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Ariel G Jul 2013
2/11/13

I take a break from my rote mundane homework.
I pull a grapefruit from the fridge.
I hold it up to my face, allowing the fruit’s essence and cool roundness to excite enliven          and exhilarate my soul.
Grapefruits prevent multitasking.
The juice prevents the hands from touching books or screens.
As I slice through the yellow shell and white pith the fragrance attacks my nose while his          sound floats outside my ears.
Jason Mraz’s guitar, voice, and bongos swirl around my kitchen and swirl around, finally         settling into the chair across from me.
The yellow gravity of his soul pulls the atoms together in a bouncing, energetic, soothing         rhythm.
I am in awe, but not shocked. The positive aura of the grapefruit tends to attract sunshine.
He gains his voice, and tells me that he does not live a moment without being in love: he         is in love with lovers and friends, guitar and silence, sunshine and rain, smiles and tears.
He has not written a song without a smile on his face and tears in his eyes.
He assures me, however, that perpetual peace and joy are unattainable.
Even he has his moments of anger and doubt and helplessness. He suggests meditation         and yoga.
It is important to spread your soul from your heart and mind to every inch of your skin         and muscles.
I graces my ears with his voice, the perfectly organic notes massaging away knots of stress and fear.
Jason tells me that when life hands me lemons, I should imagine a grapefruit.
I slurp up the last of the grapefruit juice, savoring its sticky **** crispness.
I wash my hands, still humming to myself.
Anthea Nov 2017
He’s sweet
I bite into him and feel the juices pool in my throat
He’s bitter
His aftertaste
The sting of rejection lingers in my mouth

I’ve always been addicted to grapefruit
Its natural tang much like melancholy
Much like the nightshade of my heart
I bite off more than I can chew
I live for contradiction
And it’s addiction to love

Grapefruit is a woman
A woman who feels too deeply
A woman who is sweet and sour
The woman I’ll never be
I can only consume
I ate too much

Grapefruit is the man I love
Sweet and bitter
The sting of rejection lingers in his mouth
Give me more
I’m still addicted
Emma Chatonoir Dec 2013
Grapefruit
So **** and ruby red
In the box of citrus
I got from Florida
I hear the fruit
Works miracles
And can make people
Feel so much better
About themselves
I want to taste it
Let the flavor take over me
The **** taste
Like my bitter mind
And maybe if I eat it enough
The fruit will make me pretty
I will be the grapefruit girl
With the body everyone envies
But whenever I go downstairs
To taste the fruit
I'm given an orange
And a bagel
And told to eat up
And that I don't want
To be grapefruit girl
And look sicker than I do
Maybe this is a sign
That I won't ever be
The perfect girl
Like I want to be
But maybe tomorrow morning
If I wake up early enough
I'll taste the fruit
The sour rebellion
And the sweetness
Of finally being thin.
Janet Li Mar 2014
I will never be able to eat a grapefruit again without thinking of you.
I remember when I used to hate that sour flesh
It made the sides of my mouth turn down
on their own,
biting into that bitterness and tasting its wicked juice.
I liked sweet things, the sweeter the better,
piled five packets of refined sugar into my coffee,
(they're tiny, right?)
sprinkled sugar onto my vegetables to make them go down better,
skipped dinner for dessert.
But you couldn't handle the sweet,
you protested every time
I tried to feed you a treat.
It made your stomach turn and your teeth hurt.

I couldn't understand it.
but the meals cycled on
like everything else we shared,
and slowly our tastes circled in from
opposite ends of the spectrum.

Nowadays,
I'll eat my grapefruit with a bit of sugar,
and you'll take your smoothies with a bit of lime,
And everything we share together will be sweet and sour
all at once,
The most beautiful flavor I've ever had.
5.22.13
Raygan Emma Jane Oct 2018
For the longest time I was unsure on how to pronounce words
When you weren't the person listening
It’s just we’ve been playing tag longer than the sun has been chasing the moon
Searching the universe for her partner to sooth her to sleep
I’ve been sitting under the grapefruit trees carving our initials into chipped wood
Waiting for your return
Thinking maybe this time
you’ll choose me to swallow up
Instead of composting me
Knowing I’ll bloom for you all over again
I’ve been flopped on my back underneath you
exposing my soft feminine underbelly
For far too long
Pet me and tell me I’m a good girl
Like a dog basking in the sun
Waiting on the porch for you to come home
Howling to the moon
All the lights have gone out
Yet I stayed put for all that time
Regurgitating grapefruit  
I embodied that unconditional kind of love
But I don’t love you anymore
Shae Nicole Jul 2014
Grapefruit: abomination!
Such a hybrid shan't exist!
So within my machination
This strange pink fruit I protest

But if it seems I cannot win it
I will find rest within.
Yes, the peace of all my oranges,
My fruit goes without a sin
No, no hidden meaning. Just a poem about disliking grapefruit.
L B Dec 2017
A beer can, phone book, a grapefruit
and an Advent wreath
with four candles
in its nest of greens
Two weeks
Two lit
Third one's the Pink
a life three quarters spent?

Next weekend
Saturday-- The Sabbath
falls in Hanukkah

“Blessed art thou, Lord our God
King of the universe
who dost create lights of fire...”

I'll light that third-- the pink one
like a barbarian wise woman
who traveled too far along life's way
to find a Jewish baby, wrapped in rags

...or, was it the old guy that night
lying in the street
outside a New England bar

“Oh Christ! Ya gotta be kidding me!”

Nope, He was there alright

Wallowing in the freezing slush
amid his helpless drunken cries
No cell phones then
Scrapped my pizza plans

On foot alone
waving in frustration  
in the passing headlights
a turquoise, wind-crazed scarecrow
_

“Someone's gotta stop?
Someone has to help us, don't they?”
_

Now there are two beer cans
a grapefruit, and a phone book
beside the advent wreath

Third candle lit and leaning out
for hope along the way
In memory of--
Louise McDermott, my daughter's godmother who gave us the Advent wreath.
and Joannie Handleman, my best buddy in music and crime who taught me her family's traditions  and Yiddish expressions.
My Scarlet Amora Dec 2014
I saw your chapstick in the store the other day
I stood there just staring at it
Do I even need chapstick?
No.
But it has the taste of you
And god I miss that
Now my lips feel permanently stained with you
You linger on every word uttered from my mouth
I can't stop licking my lips
Ive never even had a real grapefruit
Bilal Kaci Nov 2013
Your eyes; a dark abyss,
Your back to the grapefruit sky.
Your heart is a closed fist,
And i cant help but wonder why?
blushing prince Jan 2018
I drink pink grapefruit flavored drinks
my face smells like the citrus
when I lose things and people
I change my hair
it helps me cope with the idea that I can never finish a stick of lip balm and most of the people I've known only yield disappointment
no one is at fault here
but the blame is usually pushed into my intestines
and I spend five days throwing up
I used to be afraid that I would never see the entire world
now I'm afraid I'll never spend enough time in a place I can call home
every morning the smell of grapefruit grows stronger
this is a poem about grapefruits
Holly Salvatore Aug 2013
Mine are grapefruit halves
Bitter
Salted
Easing the transition into awake
Perfect juicy handfuls
But I know girls with cantalopes
Seems to me you'd need a map
To navigate those
And hands like
Melonballers just to make an impression
Raspberry, Blackberry, Cherry *******
A fruit salad of peaches
And mangoes and apples
It's a world made for peelers
And paring knives
I world where a sweet tooth
Can thrive

We plant our women in orchards
Cultivate them in careful
Organized rows
With expert farmers and the latest fertilizers
Leading them on
Into ripeness
Harvested at just the right time
So that no man ever need know hunger
Gloria Mar 2015
You're bittersweet
Like grapefruit.

You're ****.
You're sweet
And you've got that bitter aftertaste.

Some like you with a little sugar,
Others need a lot.
But a select few of us,
we like you raw.

Even though I like you raw,
I can't take your acrid taste anymore.
You're delicious, you're good,
but you're no good for me.

Maybe  I should've waited till you were ripe.
Kevin Feb 2017
in the early bloom
when poppies blossom full of pollen
and corners that i hate
softly round themselves into an infinite curve
you'll know me all too well
before and after
the kisses i keep become exposed
from the deepest mushy peels
and gentle grapefruit mist;
but only in the early bloom.
Moon Child Jan 2014
If you tell me I'm meaningful
Then *******
The loyalty fades
When her zipper starts unhooking
And you hum to her smile
Leaving no thoughts for our flickers
judy smith Jun 2015
To beat the blues, declutter the mind and trim that waistline... there are far more reasons to stay hydrated than to quench the thirst. Here's how to do it...

Hydration is central to the most basic physiological functions of the body such as regulating BP and body temperature, blood circulation and digestion. But having enough water is one thing and keeping the body well hydrated another. Hydration comes not just from sipping water but from a diet high on water. One needs to have a variety of fruits and vegetables that have a naturally high water content to replenish the electrolytes in scorching summer.

EAT YOUR WATER

"The primary way of hydration is drinking plenty of clean water ******, but about 20 per cent of our intake comes from foods, especially fruits, vegetables, drinks and broths. Hydrating food not only corrects the water balance but also replaces essential salts and minerals," adds Manjari Chandra, therapeutic nutritionist. Aqua foods provide volume and weight but not calories. Grapefruit, for example, is about 90 per cent water and half a grapefruit has just 37 calories. High water greens and fruits contain essential vitamins and minerals, bioflavonoids (compounds believed to prevent heart disease) and antioxidants that slow down the aging process. They are also high in fibre, which keeps you feeling full for longer and helps the digestive system run efficiently. They can provide al most all vitamins and minerals and correct nutrient deficiencies.

WEIGHT WATCHERS

If you thought the list of hydrating foods ends with the usual suspects like cucumbers, watermelons and tomatoes, you are wrong. Some offbeat natural hydrators include leeks, spinach, peppers, carrots and celery. In fact, celery comprises mostly water... qualifying as a great snacking option. It can also curb sweet tooth cravings, which will help you stay slim and keep away from acidic sweets. "Eggplants are a fabulous weight loss kitchen staple. This versatile ingredient has low calories and is rich in fibre that boosts satiety. Grape fruit has been hailed as a weightloss superfood globally for its cardio protective, antioxidant and appetite-sup pressing qualities. This high fibre, juicy fruit has the ability to lower blood sugar levels and control a voracious appetite," says Jia Singh, travel, food and wellness writer.

MOOD AND MIND

People usually don't consider water as a mood enhancer. However, studies have proved otherwise. Even mild dehydration can alter a person's mood, energy levels, and ability to think clearly, according to two studies by the University of Connecticut's Human Performance Laboratory. Mild dehydration is defined as an approximately 1.5 per cent loss in normal water volume in the body. It is important to stay properly hydrated at all times, not just during exercise, extreme heat, or exertion. This is because water gives the brain the electrical energy for all t, its functions, including r thought and memory processes. When your brain is functioning on a full reserve of water, you will be able to think faster, be more focused, and experience clarity and creativity.

MUSCLE POWER

We all know the importance of exercising, getting enough protein, calories and rest in order to build muscles.But water consumption is as important for muscle wellness and lubrication of joints. Water composes 75 per cent of our muscle tissue! So, if your body's water content drops by as little as 2 per cent, you will feel fatigued. If it drops by 10 per cent, you may experience health problems, such as arthritis and back pain. When you're well hydrated, water provides nutrients to the muscles and removes waste so that you perform better.

TOP SUMMER HYDRATORS

Strawberries: They rank highest in water content in comparison to all other berries. Berries are powerhouses of antioxidants that are cardio protective, good for your eyes, skin and nails and even help prevent inflammation and chronic illnesses.

