"gooseberries" poems
I come from sunlight,
The sweeping of leaves,
South London streets,
Lurburnum seeds;
Hot semolina,
A spoonful of jam,
Hands full of gooseberries,
That's who I am.
I come from rose petals,
The sound of the fairs,
The smell of candyfloss
Mist in the air;
I come from warmth,
My parents hands,
Outings to parks,
Both small and grand.
I come from knowledge,
True and false,
From nursery rhymes,
And stories and pictures of God;
I come from gentleness,
A quiet afternoon,
From visions of loveliness,
Sewn on a spool.
I come from two worlds,
With different ways,
A threaded pearl necklace,
And sensible soles
A mother and father,
I think I knew,
I came and I wandered,
I looked at the view.
By Mary **
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
when I fell in love I pressed my heels against the sky
as if in a bread oven
sitting with my forehead on the warm ground
and the wind and the butterflies and the clouds like smoke
were hard to be spoken they stuck inside my chest
without even knowing
I invented God in a new season of the year
believing it was the same
through days with sun and moon both white
because of heavy blessing it rained with sweet incense
clocks lagged behind from their minute hands
gooseberries and red currants popped between my nails
milk teeth grew in my ****** *****
with the name sculpted by man lips
I slept another one’s dream in a stranger’s bed
he looked at me on Sundays through the train window
he saw through me
from our century of loneliness only dust flew over
like from an old Bible leaves
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
In a tiny allotment right next to the zoo
A miniature jungle was planted and grew
The flora was dense and the air became hot
But confined to a tidy rectangular plot
An unthinkable duo of creatures converged
And it's said that a spanking new species emerged
For a curious beast was reportedly seen
Roaming and munching on anything green
Make haste! Away! It's the Buffagorilla!
A shredder of lettuce and cereal killer
With hooves at the front and hands at the rear
The Buffagorilla is near!
It shambles about at the darkest of hours
On hedges it crunches and bunches of flowers
On daffolil bulbs and petunia petals
With hearty aplomb on a cluster of nettles
Covertly perusing with maximum hush
It can wander through gardens disguised as a bush
No carrot or parsnip is safe in its bed
And the marrows are quaking in vegetable dread
Depart! Retreat! It's the Buffagorilla!
The broccoli butcher and vegetable killer
With ape like features and horns of a steer
The Buffagorilla is near!
So if you hear a mention of butternut theft
Or notice a garden, all bare and bereft
Insure your potatoes for damage and loss
Give the salad a purely precautionary toss
For a creature is roaming the byway and track
With its legs at the front and its arms at the back
And it might be your gooseberries or chervil he spies
So I beg you take heed as I once more advise
Be gone! Take flight! It's the Buffagorilla!
The strawberry napper and cucumber killer
Just hide in your cellar and steer well clear
The Buffagorilla is near!
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
.... ( & , of course -- Harry )
|~|
True Poetry comes alive today as the meadows melt
And the naked women dance and play
Amid the hydrangeas and bougainvillea
Turning into layered depths of chrysanthemums
And pain !
And memories of your soft alabaster moonlight
Skimming across fractured feelings once thought aloud
But now lost in the silence of preternatural abandonment
Amid gooseberries !
/./
She makes love before 1000 tiny eyes !
The children wave their penises and razor blades
Unto the starless starry sky amid the sunrise solitude
Of vast city streets of depth defying words
Twisting about in the wind
That never shall be ours again !!!
//
My love !
//
I remember something about you now and then
Oh yes !
How I hate you for something ( I can't remember )
But hate is necessary for there to be love
//
The night departs and Mars marries Venus
On the D-train
::
The twisted oaks of youth play stickball
Still
( in Brooklyn )
and alas
I go Home
for
at last
My poem's done !
And only the scent of
Chrysanthemums
Remain
//
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
If I am to count,
One hundred & seventy five days
Have passed by
Since the taste of gooseberries,
Peaches with a crisp aromatic
Taste, graced my lips.
As I type, my lips
Imagine, the Loire white
Embracing all taste buds.
I can smell the depth & body,
The lingering scent
And how around the cold glass
Would form a dew.
I can feel the weight
Of the most fine rimmed
Of drinking glasses.
Not the crystal glasses
My mother has become so
Accustomed to.
But my favourite glass
One in which would hold
The half bottle of wine
I could pass off
As less.
Red chipped nails,
Form a snake hold
Around the glass,
My hand feels the chill.
What is to be remembered
In my nostalgic recollections
Is how that taste remains
Even today.
One hundred & seventy five days
Have passed by
And those gooseberry,
And peach undertones
Still linger on my lips.
© Sia Jane
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
The comfort of cliche, the trampled path
of mixed tapes and photo booths
some semblance of a direction as we walk
in our own uncharted territory called love.
the grass is wild and uncut, and with woods we
can call Narnia. The wild orange flowers, strawberries,
and gooseberries don't smell as fragrant as your hair
or taste as sweet as your ears.
you whisper "oh my god" but you don't believe.
how can you not see the angel when you see your reflection in my eyes?
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 3:53 PM UTC
Once there was a cow. She had a well. "Neat-o," was a word that she liked to use, and she often used it to describe things such as ball gowns and large crowds. She frequented clubs, not the sweaty kinds where European dance music is played, but the sophisticated kinds where people tie sweaters about their shoulders and don't dance unless classical music is playing, and even then the only movement is the bob of a head from side to side as violins trill past notes that human ears should be able to recognize. She didn't mind it when people used the word **** but that was probably because she didn't understand them, being an animal and all. She helped herself to seconds at every meal and had a goose follow her around to taste her water before she drank it just in case it was poisoned. "Not to be rude," she would say, "but sometimes I wish there were less geese in the world." I don't take offense though, being human and all.
She had a pet that drank liquor heavily, and often slurred his words to the point of….this is difficult to describe. His hair fell into his eyes and he could touch his tongue to his nose in .01 seconds (if he'd been sober for at least 10 hours). He tested the water with his **** cheeks before diving in, belly first, and he never wore swim trunks (ever!), but that was simply something that ran in the family. You could always tell when he was sad because he would try to fit the cow's feet in his mouth. It was a matter of opportunity, but once the moment presented itself, he never let it pass. He liked the color red, but mostly because his blood became that color when he ate gooseberries or mint leaves. He secretly liked lamb, but he didn't want to tell anyone because all the ant-eaters and water spiders would have looked at him differently after that. He was very concerned with his image, you know. He liked to say things like "poop-berries" and "I'm not done drinkin' yet," but only when the sun was down (which was not often because he lived in Alaska). He slept with a towel on his head and an egg between his legs to practice balance. He knew that one day, no matter how far away it was, he would be King of the Jungle.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
Fifty years a-growing with my pigtailed friend
I was frogs and snails and she was sugar and spice
Attraction of tortoise petting a perfect way to diet
Red-faced, tongue-tied, secret Confirmation admirer
Nucleus beauty besotted beard route to romance
Coffee and gooseberries companionship cooking
Chicken and almonds the way to this man's heart
Townley Hall first loving to closeness ever after
Tented separation in Mweenish was chilly silliness
Yellow bikini starvation Brighton beach memories
Sneaking bedroom cuddles in Westone wedding
Graduated to Beaufield dinners and Blue Nun
Parents fret about their two kids with two kids
Life challenges met in the riches of poverty
Grateful when God's surprising Gift was given
Altogether life more balanced and beautiful
Entrepreneurial pride of parents flying high
The stars of sons the brightest in the sky
The workaday challenges a learning lesson
Lunch in Powerscourt the pleasure of poverty
We fly and we fall but catch each other every day
In heaven at last in the castle of our dreams
"Ticks all the boxes" of my blonde beauty
Perfect harmony a Gateway to perfect storm
Togetherness triumphs over taxman trials
Best times ever as we conquer the world
Olympic pride and gradual OU degrees
Make sunburst of pride as we grow
Icarus-like flight forgiven not forgotten
Revalue every "for granted" magic moment
"I want to grow old with you" wish and fear
Strength stronger than stupidity and stuff
In fear and loneliness I see fire and I see rain
I see sunny days now that we are one again.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:32 AM UTC
THE PATHWAY OF HER SONG
Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
only her song visible
camouflaged by
her ripening gooseberries
Granny sings to the summer
I follow
the path of her
song
pillowcases & tea towels
drying on bushes & branches
Granny and the birds sing
I step on each note
a pathway
through the air
Granny's garden overgrown
with Time
her song still rests upon the air
Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
hidden by Death
I step upon each note
still following
the pathway of her song
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 4:52 PM UTC
i smash my guitar one day,
start listening to
b.b.c. radio 4
the next day,
what in god's name?!
p.s. it's a talkie station,
no music,
first up the diet problem
of finland, esp. in the
dairy rich region that
inspired sibelius,
about how: real men
don't work on vegetables
but on fat, because vegetables
are for animals...
and how a national intervention
demanded berries on the menu
of these men;
a list of fruits i used to eat:
pomegranates, passion fruit,
apples pears pineapples bananas,
cantaloup melons water melons,
sharon fruit mangos,
strawberries blackberries blueberries,
lychees oranges mandarins,
white grapes black grapes,
sour weeds cherries and above all else
gooseberries; and that's not
mentioning the vegetables.
but about listening to b.b.c. radio 4,
how did i become so middle-aged
"middle-class" english so quick?
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
This is being on a verge
not a void
void is not verge
but sitting on a hedge
or on a languishing hill
I tether, get gooseberries.
All outside is loneliness.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
I love the country life,
in between the feral cats
and hawks.
Morning coffee March
I sip it with Irish crème and smile.
Last night I fell
asleep inside her.
Safe and sound
and domesticated in her
tight wet walls.
We came together in
determined silence.
Family in the next
room.
I love the country life;
the ponds and streams and
sun soaked meadows.
The wild asparagus and
gooseberries.
In her arms my spirit rests.
My tired wings
find a nest better
than the barn swallows,
stronger than the eagles.
I'm a brook trout
swimming through
her veins.
I love the country life.
Coonhounds and cornflowers,
coyotes yipping and
bobcats tiptoeing up on
shocked field mice.
Last night, after we died
a little in each other's arms,
I gently rubbed her
cheek and kissed her
eyelids, nose, and lips.
I breathed in deep the
smell of lavender, *** and
home, the safest
fragrance I know.
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 11:31 PM UTC
We marry
On the basis of queries
Concerning and confirming
The age difference and dissimilarity
Between the prince charming and his to be fairy
No introductions primarily
The birthmarks entitled as scary
No emotional reciprocity
Only inquiries about the popped cherries
And advices, unchary
By the gooseberries
Hardly any knowledge of monetary
Big mouths begging for a huge dowry
Somehow her decorum works as a parry
This is how we get married.
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 6:22 AM UTC
*Going home is a melancholy journey.
Thousands of miles over oceans.
Back into the warm
Autumn morning of Englands countryside.
This is the old country farmhouse we were all brought up in.
My mother me my siblings.
The warmth of the late Indian summer day
steam shadows over the old orchard.
The old house is full of ghost
walking around its lichen-covered stone.
I can see my mother sat in the shade
a basket of fruit in her lap.
Awaiting her oven and pastry dough.
The apples have fallen now.
The garden a wild place with raspberry brambles
black Currants and gooseberries
Gripping each other in a tangled fury.
As hard as we once held onto each other
So long ago.
The drone of the feeding bees
Have a happy sound of plenty.
The grapes ****** dry of their sweetness.
Their overloaded bodies filled with nectar.
The only intrusion a pair of dragonflies
Bouncing In carefree harmony in the scented air.
I pick up the bushel basket
that mom used to collect her fruit.
I hold it close to my heart.
And see her smiling again.
In the corner a small scruffy boy
with an even scruffier dog
eats an over-ripe pear.
From the littered ground under the tree.
It is only another ghost
But I think it is me.*
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC