"artichoke" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
maybe i'm an acquired taste
maybe i'm like an artichoke cupcake
maybe you learn to like me
maybe you don't
maybe i try too hard
maybe i don't
maybe it's not me this time
maybe you only like cupcake
maybe you only like artichoke
maybe one day there will be someone
who likes both
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
The artichoke
With a tender heart
Dressed up like a warrior,
Standing at attention, it built
A small helmet
Under its scales
It remained
Unshakeable,
By its side
The crazy vegetables
Uncurled
Their tendrills and leaf-crowns,
Throbbing bulbs,
In the sub-soil
The carrot
With its red mustaches
Was sleeping,
The grapevine
Hung out to dry its branches
Through which the wine will rise,
The cabbage
Dedicated itself
To trying on skirts,
The oregano
To perfuming the world,
And the sweet
Artichoke
There in the garden,
Dressed like a warrior,
Burnished
Like a proud
Pomegrante.
And one day
Side by side
In big wicker baskets
Walking through the market
To realize their dream
The artichoke army
In formation.
Never was it so military
Like on parade.
The men
In their white shirts
Among the vegetables
Were
The Marshals
Of the artichokes
Lines in close order
Command voices,
And the bang
Of a falling box.
But
Then
Maria
Comes
With her basket
She chooses
An artichoke,
She's not afraid of it.
She examines it, she observes it
Up against the light like it was an egg,
She buys it,
She mixes it up
In her handbag
With a pair of shoes
With a cabbage head and a
Bottle
Of vinegar
Until
She enters the kitchen
And submerges it in a ***
Thus ends
In peace
This career
Of the armed vegetable
Which is called an artichoke,
Then
Scale by scale,
We strip off
The delicacy
And eat
The peaceful mush
Of its green heart.
7.2k
artful creations
colors, charcoals
paints
stone and clay
wood and paper
bringing life
from
lifeless
form
from
formless
can the artist choose?
~~~
garden creations
shades of green
jade
artichoke
asparagus
fern, forest
and
jungle
mint, moss
and
pine
shamrock
tea, olive
mixed
with
a multitude
of blooming
hues
can the gardener decide on one?
~~~
kitchen creations
sweets and treats
savories and piquants
cakes and pies
meats, stews
casseroles
butter, garlic
lemon
rosemary
and
thyme
parsley
and
saffron
onions caramelized
to sweet
peppercorns
and
cardamon
tamarind, turmeric
nutmeg
combined in
precision
joy and
love
can the chef say which is best?
~~~
and thus
I challenge any poet
can you choose your favorite "child"?
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
she lay next to him at night
dreaming of a ghostly icon, gold
little-headed monkey god on an island nigh the cape of bone marrow.
& now
she bounds into humble years, house cat, domesticated
little smiles, little daughters, little
flowers at the supermarket.
good morning.
pull her hair, as if to tree
& family. seed shoved down her throat
& diamonds.
she remembers the jewel runners, their chunks of wet rock.
& birds
slipstreaming away their days above africa.
slug to the chest &
she awakens in a hyundai
under the beaming heat of a vacant strip-mall sun.
gravity feels soft
in this lesser pungent life.
dreamt only, of choking temp and humid archipelago nights,
the gibbons & the thieves.
the treasure chest lairs of chieftains and tribal nobodies.
war profiteers.
men of fang island fantasy.
fake it.
p.t.a. and butter spread it, to toast and/or corn.
the sun is rising
& falling
& truly just travelling ‘round.
marinated artichoke hearts.
[baby dreams] of waves
on shore and handshake, of altered mother moons, she
is hidden in reflection
& time.
happy with the furniture.
plentiful on extra lunch meat.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Goodbye Bottle Bandit
What a face she had . Shaped like a heart with a heart shaped mouth
with the most beautiful head of hair
you ever saw.
underneath it all a fragile, beautiful soul
She was funny
she was classy.
She was smart
She was the kind of woman who would force homemade cheesecake on you
and things us swamp Yankees had never heard of - like artichoke gnocchis
She was mine for a while,
or I was hers
you could never really own a girl like that.
And I know she loved me.
But Jim beam and jack Daniels were the real men in her life
Only now do I understand
Something I could never understand
Something nobody should understand
How a girl Buddy Cianci once said was the most beautiful girl in Providence
Died alone sitting upright on a couch.
One of her men in her hand.
There were men in the past who are used her and abused her
I don’t wish them ill
but I don’t wish them well
She once said that her mother was her only friend
I said “what about me?”
What about you? She said.
I’m your friend .
No, you’re my man .
I was proud to be .
Until those two southern boys edged me out.
Truth is I’ll never understand
Neither does her mother
I hope nobody understands .
I don’t wanna live in a world where people understand that kind of thing .
Bottle bandit .
My bottle bandit.
Jan 9, 2024
Jan 9, 2024 at 9:05 PM UTC
Well, we were the History club rejects,
focusing on the effects
of being us
instead of in a book.
Two college drop-outs,
calling in shout-outs
to our friends,
hoping that it affected
how we looked.
Our dads would sleep in,
and our moms were crying
until a quarter past noon --
and we knew
if we didn't start trying,
that would be us, soon.
We were the starving artists,
painting fruit we couldn't afford.
Hoping each brushstroke of an artichoke
would be fruitful to our wallet,
or at least strike a chord.
Two love-loss orphans,
dreaming of morphing
into something or someone else.
But they told us
to remove that fluff
from our head
and put it on the shelves.
We were the film club fanatics,
studying the dynamics
of how to be a pretend person.
We wanted to be
a Wes Anderson flick,
but we were never any thing
other than who we were
and that's what made us sick.
And I swear I miss the desperation:
I'm nostalgic for yesterday's conversations.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
edge of the World; the lip of a spoonfull
of neptune breath and jewels
where elephants room for the night. full
of blue doom; a bed and a pool
the edge [ was a world you slip through ] youthful
no pontoons. next to a mule
with an Angel. cruel neckties, spiteful
apples, atoms
and you
the Spaulding gray and blue Danube
diffused.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 3:26 PM UTC
I am an empty jar
of artichoke
hearts.
Halved, sliced,
salted and eaten whole
with mouths open,
hearts
upon sleeves, she
gingerly caresses
parted lips. See,
marinated
hearts
beat tenderly
beneath linen made
of artichoke
hearts.
That is, until
I am left. Emptiness
consumes me, her
hearts
in the right place
but my hearts never there.
Empty, Broken.
Hearts
are delicious
until they expire.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
Spring’s beautiful down south
but brash and sudden.
Up north she tiptoes up
and peeks through the window
then timidly taps on the door to see if she’s welcome
(still easily intimidated by winter)
before settling down for a spell.
When spring arrives in Maine
we cautiously peel off our outer garments
like the petals of an artichoke braised and well seasoned
savoring each discarded layer
until we reach the delicious, tender heart
and discover once more
we’re not just a pile of animate clothes
but bodies,
sensuous, delectable, playful bodies
full of trembles, shudders and precious sighs.
Down south
it’s jackets to tee shirts overnight;
no luscious dropping of winter clothes
one by one
into seductive piles on the floor,
no ******** gasp
as the first warm breeze gently caresses bare skin,
scarce any renewal.
But then,
subtlety has never been
a southern trait.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
crooked eyelash
gnarly, toothy
snookie snookie
with a grin like chocolate suckle
that is smooth sangria down the throat
artichoke belt buckle
enjoy the comfortable finale
"forget i'm filthy, from the alley"
chicky? chicky! are you sleeping?
i have been for 16 years
dreaming loads of lovely fellows
strong enough to show me tears
i have wasted the best of charms i've ever tasted;
the stairs fall down beneath my heel
i greet your frowns
my toes on the line
i drink with a hunger
from a gallon of wine
encourage the blur
allow the feel
do they think that i am beautiful?
do they think that i am real?
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 7:19 PM UTC
I saw a necklace I thought you'd like.
I still like the sound of your name
even though it hurts to say.
I never liked it on anyone but you.
The healing bracelet you gave me
has been in my jewelry box for 13 months.
I wore it every day for more than a year
I haven't seen or spoken to you since Marie's birthday
September 9th
I wonder if losing you was part of my healing or yours.
Do you still dance to Florence & the Machine?
Do you still tell our stories?
Remember Stab Wound Guy
and the time we took videos of each other
throwing up in the same weekend
and it wasn't revealed until brunch the next day?
Or the cab driver that said "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing"
is the most romantic song?
What do you tell our friends when they ask where I've been?
I can't forgive you for saying
I would have been ***** even if I hadn't come to Chicago.
I can't forgive you for saying
you needed me.
You held me crying on your bathroom floor.
Do you know I got a cat?
When was the last time you saw your sister?
I was never more honest than when I was with you.
Secrets in stairwells.
I don't look at our pictures.
I dreamt I saw you and you looked away.
I only speak about you gently.
I still think about you daily.
You are one of three things I wouldn't change
about my time in Chicago.
You taught me how to eat an artichoke
and how to survive.
Just so you know, I'm okay.
I wish you could see me smile now.
I still wish I knew how to thank you
or if you know I'm sorry.
What do you remember about me?
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
All of life,
everything we shall ever know
is found within the gardens
Pulling weeds and the cover crop
*** them under or pulling them up
I never remember
The soil crumbling between my fingers
Perfect for planting
All is hope and promises
The gardens are a cycle
You've have to add excrement to begin again
The seeds are sewn, the starts transplanted
Water slightly pooled, dripping down into
the rich dark soil
A red worm winds its way down
Life begins again
Vulnerable
The light of the sun, so warming
Cosmic love radiated our way
Life is an urge, it finds its way
The lettuce, the tomatoes, the zucchini, the artichoke, the cauliflower, the raspberries,
a blue berry or two
Medicinal herbs, oregano, cilantro, too
Fruitful youth
A flower is a plant with a hardon
The juices running right down my face
Taste
Nourishment
It feels like total summer forever
But football and school come every September
The days get shorter
The plants turn yellow and brown
Outgrow themselves
Wither and die
Purgatory lives,
along come the cover crops and weeds
In winter all just try to survive
The garden know its limits
It knows what being is all about
All of life, everything we shall ever know
Is found within the gardens.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC
driving on an electric highway,
it shoots to be the
monkey on the back.
white, green in a bottle or a machine.
foul breath creams
out words that i hold dear.
holding up a candle
by its burning wick
while a sea breeze slaps me
with a salty sting.
fumbling through an atmosphere
joined tongue and groove,
from the first breath to the last,
the artichoke heart pumps out a beat.
one foot in front of the other,
another swing, the pinata breaks,
raining down lies to be gathered up
and taken home,
to be stretched out and hung
along side of the truths.
© 2005
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:17 AM UTC
Despite my proficiency at chopping carrots with pinpoint precision,
I can’t pinpoint the moment when food stopped just being there and started being
THERE.
(Who remembers what it was like to hold a knife without a load of ****** connotations?*)
I don’t know
why or
what or
when or
how
but
suddenly food became scary and strange, and so much more than hot chocolate to melt the snowflakes from eyelashes or ice cream when eyelashes are melting, and suddenly the snowflakes started growing inside, icy icy cold in a way that the hot chocolate (with whipped cream à la polite refusal) could never have melted.
I don’t know many things.
I know a lot less than I claim to know but I know that food is life and I would say
Life is A Good Thing.
I know that people say you are what you eat. I never knew what it meant.
Never knew what it meant, that is, until I thought about you and all the things you could be.
You could be what you eat.
o Who cares if you cry when your tears are lemonade?
o I don’t mind if you style your hair in fusilli ringlets or tagliatelle straight. Both are equally delicious.
o Without trying to peanut butter-you-up, you’re exactly my cup of tea.
o I know that the only time to cry over spilled milk is when you were about to dip your biscuits in it.
o Life’s not always a piece of cake…which is why I urge you to have your cake and eat it too, whenever possible.
o You know what else I know? You’re iced to perfection with a cherry on top.
o If you’d rather, you could always be a sweetie pie.
o And let me spill the beans: the only way to tie up your shoes is with strawberry laces.
o I’d even love you for your artichoke heart, as long as it’s still beating.
o You’re the apple of my eye nonetheless.
o Everyone knows the best way to maintain good dental hygiene is to candy-floss your tic-tac teeth.
o And you can show them off when you grin and your mouth becomes a banana split on strawberry lips.
So tell me this:
Why have stars when you could have champagne shooters in your eyes?
Look, I may not know many things,
But something I’m sure of:
In order to be a truly tough cookie, you have to eat a lot of them first.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Have a passion for music.
A passion for plays.
Must be left overs of purplish haze daze.
A passion for words and good looking birds.
Elegant peacocks and pheasants that flap.
Tail feathers extended in preparation for glory.
Male display is a vigorous thing.
All for the sake of having a fling.
(c)LIVVI
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
Tis the season once again
For me to cast my vote
This year I'm going Bananas
Instead of Artichoke
When it comes to Apples & Oranges
They're pretty much the same
As I close the curtain on the booth
And just start punching names
Asparagus is tops on my list
Much more than Brussels Sprouts
What Veggie will lead the charge
We'll have to wait to find that out
So let's freshen up the voting block
And somewhere in between
As we vote raw our favorite vegetable
The rest of them we'll steam
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
Mother Ceres
hair trussed and
braided like an artichoke,
smiles down on this mad scene.
Bums asleep on every littered lawn,
cripples, drunks,
businessmen, young women
move by in the shattered light,
pacing to some cynical drum,
proceeding from
place to place.
Armageddon looms
with the stink of diesel
and a sudden roar.
Slow motion bodies
crawl, skip and hop.
The light grows white and
whiter yet. The ***** bus window
cracks
and outside
all is very still.
A head fashioned
from cold stone,
blank eyes seeing all.
A smile matching Death
to his lithe sister
Love.
A smile.
Demeter!
Ceres!
Mother of summer,
the dry wind.
Love the hollow stone,
the dust, the poisoned air.
Love this poor harvest.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
i.
the bones of your face
are long and defined.
i parse you
into geometry:
the firm lean lines of your
nose, your jaw
as a child's drawing,
as a cubist's dream.
ii.
you linger in my mind.
the way your hands
peel apart a question
as an artichoke falls open
barbed layer by layer until
you bare its redolent heart
which is also the answer.
Yes.
iii.
lulling, your words are calm
drops falling into the ocean
of our mutual silence. i feel
only contentment, only
contentment.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
You were born around the time
When things on the radio sounded groovy
As your mother put you to her chest
Feeling the pulse of a small baby
She didn’t know it then but
She also felt my heart too
Because all my beats were created in you
I should worship you
You tried so hard
With me
So they say,
On the seventh day after creating the universe
God rested
You spent nine months
Painting, sculpting, molding and creating me
Creating my body to feel life like gentle hands
Creating eyes to see a world surrounded in invisible wind
Creating my heart to love as often as breathing
Creating my mind that shines because it’s teeming
Creating creativity
Creating my life
Creating my universe
With me
You tried so hard
I should worship you
Growing up I didn’t have a favorite author
Because I thought you
Wrote every book
You read stories at bedtime
Like taking a spoonful of ideas and
Feeding them to my brain
Your voice can narrate a story so well
I’d close my eyes
Not because I’m trying to fall asleep
But rather trying to fall into the story
You taught me how to dream
All moms have something they can cook well
Some can make the best cherry pie
Others, a mean artichoke dip
Mom, you bake the best Life
Fresh or even the next day for leftovers
Everyone eats it and says it tastes like
Breathing
You make life
Listen to this idea and tell me what you think,
You got a million pictures
In hundreds of albums that won’t fit because
The binding became busted
I don’t get how my body
Can get so big when I
Look at pictures of me so little
Perhaps you thought each photo would
Take days off of my life so we could go back to
Feeling like,
Playing with action figures before you went to work
Feeling like,
Learning to ride a bike was on my to do list
I’m feeling like,
We can start life again
I don’t know about you but,
I’d like that
Simply because,
I had fun
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 5:11 PM UTC
Through a split lip
red foam,
froghopper froth
fizzing, haemoglobin, half-life
sitting thickly-thick,
on a paving stone.
Looking like Clinton’s cards
think human hearts
are shaped like.
But mine’s an artichoke
a watery phloem thistle core
folded in fronds and furs,
bristles of cowlick baleen,
sailing, ship-lapped bark,
darkness and birdcages.
Mine’s a rigour-mortis pill bug
potato fly, oddball, ***** slug
an ammonite, a butterfly tongue,
a bending toe curled in ecstasy.
Exponential shell chambers and septums
ending alongside everything.
And the guts of my heart
incessantly churn mechanically,
maniacally and obliviously rhythmically
Keeping me malleable
soft,
moving,
un-enveloped by beetle wings.
Just like the platelets
of my hardening spit-heart
are, blackening blood,
amber caught bugs,
clay in mud,
elliptical,
eclipsing.
Nothing
like we think it is.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Declare pragmatism a vulgarity,
a taste fowl to the tongue.
Embrace the long way home as
an integral part of healing
and swear by the virtue of art.
Decide that you will not be swayed
by flashing lights, airbrushed make-up,
or impressive displays of feathers.
Seek only the flower unseen
in a globe armored to the teeth.
Flea the baroque temptation,
extravagance will not suit you.
Confess to the heavens
your deepest desires
and find them in your own backyard.
Accept helplessness as a gift.
Stop wringing your hands,
for they will not wind the clock
in either direction you mistakenly feel
would be to your benefit.
Savor the precious little
any one thing can give you.
Scrape from each moment
all that is beautiful and velvet
and forget there is anything else.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
Tragedy may await
Soon on my Plate
As I cook something new
could end up goo
I have instinct, good taste
Nothing I make goes to waste
I have trust in my cooking
but today is a first
Its not beef stroganoff
I put in chicken
thinking why not?
I've got no beef to toss in my ***
Where I went wrong
or horribly right
was when I added the spinach artichoke dip
I made last night!
Its green as a toad!
As I have not yet eaten
Thou not scared to take my first bite
I must remember to brush my teeth when I am done eating
or I will be a grinning spinach sight!
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
It's a painful stretch to re-loving
Gargoyles in clusters clutch at my heart
Talons pierced and locked wings wrapped upon layers
Pulling each one away takes insufferable self violence
Just to clear a small space to let you through
Your heart whispers squeal like whistles in the hunt
Unsettling the watchdog beasts
Growling and snarling
Clawing tighter at the leather pith of a now stone heart
Your own needs are barking
I'm letting blood Before your debt is even paid
Claws tighten, wings gripping tighter
Leather peaches
And black Artichoke hearts
I anticipate the fall
Your darkness permeates
Your dark love kills
Still, there's something about you
I can't live without.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC