"crabapple" poems
SOMEBODY'S little girl-how easy to make a sob story over who she was once and who she is now.
Somebody's little girl-she played once under a crab-apple tree in June and the blossoms fell on the dark hair.
It was somewhere on the Erie line and the town was Salamanca or Painted Post or Horse's Head.
And out of her hair she shook the blossoms and went into the house and her mother washed her face and her mother had an ache in her heart at a rebel voice, "I don't want to."
Somebody's little girl-forty little girls of somebodies splashed in red tights forming horseshoes, arches, pyramids-forty little show girls, ponies, squabs.
How easy a sob story over who she once was and who she is now-and how the crabapple blossoms fell on her dark hair in June.
Let the lights of Broadway spangle and splatter-and the taxis hustle the crowds away when the show is over and the street goes dark.
Let the girls wash off the paint and go for their midnight sandwiches-let 'em dream in the morning sun, late in the morning, long after the morning papers and the milk wagons-
Let 'em dream long as they want to ... of June somewhere on the Erie line ... and crabapple blossoms.
2.2k
freckles clung
like manic-pixie stardust,
spackled whispers
an unfolding fractal
of brimming dresser drawers
old pictures and mix cds,
we could only ever do
what teenagers were supposed to.
smushed crabapple handholds,
moxy and sadism hard-won,
no crash course in platonicness,
our stained glass eroded
into a beach
frozen in unsummer,
opiates dull senses,
a synesthetic void
exchanging echoes of echoes,
a cacophony of empty
distilling as it leaves
in whisks of 2 a.m.s,
honey-laced whiskey,
if the sky murmurs one
last love poem, it isn't
to us but our
moment of infinity,
of blind faith
irredeemably lost,
that forever of apex
where the line between
falling and flying
blurs.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Paula is digging and shaping the loam of a salvia,
Scarlet Chinese talker of summer.
Two petals of crabapple blossom blow fallen in Paula's
hair,
And fluff of white from a cottonwood.
2.1k
*For cold , crystal clear water , **** treats and sage advice
on quite a few hot , humid , June afternoons* ..
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
Landing on both feet
is never as easy as I thought it would be
when I saw you jump
gracefully
from the top of the crabapple tree.
I've always hit a branch along the way down.
You'd pick me up,
dust me off,
and say to me -
Breathe the smell of the crabapple blooms!
It's the smell of freedom! Of release!
Inhale,
and you'll sense it in the air
and land perfectly on your feet.
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
i.
In Toronto, we could lean out the kitchen window
and steal pears from the neighbor's tree.
ii.
It was the first time I had seen my sister in years.
We climbed a hill to pick wild plums.
iii.
He said I'll eat one if you do.
We laughed around our crabapple kisses.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
It started with existence
just a lowly perspective of a mute
time when I was able to
make sense of this pressure
make sense of why
you are now here to guide me now
on this looser journey; a lonely crabapple
still grappling at shriveled skin creating a face
that I still
cannot
distinguish.
With the end of presence as we know it
you have finished, rightly
in my dressing room
bright screen lit up
but only for a moment do I dare look away.
It started with you, and it will end with you
Closed off from me, shortly
your bioluminescence radiant,
your perfection incomplete.
I’ve known you for six straight years
or was it five
just enough
construed construction, a bloated
piece of mind that left me free to wander
aimlessly down I path I cannot recognize.
It was you who caused my blunder,
keeping me awake every night
with your brightness and distraction and amiable personality.
I decorated you with bits of me,
tangled in and out like woven webs of cybernetics
optimal connections, you died twice and I revived you.
But that was in the past
and you still cling on, for how much longer
I shan’t not know.
Only that what it means to exist
when I should be letting go.
I have to face the trust of reality and its weakened points;
that dangerous, well-formed world I find myself in.
I hope you can follow me
as long as you are able,
my clunky plastic compadre
your heart is metal mixed with other
kinds of fragile contraptions.
I know this end to my happiness is not your fault.
You were there when I needed you most,
even if you are a tool of innocence turned foul.
I once learned all of existence from your knowledge,
gleaned myself raw
trying to let you help me
understand myself.
We are not truly over because I am bound to you
somehow
even though I’ve used you for my own gain
abused your trust and have my own heart slain.
All I ask is for you to give me a chance
to make it right
again.
And then I can move on to better things.
And not be obsessed of what you think of me.
And find a way to pull myself together.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
We were suckleberry sonnets
Crabapple tree climbers
Little girls in pink frills
With fire drills in our heads
from our mother's
They told us
"don't let a boy touch you"
We were rockets aimed for the moon
We always came a little too short
I always thought it was just me
Part of me always knew
I always knew it couldn't be right
I was nine
I wanted a boy to teach me things,
things my father never could
He was fourteen, I'd known him all my life
I liked his trampoline
But his hands
I ******* hated his hands
They tugged and pulled at me during hide and seek
He whispered
"Stop crying"
(I was always asking for it)
He could see it when I smiled
I guarded my smile like I guarded his secret
My nine year old mind didn't want it anymore
I wanted him less than I wanted to erase it
Erase the things he'd planted so mischievously
I was an empty nine year old casket
I rode my bike like a hurst
I wore my turtleneck like a bulletproof vest
I thought he couldn't hurt me there
I was an angry sailor without a single burst of wind
A single burst of freedom
It's all I wanted
all I ever needed
I needed someone to free my from the grips of the Devil
I prayed to my mother's God
He didn't answer for two years
I thought he would free me like the night
I thought he would let go like a never ending story
But he's always been a part of my story
My suckleberry sonnet
my first love
my broken mother
all my nightmares
Thanks, *******
I don't let him ruin me anymore
He doesn't own me like he used to
He no longer steers my so easily swayed ship
He's just a piece
(A piece of **** of course)
But only a small piece of me
I ride my bike like it's a steed now
I don't wear turtlenecks
I don't own a bulletproof vest
He's gone
I'm still here
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
THERE are places I go when I am strong.
One is a marsh pool where I used to go
with a long-ear hound-dog.
One is a wild crabapple tree; I was there
a moonlight night with a girl.
The dog is gone; the girl is gone; I go to these
places when there is no other place to go.
1.4k
To be in the top of that familiar old tree , throwing apples down for my friends to eat ! Gathering her yield for Dad's fried pies , ammo of choice for crabapple fights ! Lip smacking best jelly you've ever eaten , warm milk with applesauce when we couldn't get to sleep ...A quick snack while mowing the yard , cornbread , sweet tea and apple butter !
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
(I. Summer ‘ 13)
Freckles clung
like manic-pixie stardust,
spackled whispers
an unfolding fractal
of brimming dresser drawers
old pictures and mix cds,
we could only ever do
what teenagers were supposed to.
Smushed crabapple handholds,
moxy and sadism hard-won,
no crash course in platonicness,
our stained glass eroded
into a beach
frozen in unsummer,
opiates dull senses,
a synesthetic void
exchanging echoes of echoes,
a cacophony of empty
distilling as it leaves
in whisks of 2 a.m.s,
honey-laced whiskey—
if the sky murmurs one
last love poem, it isn't
to us but our
moment of infinity,
of blind faith
irredeemably lost,
that forever of apex
where the line between
falling and flying
blurs.
(II. Fall ’13)
Spines and ribs
don’t do it justice
you raptured me
both ways to Sunday,
built me up to shatter jaws,
car windows—me
bar stool battered,
you my perfect carpenter,
smile with wooden teeth
(you made them yourself)
so stain me the color of
cherry trees
and unbliss my empty spine.
(III. Winter ’13)
Mildew clutched tight,
hollow-boned, manic thrusting,
marionette-faced, barrow-lunged,
nails to the bone-gristle,
lips raw with spit-polish,
redacted eyes, redacted eyes--
we are palpable creatures,
transient drifters of soulspeck,
one unraveling the other constructing,
sallow truth would dissolve skin.
founder a self, rusty copper
with adamantine eyes,
steel core unbroken by absence,
drown in opposite directions,
oceanwater salve, yes
calloused tongues jostle,
ribbed in salt and rust.
Unlaced corset,
striped sweater,
grunged trainline veins
run on endlessly,
a clock,
abandoned in the middle,
I think once
it very much mattered.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
A ragged, one eyed bear held dearly by a child.
A solitary leaf blown around on the summer breeze.
The smell of old books with turned corners.
The sapling struggling for light beneath the mighty oak.
The bounty discarded by the crabapple tree.
An ill advised mullet.
The opening chords of Born To Run
Kurt Cobains smile.
All these things bring you to me.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
roll up! roll up!!
you fine hearted boy.
time now to put down,
the store made toys.
time to make magic...
with the inside,
of your mind
roll up! roll up!!
to the dream circus
let's see what we find....
melamine monkeys
mimic monstrousity's
mangling, minor majorities
in musical mayhem
symphonies, sublime
playing mozart in part on
a shiny yellow kazooo
meanwhile marshmallow
crocodiles smile with
mincing beguile
at ****** moo cows
meandering miles
in crooked zig-zag lines
making milkshakes
all the while...
mouses and mices
are avoiding becoming
itty bitty pieces of
rodent and crabapple pie
by milling mindlessly
around the mound
of milliners, by the by.
now to
meet and greet at the
zoo
mrs hippopotomus
has ginger biscuits and
mango milk ready for you
while you watch the fleet of zebras and their plataypi crew,
sail in the xebec regatta
twice around the isle of goo.
before saying
huzzah and hooroo
they won the championship
whoohoo!!!!
it's all a happenin,
at the bing **** bingle zoo
but for all these
amazing thing to occur
my lad
you have to pay your dues
so close your eyes,
and sleep .....
and you will see
a wonderful dream or two....
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
I remember the day you Murdered the Yucca plant.
How you glowered over the sharp shredded remains of leaves and center stalk, which had once succeeded such tremendously large blossoms of which I was so fond of as a child.
Such determination in your hazel brown eyes.
I remember the Fable of the Avocado Sprout and the Squirrel.
The Parable of the Blonde Boy and the Crabapple Tree.
The Romance of the Mosquito and the Fly.
And best of all.
The Demise of the Kodiak and the Lioness.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
The old man of the yard, the sage
Wind-burnt and callused
Gnarled limbs, intertwined fingers
Like capillaries ripe for bursting
With a harvest of simple blooms
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
The secrets of winter
give the deep dark redness
to the leaves of the crabapple tree.
I have no desire to prune or sculpt.
I am not wise,
but know enough not to try.
Rooted steadfast
yet its limbs sprawl wild
as if defying me.
Planted when I wed.
Imprisoned yet free.
My love for thee.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
When that 'Crabapple' rolled down the mountain the coonhounds ran like stuck pigs ! Guys that talked tough an red-neck men got religion faster than a 'red tail' buzzing a chicken pen !
This crikker-croaker was the meanest buzzard that Georgia clay ever invented ! He hunted razorbacks barehanded an bear with a hickory switch , the self proclaimed meanest son-of-a ***** in the whole shooting match , self righteous raw meat eatin' , grain alcohol drinking bush-whacker you've ever witnessed ....
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
*Sorghum Fall , October blue windfelt opera
of curious Winter tapping November's hardwood door
Days of colorful wishes falling to Earth
They meet in oakwood harbors , perform
in the crystal sunrise ballet , pie pans
ring in crabapple arbors , withered corn songs
crackle exquisitely , they echo o'er hayfield terrace ,
red , brown and golden forest
Hillandale , windballad allegories , butterscotch fields
suing for frosted cover
Warm cabin firewood symphonies , cider and cinnamon
Hereford morning bawl , early wren catcalls
Oak chair and fescue pillow* ....
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Drunk and rambunctious
I follow in his footsteps
It's only fitting
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
My eyes, throbbing with agony,
bore through the window,
desperately seeking the freedom of sky.
To my surprise the crabapple tree
possessed joyous magenta flowers,
providing an unexpected
jubilant assault of my mind.
Lush leafy erratic branches,
a turmoil of spring beauty
stood in striking empathy of my silent cries.
The afternoon sun pales the majesty of magenta.
As only love can pale agony.
Memories live forever, is a haunting horrible lie.
Unlike me, those magenta flowers don't need a why....
My love for her will never die.
The majesty of those magenta flowers,
if only for a moment, seizes and saves me deep inside.
Apr 16, 2025
Apr 16, 2025 at 7:40 AM UTC
*Swaying Pin Oaks wave to me from
my window perch , a veritable sea of gold
and green in contrast to this dark living room
I remember these majestic Water Oaks as
seedlings , held upright by kite string and wooden
stakes
Cedar trees standing o'er twenty feet tall , Wild Plum
trees congregating for a quarter of a mile
Dirt roads at each intersection , a lonely state highway
for riding bicycles and collecting empty pop bottles
Watching afternoon Whitetail Does from July cornfields ,
carving walking sticks from Hickory , climbing
Crabapple trees for midday snacks , canoeing trips on
the Indian Creeks
Where do memories find rest as the body quietly withers away*
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
Autumn has fallen.
Bowed her umber head
On bended knee
In supplication
A new reign begins
The geese in formation flee
Their discordant cries
a perfect counterpoint
To their orderly V
The banished army of summer
Still Sunday mornings
Frostbitten silences
Shattered by the cacophony
of hunters' guns
Reaping the spoils
Hedgerows thickly laden
Berries of holly,
sloe, ivy, crabapple
After sweeter fruits are gone
Provide a bitter feast
Coldness brings clarity
Stripped away
of the raiment of summer
The bare vista in her true form
Naked, cold and beautiful
Only the strongest scents survive
The salt tang of the sea
The sharpness of evergreen
Joined now by a new one
The tingling promise of snow
Onward she sweeps
A glittering queen
Tracing filigree on
leaf, pond and pane
Marking her conquests
The world is struck numb,
Dumb
By this terrible beauty
This force of nature
Now is the cusp of Winter
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 7:15 AM UTC
12/6/2015
"*Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.*"
TS eliot, the wasteland
I am amberbeetle,
stoked fire,
medicated ditz
I ramble through the wasteland,
hook foot and slackjaw
and go south in the winter.
you gave me asters a year ago
now they call me aster girl
memory almost always mixed with
desire,
and I
should've been
a pair of ragged claws
but that's a different poem.
We talked for an hour
maybe more
in the summer,
and he said
hold tight,
and I was was frightened,
and down we went.
Swiss instigation,
broken video tapes and
grimacing at sweaty sunsets
sunrises, and
there was no Japanese maple
no silver leaf,
no silver lining,
I read much of the night.
roots that clutch me in
metropolitan
rubble,
and these days
the broken deadtree gives
no shelter, no consummation
no conjugal embrace,
I don't find,
nor am I
the hanged man
"And I'd do it any other way
but when the hell am I gonna get a gun?
and you can't OD on clonepazam
without it being ugly of course."
Dorothy Parker–
I planted a corpse in my yard
Who am I kidding,
we did,
me with some assistance
It was carrion
found in the corridor
did it sprout?
it did,
but not in the way I hoped-
no carrot flowers or crabapple
in fact it was held up
by fruit vines
that illuminated it for all to see
including me.
In the sad sad light a
carved seraphim
melted into the laqueria
my nerves, they're bad tonight
and every night
stay with me
Speak with me
breed
in the rats alley
and lose your bones
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
When we first moved in,
The landowner said that
The old crabapple tree in
The yard hasn't yielded
Its fruit for many a year.
The executioner was going
To end its life, but we
Convinced the judge to
Grant a stay of execution
Regarding the beheading
So we could make a valiant
Effort at rehabilitating
The desolate old soul.
All because of a last minute
Reprieve, that unproductive
Tree has been rejuvenated
And regenerated; once
Again bearing fruit for
Many a year for us to eat
And share with others.
Apr 29, 2025
Apr 29, 2025 at 9:07 AM UTC
Today
I considered the crabapple tree
the slow swell of its buds;
the future birth of deep crimson leaves from each sprawling limb
I let grow wild,
refusing to clip and snip.
Even at my best imagined vision,
I could never sculpt it better
than its natural design.
Well, I lie.
Took the saw to a branch once
that came close to poking out my eye
by the washing line.
But the rest
I left
to stretch.
Its many arms reaching
to hold the sky
as I
behold it.
A simple tree,
is it nature's gift to me?
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC