"blueberries" poems
He stood fifty times his height,
his palms pressed against the glass
separating him from the road in their glamour;
blurred images of car in their splendor –
and there isn’t the
familiar scent of coffee –
I call this pandemonium.
Nothing beats a day in a café
redolent of the finest Arabica,
he’d inhale deeply and recall :
unroasted gives the sweetest scents
of blueberries –
roasted’s entirely different:
fruit, sugar, perfume –
They call this addiction.
Mnemonic – a wind chime
lost in the array of winds.
“You used to be my cup of tea –
I drink coffee now.”
These words slip out of his dry lips,
and a lone tear trickles down a milky cheek;
They all say if they’ve got love,
they don’t need money –
And he’d say if he’s got coffee,
he doesn’t need love –
He calls this heaven.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
Stop resenting me
For the way I shop
The things I do
To make sure
My food is fresh
I confess I feel blueberries
In my fingers
To make sure they are firm
Not too ripe
I confess I shake
Cans of spaghetti and ravioli
So that I know
The sauce is not
Congealed
I confess I pull frozen waffles
From the back of the freezer
Less likely that they thawed
And refroze into
Oddball shapes
I confess I smell trout
Before I buy it
Placing it against my nose
In the most unabashed
Way
Spare me your hate
About my consumer habits
When I know it has nothing to do with
Food
As long as I bring you warm release
In the darkness of your desires
Pull your tangled hair the way
You like
Bite your darting tongue
In mad hunger
Deep appetite
As long as I reawaken the
Woman
Primal animal hidden
Within
Turn your heat into a river
For a long passionate
Swim
As long as I attend quickly to your
Every ***** command
The craving of your ******
Insatiable
Demand
Then I can squeeze french bread
In quiet and peace
I can sniff cantaloupes
Without suffering ire
Or grief
I’ll take you tonight
In that filthy way
You like
Until then
Leave me alone
I’m shopping.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 6:15 AM UTC
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
But I am relieved.
Not being confined in bright velvets
of the West, or shimmering silks of
the East. Each hand-stitched with
animals and flowers, crystals and
furs, with gold and silver to
parade around in Court.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
I find far more splendour in a simple
iris-purple kimono-robe, lightweight,
silk-satin and printed with lilies with
a pink silk trim. It strokes my ankles,
and the sleeves, they billow; the sash
firmly fastened around my waist.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
My handmaid, Ilazi, presents a gilded
bowl with the purest form of fruits -
the ones that were rain-washed. I have
a variety to choose from - strawberries,
blueberries, peaches, green, red and
black grapes which I pick and nibble
on. Hmm, a succulent balance of
sweetness and ****
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And then my senior handmaid, Anihana,
arrives with a tray in hand, clearly made
from stainless steel with rose-gold accents.
'Sweet Queen,' says she. At the wave of my
hand, the music stops. 'Forgive me for
keeping you waiting. I know how particular
you are with your pearls so I narrowed
them to your favourite three choices.'
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Thank you,' I say and as I lean up, she
presents three cream-hued scrolls.
'Lists,' says she, 'of all the ship's
inventory. Would you like to
inspect them, my lady?'
'I will after some tea, Ainhana,
thank you.'
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Anihana nods and moves by my side
as my eyes fall on the tray's contents.
A small silver five-minute sand-timer,
a glass teapot with bamboo handle,
an infuser and steel lid half filled
with hot water; steam dancing
out of the spout. Then, a lovely
glass teacup, one of the most
beautiful I've seen yet.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
Criminal
O Criminal
This deceit you leak reeks
Of sour lemons and urination.
Criminal
O Criminal
This pride you flood smells
Of blueberries and broken dreams
Criminal
O Criminal
These miracles you bring leave a miasma
Of grape Faygo and suffering souls
Criminal
O Criminal
The peace I bring leaves an aroma
Of blue raspberry popsicles and lonely depression
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
ripe wild blueberries
nestled under tall fir trees
sweet **** juice bursts forth
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Licking lips and tasting purple fingertips,
we paused to sensually share from each.
You,with your mulberries of juicy richness,
and I with naive blueberries without guile.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
handpicked blueberries in yogurt,
tea on the porch, Ellen,
in desperation to plant a raspberry bush.
jogging through a grasshopper field
holding in screams at the small green chirps
shooting up around my ankles.
grimy trails of sweat, the daddy longlegs
crawling out from under my thigh
the dirt at home under my nails.
nickel-bright stars above
the trees, a cool tress rising,
buzzing in the porch light of
bugs going for our jugulars,
still tight and smooth.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
I would have really liked
just doing laundry and taxes with you.
We're near the avocados
and I can't help but tease you
"when are you going to make the avocado dish"
it's with a sly smile I ask this.
I can't resist,
seeing your little dance
your face scrunched
and you're flustered -
"we'll get them right now, so I can make it this time"
"No, no."
"We'll get them next time"
but really I don't like avocados
it's just part of the fun.
You drop some blueberries into the cart
"they're good for the heart".
Mar 26, 2023
Mar 26, 2023 at 11:56 PM UTC
Black blueberries buttoned by *****
Black blueberries buttoned by *****
This wasn't yours to loose
Nothing was yours to loose
Black blueberries backed by bench men
Bench men that sit on side lines
Thinking
When will the golden moment be
To break through; proving themselves
Worthy of the benched boxes they be in
Everyday
Because
They believe in benevolence
Black blueberries busting through my *****
Black blueberries busting through my *****
Better than bullets
Better than bullets
Better than bombs and turrets
Better than ballistic knifes and skillets
And arsenals of ignorance bettered with bills
Bills I pay to ensure my life is ready to die
Is it a matter of our collective thoughts?
Those black blueberries are buried
And not because I am becoming a black blueberry I say this
But because life begins with black blueberries
Who all turn into nothing but pale *****
All conformed
Not to natural laws
But to the cognitive bacterial infection
Called education
Turning us to blue blueberries
Blue blueberries
And grand building bannered with ********
Black blueberries are bored
Black blueberries are right
Black blueberries are always right…
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
I was born to a woman who smoked cigarettes
and since I was a child, I tried to inhale blueberries until they
stalled my windpipe.
My mother taught me that word –
windpipe – after she coughed for hours upon hours. I
was so happy that day, imagining how I must have swallowed
windchimes for the doctors who helped birth me
in December’s final snow –
how I hoped they believed I sounded pretty, although
covered in that sop adults call life juice. Life juice sounds nice
but I had known babies who
came just as sticky as me and never got to breathe.
Windchimes, you know, the things
beautiful ladies in ankle-length dresses hang outside,
my daddy lived thirteen hours down the interstate and I knew
somehow that he owned one.
In my dreams, I touched it
and pulled on it. I twisted the copper-ends up like my
momma’s hair and pretended we were with my dad by some
lake where the breezes are heavy enough and I
am small enough for them to carry me up, up, and away.
Everyone insisted that windpipes are inside
while windchimes stay out –
I fixed that problem, too. I tried three times to plant chimes in
my ears, unglue parts of the skin there from myself
to make room for dangly jewelry. A tiny
slit was all I needed, but it would not stay open for long
and I never got to swing my head
pretend I possessed the ability to create music like how God
let my momma grow smoke. I never got to exhale.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
There once was a father antelope
Who loved fruit salad
As well as his one and only
Antelope daughter.
One day
A young boy antelope
Came sauntering over
And took a liking to
The daughter.
So he asked the father antelope,
"May I marry your daughter?"
And father antelope said,
"No."
And oh the young boy antelope
Begged and
Begged and
Begged
The father for his daughter's
Hand in marriage.
But he refused.
But you see,
The daughter antelope
Loved the young boy antelope
And she wanted so badly to marry him.
So she made up her father's
Favorite dish,
A fruit salad
With all the fruits you could
Think of.
There was
Strawberries
And
Blueberries
And
Cantaloupe
And
Watermelon
And
Every
Single
Fruit.
She knew this was the way to her father's heart
So she brought it to him
That very day
And she said,
"Please oh please father.
Let me marry the young boy antelope."
And her father said,
"No."
And she
Begged and
Begged and
Begged
Him to let her marry him.
But all he would say was,
"No."
So she brought out her special weapon,
She showed him the salad made from
Every fruit imaginable,
Like
Strawberries
And
Blueberries
And
Cantaloupe
And
Watermelon
And
Every
Single
Fruit.
And she told him,
"If you will not let me marry him,
Then we will run away together
And get married far far away
Without your permission."
And the father looked deep into the fruit salad.
He looked long and hard.
He looked at the
Strawberries
And
Blueberries
And
Cantaloupe
And
Watermelon
And
Every
Single
Fruit.
And without looking up
Without breaking his gaze
With that lovely fruit salad
He said to her,
"No.
Antelope
Cantaloupe."
The end.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
I'm always thinking of you,
For all the imposters I say shoo.
You always know what I need.
To be with you I plead.
With blueberries, or syrup,
I always cheer up.
Waffles are my weakness.
Each and every one is full of uniqueness.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Red is the color of apples so delicious
Orange is the color of oranges and fishes
Yellow is the color of the sun in the sky
But don't look at it now, it'll burn the retina of your eye!
Green is the color of the grass and trees
Blue is the color of blueberries
Indigo is just a name for really dark blue
And Violet rhymes with nothing
But neither DO YOU!
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 8:18 PM UTC
The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)
Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.
The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.
Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.
To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!
Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!
My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.
My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!
Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."
The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.
Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.
The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
i am abrasive
personality functionality deficit
yet i attract
beautiful women
to befriend the hermit of solidarity
will you go out with me
brought answers on no
my friend i could not lose
yet for the end of altruistic bargaining
i end up ahead
with false promises of a beginning
to an end my own personal
apocalypse
david lee roth would understand
that as i write in this
mindset
brought on by reading
778 comics in 12 hours
and a 4 day binge of job for a cowboy
my mind wanders
as insomnia sets in
would i be one of the great
dissociative poets?
a dose of the unrequited free associative minds
free thinking form of diet coke with a side of purple strawberries no i meant blueberries
my mind wanders
and yet i look forward to pad thai on wednesdays with cute blondes whom with i stand
the chance of a bat in the mosh pits of a metal band
suckers
i win
for you all know the taste of yellow mustard
ramble ramble ramble
this indie pop poem
would it be ironic to like it
if one truly hates the wording
and yet loves the idea
one of lives greatest life mysteries
alcohol i bid thee a fair welcome
nimble bubblegum monkey wrench
how long will you read?
enough to to see my lack of coherent sentence structure
or that i am a flawed creation
going on and on about existential non existent problems
for i shall exist regardless of my best intentions
as the wheel continues to roll on despite the moss covering this ice slicked track
metal boar slayer of a thousand suns would be a good metal name from sweden
the mooring dove coos to the beat of an undead drum
boo hoo boo hoo cries the witch at the stake
i am done
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
blueberries gasoline and prostate gland
breast cancer Wonderbread and pacifier
controlled experiment space travel and honey
peanuts inductive reasoning and electricity
tornadoes torture chamber and biscuits
copyright car radio cantaloupe
golden eagle lunch break tomato
Romanian songbook rhubarb and barbed wire
always hungry nevermind meat loaf
goosefoot mango juice Ipad
mosquito bite city street and broccoli
Chinese cabbage female *** drive water sport
pure contralto goat yogurt new year
black death white light and green tea
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
Oftentimes I find myself having these random bubble bursts of thoughts-I want to learn Sanskrit…..what? Where does that even come from? Or Hey! Learning to sew would be neat. Or you know, I could really benefit from reading the newspaper.
And the thing that I struggle to understand is that when I have thoughts like this, is this an attempt to discover more of me or is this me trying to force an idea onto myself that isn’t actually me, but what I think I would like to be...
Think about it. If you came out of the womb and you had a catalogue and could then choose carefully categorized qualities in yourself, what would you choose? Sometimes it feels like then it would be easier then having to try and discover it for yourself. And I could go on about how no, it’s great that we have to go through this struggle to find it and I’ve learned all these things from my journey, but unfortunately, that is not this poem.
No one actually knows who they are completely ever. That’s a neverending journey according to...well everyone. But why do we fight so hard to find it?
If someone paid me to try one new thing each day, I would take them up on that opportunity but if you think at the end of it all, I’d tell you what I learned about myself, then you can have your money back because I’m not interested.
Not every experience is a learning experience and not every adventure has to mean something. I like rock climbing. I like blueberries and strawberries and raspberries. I take long car rides just because I can, thank you Hybrid vehicles. But I am not a rock climber or a farm girl or a lover of cars. I know that I am a person who is going day to day doing things that I like to do. So I may pick up my ukulele this day and I may never pick it up again for another year, but I certainly won’t be selling it because of that. I own more books than I can account for and haven’t read more than 30% of them, but I hate having to take books to the used book store and I love buying more. And so what does that make me?
I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, because that is not this poem.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
no more strawberries
blueberries, fuckberries: ALL:
give me everything!
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 3:26 AM UTC
My worst fears have come true,
I'm just a face in the crowd that
means nothing to you.
I've got a ****** apartment with two dudes
dropped out of school to fly
but cash shot me down
And I swear someone taught my demons to swim
because I can't seem to get them to drown.
It's like I'm stuck in immaturity
I'm a twenty-something nobody,
twenty-something nobody at all.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
Pride
Feel your collarbone;
it means progress. You don't want
to ever stop feeling bones.
Vanity
Don't you look pretty
compared to that fat slob you're
staring at? Yourself.
Gluttony
no more strawberries
blueberries, fuckberries: ALL:
give me everything!
Wrath
Violent heaving death:
you deserve the punishment!
Blood, bile, cleaned off smile.
Envy
Every pretty girl
is skinny. "Beautiful?" No,
he'd never mean me.
Sloth
I'm exercising;
not eating. *"IT'S NOT EASY
TO BE THIN LIKE THEM!"*
Lust
I must have it: be
skinny, be skinny; don't eat;
that has to be me.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
i missed the taste of an apple
i didn't even know i really liked apples
until I moved from home and fresh fruits in my diet
became such a rarity
it brought me back home
the taste of an apple
made me nostalgic
reminded me of the summer days
my mom would buy only
apples
instead of the cool fruits-- like
strawberries, blueberries, raspberries--
my favorites
instead she would buy only apples
(the kind that were on sale, of course)
and I would be disappointed
but begrudgingly I would enjoy the
taste of an apple,
on a hot summer day that leaves that earthy smell
in your hair
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC