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

The red shirt is torn,
an eyelash ****,
your skin exposed
but no blood.
You were born for this.

I dig in my silver weapon,
sever your synapses.
With each new cut
comes a soggy cream sheet
and you sigh and you sigh.

It was inevitable.
Fixed smiles
flop from your spine,
see-saw on the board
and form a wrecked star.

Now just your teeth,
the brown raindrops.
I use my thumb
to tug them out,
dislocated, then gone.

Bees were swarming around the eastern
shallow end, a warning that the cherries
are deepened and smattering
the pond's bank with nature's jam,
the small tree a joy to the family, but
nobody around much now to keep them
picked and eaten.
The snapping turtles have had their fill
of the cherries and basked lazily in the
center of the deep end, at least two of them
and as I'm a frequent friend, they stationed
amiably as I walked, picked up and threw
grasshoppers to the fish in the water.
The spiders will appear in proportion soon
to the apples growing on three trees
at the edge of the woods, about 40 feet
south of the pond, with a jut of the creek
in between them.
Every year I get my sweet fill of those apples,
planted 50 years ago or so by my great-grandfather,
don't know what they are, maybe Braeburn,
judging by their mottled colors of red and yellow.

squirming worms
rotten apple brain
psychotic terms

disguised stable & sane
sorry infestation
good looks maintain

proceed with hesitation
pink ladies disappoint
one bite and cessation

outward promises at their breaking point
inside, a terrible surprise to avoid

you are the Ambrosia of my mind
the apple of my eye
crisp and Red delicious
a Macintosh in waiting

     Granny Smith is exuberant
     over our Gala to toast the Empire
     I see a Pink Lady in Fuji
     Honeycrisp in every way

you are the Envy of Pazzaz
playing Jazz in Cameo at the Braeburn
in front of Lady Alice in Holstein
like a Hidden Rose

     though Janagold is **** mixed with sweetness
     your Liberty embraces Gravenstein
     akin to a Pacific Rose like an Opal
     enjoying Winesap instead of Mutsu

Andreas Simic©

The big doors roll open

at sunrise        at sunset

they roll closed

the man with the hand truck

moves his bins and flats

his palette loads       across the lot


Living downhill

from a fruit stand

I’ve come to accept

that joy can appear

at your feet

Red Delicious, Braeburn

Fuji and maybe

D’Anjou on a good day

Valencia Vidalia or Walla Walla

Sweet

Reach down       pick up


Be open hearted         don’t

expect too much--

the little that comes your way

tastes in its scarcity

full of life       this life       your life


I pray uphill in the morning

and I pray uphill at night

to the God of Gravity                                *Satsuma!

Her name is Lillia,* and I think
               I love her. Her name is Lillia and
   I think I love her and she smells like
             caramelized marshmallows with Honey
                                                           ­                Crisp apples.
                              Or was it Braeburn?
    She smells like Anjou pears and one
           day old rose petals (Scentimental, I think
            they’re called). Her soul would put feathers
                                                to shame with its lightness. When
                       she says my name I hear the crystal echo
        of wolves among the cliffs, and the ******
  of fluted champagne glasses swirling
                              merry contents. Her waist
                                   is like an hourglass where time
                          melts away in a daring drip of
                   not-quite-a-solid-but-is-sand-a-liquid-no-it’s-not.
         ­    Her name is Lillia and I don’t quite
                                      remember how I met her but it’s okay
             because I’m here and she’s here and
                                                             ­        the end justifies the means, right?
Her name is Lillia and I want her
                    to stay with me until all of the stars
    in this starry night become hers. Her name
                        is Lillia, and I am too transfixed by her
        hair swaying in the breeze to notice
                            that she has already walked
                *farther away than I could ever follow.