"fruitage" poems
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
42.1k
life choices cast in iron skillets,
presented choices that possess no flexibility
twice, she asks me today
morning fruitage, on offer,
peaches ripe to rip real sweet perfection
from your eyes to the remembering salivating mouth,
or
sweet but just **** enough
strawberries that will wince your tongue buds
intolerant of either, but perfect together
acorn squash,
over roasted to be the violin section
to your barbecued chicken orchestra serenading,
but which shall be the sweetener,
honey or maple syrup,
similar but different
the kitchen floor explosive shakes,
pans to the floor fall, eyelet unhooked all,
spices from cabinets burst forth,
kitchen mittens slapping each other
in utter disbelief
when I reply,
let us choose both!
for there is no bifurcation,
no line of demarcation
on our taste buds
this a truthful -
our lives a perpetual blending,
both will login lead to a
the right and proper ending
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC
Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold!
With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes:
Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise;
This was the promise of the days of old!
Grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould,
Grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies:
We hoped for better things as years would rise,
But it is over as a tale once told.
All fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore,
All lost the present and the future time,
All lost, all lost, the lapse that went before:
So lost till death shut-to the opened door,
So lost from chime to everlasting chime,
So cold and lost forever evermore.
2.2k
He turns the page
Of old age
For what was once the rage
Now sits in his cage
It's been a war to wage
This, life's final stage
The pressure gauge
Ticking on so outrage
Ticking by in ménage
For his book's cleavage
Untouched and derange
Year's wasted and disengaged
If only there was no leakage
Or ever such seepage
Life on his barren range
With no panacea to assuage
No wife ever, no cat, no life to engage
Nothing but red read rage
Now in his final chapter, this cage
This cage, death does he part this rampage
A life perched without marriage
For he married to himself backstage
Where his curtain veiled fruitage
In lieu of looking at the skies for dosage
He fell hostage to his hermitage
Yet this, his bottled pilgrimage
Sinking now in raging montage
He does sit beseeched in his passage
And hopes someday to bid bon voyage
With direr hopes of turning a better page
Logan Robertson
9/27/2018
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
Stygian shadows devour my fall:
Incarnadine structure the greatest of all!
I fathom this flesh by transgressions been moored
In depths of iniquity forevermore.
Dreams been hallowed in glistening chest:
Thought sanctity born to be laid to rest!
Clouds of soil drape the skies,
My chalice strewn in grave on high.
Shockwaves emitted from brain do rend
In soul conviction of celestial mend,
The thew of ebony phantoms draw
Blood from heartbeat left unthawed.
A parcel wayworn and torn by winds,
And by time: the fruitage of illusory sin!
In lungs my oxygen laced and maimed,
Tis’ miasma of youth impaled by pain.
Are pining for flight the days of yore
Into the horizon of virtue’s dawn.
Yet a specter reaps my holy days
Until incorporeal, for eternity shamed.
Yet is there hope for the soul accursed?
A susurrus spins a tale of mirth:
Though once incarcerated by dirges doom,
A melisma tranced a deluged moon.
Forlorn in the skies by nebulous stars,
Yet efflorescence cocoons that body marred.
Gravity transcended by a coronal soar,
Lightness abides at aethers door!
Prophecy of the cosmos exhales at last!
Rapture divined red-shift once masked!
O extol His radiance, O relinquish your souls!
That The Transcendental shall forge ye whole!
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC
Happy and content
in this garden of delight,
yet curiously alone.
Am I one of a kind?
On the verge of sleep
as the sun slips under its blanket.
After the butterflies,
after the somnolent dream,
I was bestirred
by what first seemed a chimera.
The grace and splendor
of a remarkable creation,
and there she stood
making doe eyes,
a twinkle of a smile
curling about her lips.
At once I was besotted,
God had bequeathed to me
His crowning achievement,
and into my care she was placed.
So much to impart,
so much to share.
Together now as united residents,
one flesh,
she will complete me,
and I will dote on her.
A gift to always cherish
as we walk hand in hand.
Her task each new day
is strolling about paradise
in search of nourishment,
to feed us from the fruitage therein,
lest one tree’s offering.
And yet this morning,
another voice summons to be heard,
the rasped utterances
of the cunning,
with tales of his own kingdom coming,
one nibble to freedom, she was assured.
How I wish she’d taken her leave.
She proved too inquisitive,
it took root,
this germination,
and there she lingered.
Eyes caught, unblinking,
her open heart
heavy with wanton hunger.
Who whispered unto you, my darling?
Standing before me
I surrendered to her,
an ill-fated collusion,
co-conspirators to sin.
We ate in the shadow of a silver birch
and awakened to our nakedness.
Eyes wide open!
Discomfited, we struggled
to conceal our shame
What has happened to us, dearest?
Avowal and discord.
Trouble and strife.
"It was the woman you gave me!"
"It was the serpent," she countered.
A betrayal to our God
neither of us wished to confess.
Dust had been thrown in her eyes,
my transgressions were clear-sighted.
Together now as
evicted tenants,
flawed, imperfect flesh,
she will pine for me,
and I will reign over her.
Oh, how I vanquished this gift,
this blessed union.
What tragedy,
what irony:
As I take her hand,
I also fully understand
she is now eternally,
irrevocably,
lost to me...
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 8:55 AM UTC
the lament of fixity
gazes on stone, its death-fires encircle
the slender body of the doting Sun.
this is our time spent again
when our days obdurately say
that our inimitable skies smell of
wet willow—
our time has come to sleep.
the soggy horizon closes its eyes
and darkness enters like a thief.
aureoles criss-cross into
touchable delineations.
i am closer to the Earth than I was once
before you, bared to profile
like a fruit pared by your teeth.
what awaits in the gleam of one's
waking is the fruitage of nondescript music flowering in my ear:
the curved entry of your breath,
receiving it, my ear's bell,
shaking the cathedrals and by the pews
of my somnolence, a trespassing whirlwind, a dewdrop, trickles of flame.
are there lips, with there power enough
left to clench in their growing?
this den of such tender love,
when i roar ardently dressed as
an admiral in sleep's sea,
i, mounting the waves of your body,
dream of lions.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
Let tight knots in the heart
loose and shake down soft streams of quiet
to untie and fledge confined feelings.
Allow them to fly.
Take wing into a Now-land
of unlimited freedom where failure does not
apply nor is it found.
Choice is unbounded.
Do not expire before trying each dream.
Find fervent zeal within life's choicest fields
and pick all the love-seeds.
Tended and grown inside then watered with
joy, mood's fruitage alters
mindsets and oils attitudes for when once
digested folk learn to lighten.
Every life has great purpose which all, in
the finding may realize.
Humans are born to share love.
This is our true birthright.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Have you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
Of the limitless realms of the air, --
Have you read it, -- the marvellous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
How, ***** at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,
With his feet on the ladder of light,
That, crowded with angels unnumbered,
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night?
The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.
But serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,
With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
Among the dead angels, the deathless
Sandalphon stands listening breathless
To sounds that ascend from below; --
From the spirits on earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore
In the fervour and passion of prayer;
From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red;
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend, I know, --
A fable, a phantom, a show,
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore,
Yet the old mediæval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,
But haunts me and holds me the more.
When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,
All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
your home filled with vines does not know
it is alone — it seeks to become a diaphanous fold of trees, a violent vermilion of skies crushed to clay.
its arms hold refuge, a delicate heart.
the formless shadow there and the unguessed sensorium of furniture —
they do not know the touch of ruin.
underneath you, i am.
soil crumbled by the hundredfold of your
weight. in the air singes the burning of days, punching a hole onto me like
a globule of diminutive fire rife to
cull the vineyard of my body.
your home does not know
the dream of its weight. the anchor of its pillars gnash the acidulous trifle of hours.
doors, windows, cupboards still — every aperture gorges itself with the water
of your footsteps.
your home does not know
that it stomps stonily against an earthen fruitage: my body beaten to a pulp.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
“How it is noted that metals can tell time,
Seagulls sparkle as they soar up above,
God’s creatures soar and ride the crests of waves,
People have a wind that eviscerates their souls,
Seagulls have leaded many to their sea of destiny,
In fields of dried wheat and soaring clouds,
Many born with lack of visioning stars above,
Could those be the souls that are lost at sea?
Moonlight shining on her skin like lemon flowers,
Inebriated with fragrance of sweet lemon plants,
Lives on in a lemon light of the moon cling to brine,
In their subtle matter a bouquet scent of age,
Love is a journey through waters and stars,
Love is such a war of thunder and wavy brines,
Two bodies annexed by a single sweet aged odor,
Entwine fruitage lovers lilliputian forged as one,
Topace riding the droplet shrines of aromatic guise”
By Andrew Guzaldo © 09/07/2018
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC