"cucumber" poems
Im a calm, cool collected cucumber underneath this fandangled, wiry, wrinkled visage.
Ive escaped the clutches of the tangled snare of my image.
Where and when I belong and to whom is no matter.
I pass by groups and clans and grimace inquisitively at thier chatter.
To my ears its an alien clamour of clashing egos and look at me's.
They'd all be happier in a lonesome cross legged position enjoying the breeze beneath the trees.
With ease I float through my day passionately.
Expanding and contracting with the waves of existence.
I sway indefinitely.
Yield to and renounce the question arisen from the back of the mind "what does it mean to be me"
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
It’s something that try we should
To provide the parrot its basic food
Apple minus seeds mango banana
Grape orange guava papaya
As for vegetables cooked dried bean
With beet broccoli its heart you can win
Cucumber carrot and cauliflower
They surely love like they love a shower
Corn on the cob is fun for parrot
They aren’t fussy as them you thought
Hot peppers peapod lettuce
For them delicacies you can choose
Sweet and baked potato well cooked yam
They devour in delight add to their glam
Parrots are cute friendly and nice
Give them oatmeal millet brown rice
They’re not greedy from you they won’t beg
Though these birds love scrambled boiled egg
The parrot is innocent gorgeous and sweet
Can’t call them carnivore yes they like meat
Must talk to them and not keep your mouth shut
Your loving pet the parrot loves occasional nut.
Now words of caution what don’t do them good
Candy and chocolate and all junk food
I know you are smart and not at all mean
To offer this wonder bird mushrooms caffeine
Believe my words they aren’t my opinion
Use them in your food don’t give them onion
Dairy products for them are a big ‘no’ ‘no’
You surely want them to healthily glow
Give the parrot shower keep its cage clean
Give them just fresh foods no sugar no caffeine
Say ‘no’ to pesticides choose only organic
See in their bowel nothing goes toxic
Follow what I’ve said the task is not hard
Spend your time well with this beautiful bird.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
Tea Talk (or Taking Tea)
Jam comes first
And then the cream
Said the scone from Cornwall
To one ‘n’ all
Taking tea
Milk jug blinked.
The teaspoon gasped,
Who would have linked
The layers of bliss that sweetly kiss
With their order between the halves of a scone
From Cornwall
Where one ‘n’ all
Know that the milk is churned
Until it’s solid
Then we say the cream is clotted.
The teapot looked at the scone from Devon
Who knows that cream and jam is heaven
But only if the cream comes first
And then the jam . . . . .
My thoughts exactly said the ham
From between its sandwich fingers
Where it lingers
Until it’s time for tea.
‘Are you sure?’ the teacup said
To ham within its breaden bed.
Saucer asked the cucumber salad,
‘Should jam come first?’
‘But does it matter?’ said cucumber salad.
‘It’s a ballad
So red and white,
A symphony of taste
Into which to bite.
It is so right
For those who are taking tea,’
‘Jam then cream, is what you do,’
Insisted Cornwall’s scone who
As we know likes cream to be clotted.
But tomato blushed and quickly said,
‘With cream from Devon I am besotted
Because we know it’s clotted. . . . .
Too.
Onion, hearing Cornwall and Devon
Knows that cream and jam are heaven . . . . .
But jam and cream are bliss
Sealed with a kiss that is heaven . . . . .too.
The dilemma of order fuels onion’s frustration
And onion’s tears lead to prostration
For those who are taking tea.
What is to be done
To solve the question of order
Jam first . . . . . or cream?
The issue borders
On the ridiculous
As the layers sweetly intermingle
Like the lovers’ kiss
As those who are taking tea
Bite . . . . .
Ouch! said onion
The scone from Cornwall
And the scone from Devon
‘Either way is heaven.
David Applin
Copyright …David Applin (2015)
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
Cucumber mornings and coconut breezes
Embracing the moment
As the wild wind teases.
Painted red roses and stunning green eyes
Surrender your heart
To harmless white lies.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
The braches of the faint oak were bewitched to a dark gold under
the orange, thick silk sunset.
The wood, as the sun lowered, changed from apple green
to golden billow
which swept foamy,
rose clouds along a now cucumber, blurry horizon.
Plump plums and fruit rinds
litter ripe walkways alongside the flower beds who's tickled buds
are closing slightly as the fickle sky, gone nine, turns to a majestic
Indian blue and the June monastery's milky swirls are lit by the sugar lump stars.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Pickle Haiku
F J McCarthy on Jul 17, 2009
Green fresh cucumber
Drowning in spiced vinegar
Reborn a pickle
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 3:31 PM UTC
I feel like a pickle in jar.
Drowning in salty tears.
Waiting on a shelf for
someone to want me.
To drag me out of this
lonely jar and take a bite
of my tear soaked body.
I am waiting for someone
to tell the difference between
a cucumber and a pickle.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
In my backyard, the deep sauce
of sun-gold air swivels lazily,
stirred by the occasional bumblebee.
I’m entertained by the idea of anything beyond this.
No continents, no glitter-splashed ocean.
The softened world settles into itself,
transforming from its usual busyness.
Squash lounges in the garden and
preschool train operators maneuver Thomas
through his wooden kingdom.
They move trees and buildings around their set and we,
still fascinated with the cucumber in the garden,
don’t look up from skimming our fingers through grass,
changing our own soil kingdoms with the sweep of a hand.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
my room smells like that sandwich
i bought home
because of the fear of
loneliness
that sandwich
with
cold bacon
baked with temporary warmth.
spiced
with sweet onion
mayonnaise
honey mustard
which flavours fill the emptiness.
healthy-ised it with
lettuce
tomato
cucumber
onion
to make the most out of things.
my room smells like that sandwich
i bought home
because of the fear of
loneliness
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
Perfect Imperfection
My eyes are brown and big,
But darker than a twig,
My nose is flexible,
But it goes red in the cold,
My skin is sweet and gold,
But I've got spots and moles,
My lips are soft,
Like a rose~
but scarred at the left side,
I used to want to hide,
because I felt so ugly,
on the outside,
but I knew inside I was a perfect imperfection,
My anger is just !toxic,!,
Like a snake with venom,
and I tried to bleach my acne,
With CUCUMBER and LEMON,
I put on too much make-up,
Because I saw IMPERFECTION,
I thought I wasn't worth it,
Anything GOOD would throw me DOWN,
I was so NEGATIVE,
like a crying CLOWN,
But things are getting better now,
because I see how,
I've got perfect imperfections,
and everyone can see me smile,
But I am only human,
So I'll cry every once in a while,
even when I feel truly happy,
And wilder than the wild.
By Larna Kira Kourtis
Aged 14
~Peace~
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
san diego sun waves waft
in through the grime-claimed window
above the cucumber melon colored tub,
and onto a seashell embroidery,
salmon pink
lukewarm soak plus one more drink
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.
In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.
I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.
But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.
Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.
He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.
Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.
He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.
Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
green and filmy algea
whispers by the lone
sea cucumber,
caressing it as it struggles
to suction itself
lower
than the outgoing tide.
its movements, though minuscule,
move it towards the bottom of the tide pool
but not quite fast enough -
a rock could erode
faster than the sea cucumber
could crawl.
but still it moves
with the tenacity of something
that does not realize it is in danger.
and although it is fighting,
it knows not that it is fighting
but merely
goes on.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
What colour are Mondays?
Red? Well mine are.
The same colour
you’d imagine a headache to be,
tomatoes, morello cherries
or like a nosebleed.
Does that mean Tuesdays are blue?
That mouthwash shade,
brain-freeze after a Slushie.
Wednesdays? Perhaps purpley-pink
as burning potassium,
Parma Violets under your tongue.
Thoughts on Thursdays? Fake-tanned,
tangerine skin, the ugliest orange
for the ugliest day.
But Fridays are a healthier green,
think telephone-pole celery,
cucumber truncheons and kiwis.
Saturdays then? Funeral black
speckled with brown sugar
though Sundays are white.
Hurts-your-eyes-like-snow white,
almost transparent, for they come
and dash by with no tone in-between.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
*Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!
A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!
I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!
She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!
Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!*
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
no taste.
still, though,
cool and crisp enough
to bring about a smile.
and what a relief,
what a change of pace
to write a poem
about something that don’t deserve no poetry,
for once.
i feel a little bubble of anger,
of bitterness
at the knowledge that the words come easier when my mouth is on fire.
what the hell.
for a few seconds the cool seeds slide down easy.
no taste.
(a.m.)
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
It was some yesterday,
sitting in my high chair
eating salted cucumber slices
a wooden one
three adjustments only
locked in
a bumble bee landed on my arm
the pain raced through my blood and brain
little pin ******
I could not get out
my memory stops there
sitting in my chair.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC
Pills, pills for the mentally ill
The more you take, the worse you'll feel
So down the hatch
Yep down your throat
Very soon you'll be wearing this coat
A hug me jacket tarnished in white
With buckles and straps wound so tight
But for now some side effects I wrote
Down here on this pretty little note
Increased thoughts of suicide
And harsh voices to which you can't hide
Nausea, drooling, and anxiety too
And whoever seems to be "after you"
We'll put you to sleep
You won't make another peep
Strap you to a cozy bed where you'll slumber
Pump you till you're as cool as a cucumber
To which we'll add you to our lovely garden
No ifs, buts, or beg your pardons
What's the matter?
You seem unwell
You're as mad as a hatter
This I can tell
So don't start a spell
Don't start a clatter
We'll pick up those pieces to which your mind has shattered
Just take this pill
In fact why not stay
You're better off here anyway!
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
We can make this edible
without utensils
In a strange, menuless kitchen
Well, can you not make a salad?
Take a cucumber of memory
Slice it so thin that none of the recollections hurt anymore.
Mince some olives so fine
Their oil leaks onto the cucumber like OK.
Add the pulsing flesh of bright red tomatoes
But don’t slice them
Just squeeze them with your hand
Until they explode like wet epiphanies
And dare to dice a garlic clove
Without turning your nose away
As invisible olfactory reality
Assaults you with truth so pungent
That ECT would pale in comparison
To that very assault on your boundaries of understanding
And then toss the whole thing
Watching how it changes color and texture
And just when you both start to get hungry
And you both want to cry
The 50 minutes are over.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
We slump on the couch when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
We have to, even though it was only a seven minute walk
to the dining hall, because 1) the food was just
“weird consistency”
(which we tend to say regardless), 2) the light
in there yawned indifferently to us (when does it not?), and
3) the reassuring clink of our forks on our
plates wasn’t even there this time it was
hiding underneath slop
and smothered on top by the intruding sound waves
(who asked?)
of our next-table neighbors’ lives.
You made a sly remark about seconds to catch
a glimpse of youthful ****
She’d gone to get some more baby carrots and cucumber slices
to put in her salad maybe
(who knows? who cares?)
Either way, her youthful **** would make the food taste like
something to you. And you
described them to us when you sat down again so
the slop would taste like something to us
(there’s pride in that type of generosity, don’t forget) and
(congratulations)
we had the faint impression of
some sort of
****** there, but
we didn’t tell you
(it’s easier that way).
A cup, a squeeze, a kiss on her ******* yes that could feed
our hunger for a night. And tonight was a night
like any, so her ******* led us to talk
of women, and women led us to talk of
love
(and the blooming one for the poor *******
as we who lost withstood the vicarious twinge of
an addling ****** very different from
the first.
This one led us to pine for sweets, but the ones we found
were dry, so we left the table, left the dining hall, looking around at
the others: the lonely, the couples, the blessed
lonely couples, and the fortunate friends
huddled against everything with open laughter, enjoying
the weird consistency like drunk theoretical physicists before
they discovered bubbles and inflated eternally meaning
when they safeguarded a
zoo with a pistol they didn’t know how to
use, in Soviet Russia.
(So you see?) We have to slump on the couch
when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
No one even bothers to pick up a guitar, we leave all four of them
strewn on the floor like
dead wooden boxes because
Dylan or Young or Cash (or whoever)
is already in the living
room. Any
bubbling, inflating, theoretical physicist
(any drunk, pistol-packing zookeeper, for that matter) will
tell you that.
So we slump, comfortably uncomfortable,
(at least we’re trying!)
feeling their (our) strings plucking. No sounds, no voices.
Because we don’t need
to hear this that.
Not right
now. (Not right
now).
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
Five days a week
for six months now
I have crossed the street
from work
to the little shop
that sells sticky buns
pork nuzzled by pastry
and perused the food
something for lunch
and almost always pick
a baguette brimming with chicken
chilled cucumber disks
a sprinkling of lettuce
plus a muddy-coloured latte
for that extra afternoon kick
though today is different
I’m feeling ruthless
a shimmery packet of salt and vinegar
waits for me to pluck it
from the shelf
squeak it open
the lady says hi and I reply
with a we’ve spoken
five days a week for six months now
and it’s about time I told you
these small encounters
brighten my day
a rotten cliché I know
so I leave quick with my grub
but a tiny grin on my face
unwrap the baguette
take a satisfying bite
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Give me the sea and I'll drink it
all of it
Give me the sky and I'll blot it out
cut it out
leave the gaping earth barren of its liquid dressing
and leave the sky naked of its blue face
there is no compare
that is
not to say you are not enough for me
not at all
it is to say you are more than I could have desired
more
than I could have dreamed
and I do not tire of you
not in my darkest moments
when I'm stretched thin
and there is no longer
a devil-may-care draped about my addled mind
when my patience snaps
when my jaw clamps
my eyes droop
my brain thumps against my skull
not even then
with the last vestiges of civility held in grasp
not even then can I think to lash out at you
not even when you poke
or ****
plod about my sensibilities
maim my sensitivities
not even then
not even when you roll your eyes
give me that long 'hmmmm - really...'
I don't give in to the nagging,
nigh satisfying itch to shake with rage
and curse everything that stems from the womb
I am cool as a cucumber
placid as a windless lake
I roll my shoulders
flutter my eyelashes
look you up and down
say,
'My... my... tired aren't you?'
Your shoulders slump
Your efforts to topple me abate
You nod your head
curl up on my lap
isn't it
funny
how comforted we become
when we are offered solace
in exchange for an argument
that neither of us
would win?
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 4:06 AM UTC