"fronds" poems
In the sweet of early morning
and only for a few precious moments
I thought of nothing at all
I stared blank at the dim lit walls
in a state between awake and dreaming
only until the startle of the first bird singing.
I saw the sun clinging to roofs and trees
light traipsing through the garden lilies
I heard the chirp and groan of frogs
newly green, all the unfurling fronds
and from the broad leaves
the dew fell sparkling in rivulets
and drank the carpet moss
softly green and splendorous.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, thier balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.
Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.
A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.
9.9k
There, in God’s country, the benign ruler
Had promptly burst out of the earth’s bowels.
A sea of coconuts smothered, sultrily,
The most unwilling moss-painted houses
The banyan raised its feet high enough
For hundreds of creepy monsoon-creatures.
The journey began in silver slanting rain
Waiting for streaks of pure white sunshine
To crawl through upright areca nut barks.
As the telephone wires went up and down
A floating bird quickly froze in the sky.
First the coconut fronds ran to the hills
Then the chilly plants , go red in the face
Inside, they of the uncertain *** beat the wind
Out of their joined palms in forced cadence.
The floor-mopping boy under our large feet
Looked with money-wetness in his brown eyes.
The train went spluttering for lack of puff
While gravel stones hit its forbidden parts.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 10:36 PM UTC
The first new star flashed waves of blue tonight ,
securing my belief in the afterlife
A grove of ferns lit my imagination
For I became a shipwrecked captain -
that stumbled upon an island nation
Exploring the deep jungle without machete ,
potable water nor compass
Knee deep in mangrove forest
Tropical winds whispered and moaned
A lean-to of fronds became my maritime home
In the presence of a million stars
An army of sand ***** paraded before -
their newfound master from near and afar
Crashing waves lulled a poor sailor to rest
The whispers of Poseidon
A dream about a lookout in the crows nest
Counting orbs in the tail of the Milky Way-
with visions of mermaids , ghost ships and rogue waves
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Sunshine,
Birdsong
And children drunk on
Lemonade
And laughter.
That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
In daydream
And nightmare.
The stream babbled
Over pebbles,
Fern fronds
Brushed our sun-browned shins
Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.
Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.
Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.
The rocks we hurled at it
In reckless revulsion
Were the screams
Of violated youth,
And those empty dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
I have not been anywhere,
done anything, thought anything,
and feel nothing.
At least,
that’s what my blank, plain-clothed
T-shirt would indicate to other people.
A man walking the earth with
no visible identity.
When I put on my Hawaiian shirt, however,
they believe my mind to be full of
pineapples, hula girls swinging softly in the
ukulele moonlight, palm fronds swaying
in the dacron, or is it rayon, ripples
of my baggy upper man.
Let others think what they might
of my images, or the lack of words
and logos.
My inner tag says that
I’m size “L” and that I’m made on
factory looms in China, that my buttons
are constructed to look like the
real thing–a round slice of bone or
perhaps ivory.
I am not so much anywhere on the
outside, even though there are places
I would like to go fling my few dollars.
Inside, however, I am lost,
pleasantly lost and hiding, within the
convenience of my unprinted shirt.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
breeze ripples palm groves,
a gleam in coconut fronds;
past peeps through the mist!
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
With leaves so rainbowed
And sky like ice
In the heart of fall the trees
Bear witness to true loss
With veining gold fronds
Of deepening red
Fluttering to dormant soil
Met by sleeping grasses
Whispering in the cool breeze
swish swish
Swaying to and fro
In the hard packed ground
As I trudge thru
The crumbling leaves
That disintegrate underfoot
Like drying sugar
Lay down and inhale
That warmth of fall
With colours flowing
Thru the currents on the wind
Brown and red
Orange and yellow
Fire licking the senses
And hearing the birds
Winding down for the winter
Fall
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Dark menacing clouds wander aimlessly in the sky.
The cuckoo sings a sweet melodious tune
in anticipation of the much-needed rain.
The whistling wild wind threatens
to drive away the poor rain.
The fronds of the coconut palms dance wildly
and the trunks oscillate in the fierce wind.
The peacock enters with a proud colorful display.
Farmers look up towards the sky with a prayer in their heart:
Dear Lord, let there be monsoon again.
Little children gather on the terraces of their houses
to enjoy the bliss and wetness of the first rain.
Women hurriedly collect dried clothes from the clothes’ lines.
Birds are utterly confused and don’t know where to fly.
The Sun and rain clouds play hide-and-seek.
A bolt of lightning is seen in the western sky.
Soon the rumbling thunder shatters
the serenity of the evening
as Heaven opens its gates
to pour out its soothing nectar
and we know…
monsoon is here again.
Gita Ashok
9/10/2010, 1:40 pm
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 12:22 AM UTC
Sprang forth with no branches or leaves. Small roots.
Bore mangoes, papayas,guava and bananas. Hybrid, mid limb grafting.
The trunk is a figment but it stands non less. You see
my family tree never was and always will be.
A roadside shade with low hanging fruit.
Was never planted.It was a deposit from the bowels of an exotic bird
of the jungles that sampled at leisure the offerings of the rain forests.
The Hardtack and marmalade came on ships with the kings business
Mixed with the Nigerian Fu-Fu ,the Aztec maize the Mayan legumes.
and all points of the compass.
Old Joe Denegri, The Blancaneaux , The Cattouse, The Melado, The Pinks
The Flowers,The Orozco and more. And boundless from the ***** of opportunity.
Piecemeal and untethered. But it is the tree that I must cling to.
However rough the bark.
The sap runs heavy and slow in the humid Belizean heat.To meet the earth.
Cool breezes blow a haunting disharmony. A sweet unity in chaos.
The soil is rich,pungent and forgiving. Soon, A bell tolls in the distance.
The Sea mists my dreams.
A stairway of coconut fronds to azure skies.
Nighttime smells like creation.
The still slackened pace.
The small rat race.
Tempest in a teapot.
Urban-rural.
Coolie gal.
Creole boy.
New Chinese.
Old African.
Ubiquitous Espania.
Garinagu. Mosquito coast.
Children of Mennon.
Old Basque faces.
Things we call races left with small traces
of what?
My tree, her tree, histree.
I am you and you are me.
I see me in your face and you see me.
We are and will continue to be.
Blended.
a hybrid. An orchid wild.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
first line lips are false as a beach next mcarthur’s in chicago next the big blond takes the elevator down next pearl on the lip next shalimar stirs the canine **** all right I like that let’s start a new one do it what what do you have don’t **** up wheres the apostrophe ******* you’re cruel now back now whack it again whack it again I want it to go back whack it press it whack it okay new line
i want elevator i want uh i want don’t ask the bellboy for the time just take the elevator to what? to notions? to the lingerie shop? ah **** you grandma new line
all right one more time okay **** the gin-socked tongue that’s “soaked” period once again the elevator down paint the pretty tie (cough cough) thai next big buick big *** like fish put a ? after fish take it back take it back you ***** okay that’s not bad you do all right ah **** song of india in the desert at night put “” marks around song of india & desert song in capital letters hit shalimar then cadillac red lips then **** like a seashell with a gin-soaked tongue start new line
all right does mcarthur stick his socks in the bathtune at night that’s bathtub the dog howls at the moon buries it in the backyard snakes lose their skin cocoa butter slick water on the brain of the big dark blond song of india **** **** **** big fish *** big v8 you ***** keep up with me painted rocks like a pretty tie fast car long legs and a broken heel now dead no not dead yet um estee lauder goes down on price-waterhouse in a swedish bath bellboy watching this is his reflection in the mirror no silver one-sided next line
big blond trampled by elephants with wrinkled knees starch is not chic all gone shalimar stirs the k-9 **** sequined *** in the moonlight cadillac red lips hungry dog eats tail becomes himself bad dog play dead okay what do you suggest bad doggie bad comma bad comma hungry dog go for the tongue you dumb ***** keep going new line
what do cactuses(i) have??? fronds fur what are their things called new line
dog hates gin go for the breast stupid ***** good dog dry dog poor dog pour blond water of life **** yellow a thai like painted rocks period next
i want head down legs up i want sequined *** only ****** level damp dampened dampest ***** panorama **** **** **** blue blue down there feminine azure with clouds too got it odalisque in blue period have mercy on me no no new ******* line what are you filling that thing up with okay stop it for now
4.6k
floating on
the pond
dragonflies zip
above me
thinking I
am an
organic substance
an algae-dipped
nympth
my hair in fronds
the subtle ripple
of sunstreak
on thigh
like reflections of
rainbow lanterns
upon skin
my skin, puckered
from melding
aquatic escapade
is soothed in this home
of kissing koi
who welcome me
in fin brushes
bubbles on the
small
of my back
sweet as the
lush harmony
of waterlily voices
that only I can hear
as the gaze of frogs
and forest dwellers
imprints upon
the inner lids
of my
starlit
eyes
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
Singing of children
in the night silence:
Light of the stream, and
calm of the fountain!
THE CHILDREN
What does you heard hold,
divine in its gladness?
MYSELF
A peal from the belltower,
lost in the dimness.
THE CHILDREN
You leave us singing
in the small plaza.
Light of the steram,
and calm of the fountain!
What do you hold in
your hands of sprintime?
MYSELF
A rose of blood, and
a lily of whiteness.
THE CHILDREN
Dip them in water
of the song of the ages.
Light of the stream,
and calm of the fountain!
What does your tongue feel,
scarlet and thirsting?
MYSELF
A taste of the bones
of my giant forehead.
THE CHILDREN
Drink the still water
of the song of the ages.
Light of the stream,
and calm of the fountain!
Why do you roam far
from the small plaza?
MYSELF
I go to find Mages
and find princesses.
THE CHILDREN
Who showed you the road there,
the road of the poets?
MYSELF
The fount and the stream of
the song of the ages.
THE CHILDREN
Do you go far from
the aerth and the ocean?
MYSELF
It's filled with light, is
my heart of silk, and
with bells that are lost,
with bees and with liles,
and I will go far off,
behind those hills there,
close to the starlight,
to ask of the Christ there
Lord, to return me
my child's oul, ancient,
ripened with legends,
with a cap of feathers,
and a sword of wood.
THE CHILDREN
You leave us singing
in the small plaza.
Light of the stream, and
calm of the fountain!
Enormous pupils
of the parched palm fronds
hurt by the wind, they
weep their dead leaves.
4.1k
_[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]_
_(Winter-export)_, the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. _(Thick lips; quick still-hunt.)_ I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. _(Glimmering isle)_; my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. _(Parsecs quaking.)_ You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me… Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks _(freighting gemstones)_; King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.
_[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]_
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
The coming of Trump
Like the coming of Jesus
Is hailed by the masses
He knows how to please us
Or maybe it’s that
He just knows how to tease us
Cuz he’s clearly not Christ
Nor is he close to Jesus
The coming of Trump
Like Jesus went through Galilee
All that’s missing
Are the palm fronds ya see
But Jesus rode an ***
Trump rides an airplane
And so you’d have to say alas
The two just aren’t the same
The coming of Trump
With all the adulation
As if his words alone
Could really save the nation
And those who are prone
To not have any patience
You find at every stop
Wishing him their salutations
The coming of Trump
Like Jesus’ Sermon On-The- Mount
Talks about bringing
Many things into account
He’s gonna build a fence
At a huge discount
The Mexicans will pay for it
Which for him is paramount
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:50 AM UTC
kids march to school,
merry, hands linked,
socks strangling calves,
backpacks swelling with milk teeth,
dangerous smiles.
in the centre they stand,
fronds shivering overhead,
buttress roots clutching earth
like they know what’s coming.
bags dropped in a ring,
offerings to something older
than the walls they study in.
fractures komorebi,
and in its faded gold
i see pareidolia,
grinning from the leaves.
the tree is temple and witness both.
the trunks sway in a rhythm
older than speech.
a tree at the border warns:
don’t take pride in the faces—
power is the thing they can’t hold.
if, my friend, you see the tree
cast out its own,
know those who give the orders
are across the ocean—
safe, distant, very clean.
owls, fat with promises,
every five years
stuff a new child’s face
into the stump’s rot
and call it a future.
the old tree votes unanimously
to shed its skin once more—
they call it progress,
call the rot reform.
loosen your roots;
the wind doesn’t care
which children
it strips for kindling.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:50 AM UTC
I am not spring
frost thaws eternally
from shallow-rooted fronds
tenuous and unbound
susceptible to wind's constant round
battering the living flat to ground
sodden, smell of decay all around
time is fleeing
these shoulder seasons
with all their restless reasons
yet to unfold in you
sun-soaked glade
I need your rays
to germinate
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 11:23 AM UTC
Boostin' and we're mobile
But we still don't see no bars
Laugh it off in the back of the car
Smoking cigars
Whole lotta trouble lately that's been creepin in my mind
Cash low ******* status when I get into a bind
Settle balances breaking tablets in half just to unwind
Knock over knock-offs inching my self from suicide
I told myself that I'd do this suppose it's do or die
Cause I'm cracking under pressure influenced youth who will ride
Down to make this money they don't want me to make
I'm prone to make mistakes taking steps that I hate
Toward the door with more in store than what they see on my plate
But how do they expect me to eat?
No one's feeding me grapes
Palm fronds fannin' my face
Can't relate
To the ******** they paint
Fade to gray
This has been a public broadcast
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
Tedium brought them here.
Bored with routine head-counts,
museums and man-made landmarks.
Impulse told them
To flatten the silent fronds,
Blindly tear down the hampering vines,
Rattle the industrious cities beneath their feet.
Curiosity led them
To this patch of unkempt squitch,
This sacred space littered with clean bones.
No words came with them.
Only Observation...
... a leaping fire tended by savages
Polished teeth strung around their necks,
The bark-ridged skin,
The supernaturally piercing eyes,
Their ashen members grazing the farinaceous earth.
At the heart of this sacred place
Littered with the clean bones,
Condesention covered them with coats,
Misinterpreted grins exposing evidential remains.
Fear penetrated their too-white skins,
Their souls through the sockets of their eyes,
Their clattering teeth.
All this is true :
The scattered bones,
The brass buttons blinking through starved ashes,
The arrows in a glass case.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
There are no bells, but they are there
lining the streets, palms outstretched
women on their knees between cream-colored petals
of orchids carelessly blooming by the drainage ditch
their scrubbed feet free of rice paddy mud
with palm fronds overhead
in their hands, cut butter and fruit
for the monks that file past in smart orange robes
if you were here, you would watch them with me
you would peel lychee fruits for breakfast
at this hour the people are wide awake
and the day is struggling to keep up
somewhere behind the early clouds
the sun is winking over the trees
morning birds never seem to sing here
where the rain has been falling for days
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
The wind is violent,
Knocking, flapping and rustling,
Slapping, tumultuous
Rolling like waves
I am swept
Savoring the mad sea-breeze
Savoring life
Rolling the sweetness on my tongue
Palm fronds slap delicious
A storm is brewing
Ocean spray spits smartly
Birds give way
Mother Nature is respected here
Nothing is contained
To the Queen we all bow and give way
Glance furtively under slit lids
Perhaps her wake, her eye will pass us by
With no more than a slap or tweaked cheek
Her notice, her scornful gaze
Can turn our hearts to waste
Our lives to dust
Our ocean mother laughs at the weak
Barricade of glass
Her tinkling laughter can shatter dreams
But oh, her majesty
What glorious banners she weaves
To trail her horizon is fool’s folly
Her train may wreck,
Her abuses bruise us
But to behold her wake, her glory
Her tresses, her face
Risking defeat and death is
A small price to pay
Surfing the wind, surfing the sun
After all nothing remains the same-
And my life is but a mere passing dust speck
In the mote of her eye
Keep me here fair queen
Bowed by your feet
Please don’t rub me out-just yet
All sadness departs when I hear your music
In the rustling flapping of leaves
The ocean roars and thunder booms
Your symphony oh sweet dear
Your symphony this day
So priceless to pay
Melon rolls sweetly on my tongue
Drops of honey linger-a **** tang
Like a mermaid lying beached upon the sand
Gathering in the ancient hush of the sea
These rumblings of the planet
Sea spray bathing my face
Foam like the spurts of ***
From a loved one
Lovers embrace
The rhyme and song is ancient
I feel a soft hush rumbling lullaby
Sea song siren cry
The rhythm and lull
The beat like ***
An ******** crescendo
Again and again-my heart beats in rhythm to hers
The goddess of the sea
Surfing the sun, surfing the wind
Rays like waves splash my face.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Night comes
r
o l l i
n g
down again
in painted coats
of thick onyx
clouding my vision
as if a brightly-striped
cuttlefish,
sister of squid
has enveloped me
in its
dark liquid
sea ink
an opaque vapor
for protection,
a shimmering
sheild against
disillusionment
pain of potential
loss
endless strands
of longing
knotting in my
hair like kelp
keeping me rooted
to the sea floor,
feet ensconced in
the soft squish
of muck and earth
Miraculously,
I breathe,
as if a sea nympth,
a mermaid
holding on to
the silvery scales
of her reality
indigo-dipped
in deepest iridescence
blending with fronds
of vibrant greens
and I am floating
within a vast membrane
of brine
somehow nuturing,
liquid cushion
of womb-water
letting it slake
the piquancy of thirst
that bursts my tongue
into succulence
Spiked in sea stars
like thorny crowns,
I reach out to
discover new textures
puncture the dark
with my fingers
enfold those waters
to me,
letting them
rock the soul
of my soul
the heart
of the seed
of my heart
and allow my
sonar, as powerful
as a whale's
encompassing call
to surge up
through nautical miles
of ocean depths,
buoyed through layers
of waves
up unto
the winds
that ride,
ever-tenderly,
the surface
of
the
dawn
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
spoon fed my keepsakes as nothing blots the sun so much
you teach me how to cringe in spun sugar. the nape of your
neck.
gleefully, we usurp the thicket of our mild dementia. sullen
joy equipped. a sumptuous dirge curdles the myth, your fins
***
as troubadours, we malinger in the pith of our blunt fruit. crust
removed from our daily bread. our basket of basilisks, bathe
in stone.
duel wielding our gazebos... we bivouac in our ambivalence, by
turns we move. you tip toadstools as i milk maidens for their
candelabras.
our palominos run. we do
violence to timpani and click mice.
pc
drifting in the cyberwocky. we transit the binary auto-bond
and paste
whats
clip.
blue thumbs thread cranberry noose. our ***** nods off. fronds
of juniper and cannabis slap the window pane. throughwhich
a *** mouse pounced on frond’s sway.
startled, we move the furniture of our eastern proclivities.
for thine is the kingdom
of our discontent !
swing-shift lap-dogs, trundle west of the east village. smell
of ****** and nag champa. idiots sting.
idiots braid zodiacs with greasy fingers. [ indeed ]
and
you
preach from your gut...
( your left breast marvelous with taint) and saltwater taffy.
we
laugh again-
at things we have
and now
only
harbor ghosts
where the rain
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
this is the new
intimacy.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
So I was swimming in the ocean
the pacific
it was summer, nearly September but that ocean is always frigid
I wanted to swim
So I went in with all my clothes on and the water so so cold
I tried to imitate the body surfers and dive under the waves
but I got caught in the tide and pulled under
One beat
my heart pumps out
the sand the salt
the cold
I try to swim
up to
breathe
I hit the bottom
Where am I?
For a second that stretched into an hour
I thought I was going to die
With my mouth full of saltwater
And my hair waving like the kelp fronds
I didn’t of course
I found the sky
Never have I been so glad to see the clouds
And the sun
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
White fleshed the wild roots
cold in caves of soil the bulbs, the tubers
burst through aged brown clay, wet through mud slick rains
sun drunk buds of tulip leaves, petals painted pink
bird chirp and groan of ponds, a soft bedded mossy home
of woven fern and forest fronds, home to night's invisible frogs
white moon dogwood blooms, calls heard lovelorn
through an open window.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC