your referendums for ****** favors in exchange what is due me, ****** freedom and freedom to do whatever the **** I please. And ever since I saw those defining characteristics in thee, Since, I've always respected you as my Queen.

0

Jul 28, 2013

Jul 28, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC

tramaine-powell

"Queen"

Creatively wit, artistically gifted - politically inclined to design any archetype of freedom and how a woman should hold her head up high, like the almighty God she is. Able to disfigure the illusions and misconception that the media and other forms of capitalistic control, teach her fellow sisters and Queen. Prove to them that not only are they more than this 'sex symbol', And being blind to this facts, just helps perpetuate the conditioning of self-hate, that you're not light enough or too dark - you're just something that helps the sun shine on their fare skin. And you're ****** is worth nothing more than it was compensated fo' 450 years ago, to birth being that yet again go through the cycle of supremacy. But you say, **** ALL THAT - I'm a Queen, GOD IS SHE. So kiss my fat *** and my appletree. Because me and my sisters sill no longer accept your misogynistic disrespect and immoral, emotional neglect. Your referendums for ****** favors in exchange what is due me, ****** freedom and freedom to do whatever the **** I please. And ever since I saw those defining characteristics in thee, Since, I've always respected you as my Queen.

16

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees are a southern breeze—or a gust of snow. Agh! what sort of man was Fragonard? —as if that answered anything. Ah, yes—below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore— Which shore?— the sand clings to my lips— Which shore? Agh, petals maybe. How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? I said petals from an appletree.

0

2.2k

William Carlos Williams

Portrait Of A Lady

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees are a southern breeze—or a gust of snow. Agh! what sort of man was Fragonard? —as if that answered anything. Ah, yes—below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore— Which shore?— the sand clings to my lips— Which shore? Agh, petals maybe. How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? I said petals from an appletree.

22

His h a n d s were so beautiful Rough, like a first-time bikecrash Manly, bruised, ragged cuticles Curiously wandering trough this undressed f o r e s t Exploring every part with soft touch Tryna reach for the appletree Craving for that fresh taste When he's giving me h e a d on the unmade bed Slowly s i n k i n g further and further into his love It h e a t s me up My bones become gelatin His breath becomes my o x y g e n Our heartbeat becomes a melody His maddening eyes watching me *** Goosebumps appear all over my skin This feeling is so confusing and ineffable Yet so e u p h o r i c and intense it can't be explained We're two lights burning on one candle Together, we melt into this burning desire for e a c h o t h e r.

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Jul 5, 2015

Jul 5, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC

deepmountains

Lack of oxygen

His h a n d s were so beautiful Rough, like a first-time bikecrash Manly, bruised, ragged cuticles Curiously wandering trough this undressed f o r e s t Exploring every part with soft touch Tryna reach for the appletree Craving for that fresh taste When he's giving me h e a d on the unmade bed Slowly s i n k i n g further and further into his love It h e a t s me up My bones become gelatin His breath becomes my o x y g e n Our heartbeat becomes a melody His maddening eyes watching me *** Goosebumps appear all over my skin This feeling is so confusing and ineffable Yet so e u p h o r i c and intense it can't be explained We're two lights burning on one candle Together, we melt into this burning desire for e a c h o t h e r.

25

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees are a southern breeze—or a gust of snow. Agh! what sort of man was Fragonard? —as if that answered anything. Ah, yes—below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore— Which shore?— the sand clings to my lips— Which shore? Agh, petals maybe. How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? I said petals from an appletree.

0

1.6k

William Carlos Williams

Portrait Of A Lady

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees are a southern breeze—or a gust of snow. Agh! what sort of man was Fragonard? —as if that answered anything. Ah, yes—below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore— Which shore?— the sand clings to my lips— Which shore? Agh, petals maybe. How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? I said petals from an appletree.

22

As his shining grey Alfa Romeo Endlessly rolls on the side In an appletree field in Bretagne, After crashing on a truck, That was not supposed to be stuck There in the middle of the road, Just minutes before dying, He remembers pieces of his life. The full life of a happy man Who has a loving Italian wife A gorgeous Austrian lover, An unstable father, A distant son whom he feels He has not been close enough, A best friend named François, With whom he runs a company. In a few minutes, All this will be gone. Disappeared from the earth, Remaining only in the memory Of a few ones. In a last minute, Surrounded by a white fog, All characters of his life, Appear in front of him, Standing silently, Sadly looking at him, For a last au revoir.

0

Sep 18, 2014

Sep 18, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC

olivier-bricet

Pieces of life

As his shining grey Alfa Romeo Endlessly rolls on the side In an appletree field in Bretagne, After crashing on a truck, That was not supposed to be stuck There in the middle of the road, Just minutes before dying, He remembers pieces of his life. The full life of a happy man Who has a loving Italian wife A gorgeous Austrian lover, An unstable father, A distant son whom he feels He has not been close enough, A best friend named François, With whom he runs a company. In a few minutes, All this will be gone. Disappeared from the earth, Remaining only in the memory Of a few ones. In a last minute, Surrounded by a white fog, All characters of his life, Appear in front of him, Standing silently, Sadly looking at him, For a last au revoir.

28