Carrots: They are almost 90 per cent water, are rich sources of vitamin A and C and have tons of betacarotene that keep cancer at bay.

Zucchini: Zucchini is a popular summer squash made of 95% water. It is a good source of dietary fibre, vitamin A, C and K, folate, magnesium. It is best to use it fresh and raw in salads because cooking leads to loss of water.

Bell Peppers: Sweet bell peppers are amongst the veg gies with the highest water content. They are also a great source of vitamin C.

Iceberg lettuce: Health experts often rec ommend substituting it with darker greens like spinach or romaine lettuce for higher amounts of fibre and nutrients such as folate and vitamin K. It's a different story, however, when it comes to water content. Crispy ice berg has the highest amount of water amongst the lettuce family.

Spinach: It may not be as hydrating as iceberg lettuce, but spinach is usually a bet ter bet overall. The leafy vegetable is rich in lutein, potassium, fibre, and brain-boosting folate.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
cd Mar 2015
the grapefruit i ate this morning was entirely too sweet.  there was too much sugar in the cells of its meat and each one hugged and dripped down my throat as if i were swallowing pieces of honeycomb minus the bees.  oddly enough, as i sit here recalling the events of the day, of my eating a grapefruit this morning that was entirely too sweet, entirely too sweet for its own good, might i add, i am met with the fear that my use of 'minus' in the context of this recollection conveys my intention in an improper, imprecise manner, for it was not used to suggest an elimination or a deletion of the bees, rather, a relocation of them to some other part of the body maybe, like the nose post a sneeze, or to a field somewhere else all together, existing as integral parts of a network of cells and cycles upon which life's delicate frame hinges upon.  i suppose it makes no difference where the bees relocated to in the larger context of my eating a grapefruit that was entirely too sweet this morning, but i feel obliged to address the matter nevertheless.
third piece inspired by the writing style of Ror Wolf....
Martin Narrod May 2014
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
*Johnny 3:16 is an unattainable film featuring Vincent Gallo. The trailer for the film is available here
Styles May 2014
Dreadlock Rasta;
No like informa,
No like imposta,
**** smoke; burning da trees
Mango scented leaves,
Burnt grapefruit scented breeze.
Wolly mammoth size locks,
Steal wool, *****, tied in a knot,
Jamaican colors wrap tie; sitting on top.
I and I, believe it or not.
No woman no cry,
No problem;
Him cool as a rock.
Charles Dickens by his side,
Studying stanzas, deciphering plots.
Prayer's meeting;
meditation- never stop.
Water’s blue waves,
Fresh fish after 12’o clock.
Under the bridge, find my spot.
By his sweet Sugarcane from,
Miss Parker Sugarcane shop
Burning a spliff, because the ****
is his only green; pastures plot.
Mary Jane, his only queen be,
Never leaving he; love him or not.
JR Falk Mar 2016
It's been almost a year and I don't love you anymore. But I can't help but remember you showing me The Wonder Years and I don't think of you when I listen to them, but I will admit you still come to mind when I listen to Aaron West. It's bittersweet, like grapefruit. Both ended up my coping mechanism.
You left when I had the most faith in you I would ever have and it's not that I'm not over you. I'm not over what you did. I fear putting that much of my faith into someone again would be like handing them a loaded gun with a faulty trigger, as cliche as that is, and praying they don't shoot. I fear it wouldn't matter whether they try to shoot or not. I fear it'll happen when they don't mean for it. I'm afraid to love.
I don't hate you, but by no means do I love you, I just hope you're happy and you don't think about me when you look around that apartment, because I know I helped you move in-- I was there when you brought in your couch, bed, everything on that road. I stopped thinking about you every time I stepped into my room. I hope you did the same.
I hope she's happy, too. The girl you're with now. You did everything you could to hide the fact it was /her/ of all girls you ended up with, but it wasn't in my control that my friends told me. I'm happy you two are together-- you always talked about your connection anyway. I knew it had full potential, I just always hoped it wouldn't.
I've picked up bad habits, but haven't we all? I hope Ezra happens for you, and I hope I didn't ruin the name. I hope she treats you right.
It's been almost a year and I don't love you anymore. I just wish things didn't end the way they did. And I'm sorry.
12:13pm
3.26.16
Prose.
Listened to the new Aaron West track and fell apart a little bit.
Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the Russian
Orthadox to the
west.

she is dark
of Eastern descent,
large brown eyes look up from the Bible
then down. a small red and black
Bible, and as she reads
her legs keep moving, moving,
she is doing a slow rythmic dance
reading the Bible. . .

long gold earrings;
2 gold bracelets on each arm,
and it's a mini-suit, I suppose,
the cloth hugs her body,
the lightest of tans is that cloth,
she twists this way and that,
long yellow legs warm in the sun. . .

there is no escaping her being
there is no desire to. . .

my radio is playing symphonic music
that she cannot hear
but her movements coincide exactly
to the rythms of the
symphony. . .

she is dark, she is dark
she is reading about God.
I am God.
Mellow Ds Feb 2011
The monkey on my back is just a cigarette under the crack
Where your fingertips can not, anymore, the nicotine pursue...
A stain in my Egyptians, the painful intermissions
And nevertheless a violent ingestion, the cavalry consumed.
Dogs don't eat dogs unless they're the runts of the group,
And when they come out crooked, the casualties ensue.
Ribs on my shoulders, eyes in my aorta
And just as I guessed, from out of my chest, a ghost not unlike you.

Ive been here 666 years and the irony is insane
The only voices Ive had in my head were dripping off the brain
A zombie could knock down a wall or take 3 in the chest
But a dog with the head of a worm is quicker than the rest.
Uninvited your spine comes crashing into my field of view
Negatives of your face fading into non-photo blue
The tree canopy becomes a face that looks a bit like yours
But when it blinks my heart sinks, and you walk out the door.

Signals running every which way! Scream me, baby! Do it!
Lose my caller I.D. witch ***** slow
Drag
Drug
Love.

Eat it all under a vacuum heart and say the words!
Gooba gabba gooba gabba! We accept you, one of us!
Shoreline, waistline, eyeliner, center divider
Crash into the sea and settle underneath!
The bubbles quit rising! A man is inside!
He looks like your and my hatechild!

You wanted art!! Ill give you art!
As soon as my head stops circling around.

One of us!
(c) Ryan Bowdish 2010-2011
Victoria Reeder Jul 2011
Tip toe quietly, Mommy sleeps
after her special drinks,
all crimson.

The pink fruit of my imagination
peeks out at me as I peel
away the thick outer skin.

I wish Mommy would wake and play.

Dark liquid smells like
the bandages on my scrapes. Bitter
Sweet voices sing
away sorrows and scraped knees.

Mommy wakes
angry at the noise of my playing.

I think of days gone
Before.

Mommy in the garden
singing to the sun.

Daddy watching.

Orange-pink globes hang
then fall.
written during a waterfall exercise--my first work with that style
Dorothy A Jul 2010
It was the summer of 1954. David Ito was from the only Japanese family we had in our town. I was glad he was my best friend. Actually, he was my only friend. His father moved his family to our small town of Prichard, Illinois when David was only eight years old. That was three years ago.

Only two and a half months apart, I was the older one of our daring duo. I even was a couple inches taller than David was, so that settled it. In spite of being an awkward girl, our differences in age and height made me quite superior at times, although David always snickered at that notion. To me, theses differences were huge and monumental, like the distance of the sun from the moon. To David, that was typical girlish nonsense. He thought it was so like a girl, to try to outdo a boy.  And he should have known. He was the only son of five children, and he was the oldest.

At first, David was not interested in being friends with a girl. But I was Josephine Dunn, Josie they called me, and I was not just any girl. Yet, like David, I did not know if I really liked him enough to be his friend. We started off with this one thing in common.

I knew he was smarter than anybody I ever knew, that is except for my father, a self-taught man. The tomboy that I was, I was not so interested in books and maps, and David was almost obsessed with them. Yet, there was a kindred spirit that ignited us to become close, something coming in between two misfits to make a good match. David was obviously so different from the rest. He came from an entirely different culture, looking so out-of-the-ordinary than the typical face of our Anglo-Saxon, Protestant community, and me, never really fitting in with any group of peers in school, I liked him.

David knew he did not fully fit in. I surely did not fit, either. My brother, Carl, made sure very early on in my life that I was to be aware of one thing. And that one thing was that I did not belong in my family, or really anywhere in life. Mostly, this was because I was not of my father’s first family, but I came after my father’s other children and was the baby, the apple of my father’s eye. But that wasn’t the real reason why Carl hated me.

During World War Two, my father enlisted in the army. He already had two small sons and a daughter to look after, and they already had suffered one major blow in their young lives. They had lost their mother to cancer. Louise Dunn was an important figure in their lives. She was well liked in town and very much missed by her family and friends.
  
Why their father wanted to leave his children behind, possibly fatherless, made no sense to other people. But Jim Dunn came from a proud military family and would not listen to anyone telling him not to fight but rather to stay home with his children. His father fought in the First World War, and three of his great grandfathers fought for the Union Army in the Civil War. It was not like my father to back out of a fight, not one with great principles.  My father was no coward.

Not only did my father leave three small children back home, but a new, young wife. Two years before World War Two ended, he made it back home to his lovely, young wife and family. Back in France, my father was wounded in his right leg. The result of the wound caused my father to forever walk with a limp and the assistance of a cane. It was actually a blessing in disguise what would transpire. He could have easily came home in a pine box. He was thankful, though, that he came away with his life. After recovering for a few months in a French hospital, my father was eager to go home to his family. At least he was able to walk, and to walk away alive.

This lovely, young woman who was waiting for him at home was twenty-year-old Flora Laurent, now Flora Dunn, my mother, and she was eleven years younger than my father. All soldiers were certainly eager to get home to their loved ones. My father was one of thousands who was thrilled to be back on American soil, but his thrill was about to dampen. Once my father laid eyes on his wife again, there was no hiding her highly expanding belly and the overall weight gain showed in her lovely, plump face. She had no excuses for her husband, or any made-up stories to tell him, and there really nothing for her to say to explain why she was in this condition. Simply put, she was lonely.

Most men would have left such a situation, would have gone as far away from it as they possibly could have. Being too ashamed and resentful to stay, they would have washed their hands of her in a heartbeat. Having a cheating wife and an unwanted child on their hands to raise would be too much to bear. Any man, in his right mind, would say that was asking for way too much trouble.  Most men would have divorced someone like my mother, kicked her out, and especially they would hate the child she would be soon be giving birth to, but not my father. He always stood against the grain.

Not only did Jim Dunn forgive his young wife, he took me under his wing like I was his very own. Once I knew he was not my true father, I could never fully fathom why he was not ready to pack me off to an orphanage or dump me off somewhere far away. Why he was so forgiving and accepting made him more than a war hero. It made him my hero. That was why I loved him so much, especially because, soon after I was born, my mother was out of our lives. Perhaps, such a young woman should not be raising three step children and a newborn baby.

My father never mentioned any of the details of my conception, but he simply did his best to love me. He was a tall, very slim and a quiet man by nature. With light brown hair, grey eyes, and a kind face, he looked every bit of the hero I saw him as. He was willing to help anyone in a pinch, and most people who knew him respected him. Nobody in town ever talked about this situation to my father. To begin with, my father was not a talker, and he probably thought if he did talk about it, the pain and shame of it would not go away.

One of my brothers, Nathan, and my sister, Ann, seemed to treat me like a regular sister. Yet, Carl, the oldest child, hated me from the start. As a girl who was six years younger, I never understood why. He was the golden boy, with keen blue eyes and golden, wavy hair, as were Nathan and Ann.  I had long, dark brown hair, which I kept in two braids, with plenty of unsightly brown freckles, and very dark, brown eyes.  Compared to my sister, who was five years older, I never felt like I was a great beauty.

I was pretty young when Carl blurted out to me in anger, “Your mother is a *****!”  I cried a bit, wiped away the tears with my small hands and yelled back, “No, she isn’t!” Of course, I was too young to know what that word meant. When my brother followed that statement up with, “and you are a *******”, I ran straight to my father. I was almost seven years old.

My father scolded Carl pretty badly that day. Carl would not speak to me for months, and that was fine with me. That evening my father sat me upon my knee. “Daddy, what is a *****?” I asked him.

My father gently put his fingers up to my lips to shush me up. He then went into his wallet and showed me a weathered black-and-white photo he had of himself with his arms around my mother. It was in that wallet for some time, and he pulled out the wrinkled thing and placed it in front of me.

My father must have handled that picture a thousand times. Even with all the bad quality, with the wrinkles, I could see a lovely, young lady, with light eyes and dark hair, smiling as she was in the arms of her protector. My father looked proud in the photograph.

He said to me, his expression serious, “whatever Carl or anybody says about your mother, she will always be your mother and I love her for that”. I looked earnestly in his somber, grey eyes. “Why did she go away?” I asked him.

My father thought long and hard about how to answer me. He replied, “I don’t know. She was young and had more dreams in her than this town could hold for her”. He smiled awkwardly and added, “But at least she left me the best gift I could have—you.”  

I would never forget the warmth I felt with my father during that conversation. Certainly, I would never forget Carl’s cruel words, or sometimes the odd glances on the faces of townswomen, like they were studying me, comparing me to how I looked next to my father, or their whispers as the whole family would be out in town for an occasion. It did not happen every day, but this would happen whenever and wherever, when a couple of busybodies would pass me and my father walking down Main Street, or when we went into the ice cream parlor, or when I went with my father to the dime store, and it always made me feel very strange and vaguely sad, like I had no real reason to be sad but was anyway.


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That summer of 1954, I was a bit older, maybe a bit wiser than when Carl first insulted my estranged mother. I was eleven years old, and David was my equal, my sidekick. Feeling less like a kid, I tried not to boss him too much, and he tried not to be too smart in front of me. I held my own, though, had my own intelligence, but my smarts were more like street smarts. After all, I had Carl to deal with.

David seemed destined for something better in life. My life seemed like it would always be the same, like my feet were planted in heavy mud. David and I would talk about the places we would loved go to, but David would mark them on a map and track them out like his plans would really come to fruition. I never liked to dream that big. Sure, I would love to go somewhere exciting, somewhere where I’d never have to see Carl again, or some of the kids at school, but I knew why I had a reason to stay. I respected my father. That is why I did not wish to leave. And David respected his father. That is why he knew he had to leave.

David Ito’s father was a tailor. David’s parents came from Japan, and they hoped for a good life in their new country. Little did they know what would be in store for them. After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, their lives, with many other Japanese Americans, were soon turned upside down. David was born in an internment camp designed to isolate Japanese people from the nation once Americans declared war on Germany and their allies. David and I were both born in 1943, and since the war ended two years later, David had no memories of the internment camp experience. Even so, David was impacted by it, because the memories haunted his parents.

There was no getting around it. David and I, as different as we were, liked each other. Still, neither he nor I felt any silly kind of puppy love attraction. David had still thought of girls as mushy and silly, and that is why he liked me. I was not mushy or silly, and I could shoot a sling shot better than he did. David loved the sling shot his parents bought him for his last birthday. They allowed him to have it just as long as he never shot it at anyone.

David Ito, being the oldest child in his family, and the only son, allowed him to feel quite special, a very prized boy for just that reason. Mr. Ito worked two jobs to support his family, and Mrs. Ito took in laundry and cooked for the locals who could not cook their own meals. Mrs. Ito was an excellent cook. Whatever they had to give their children, David was first in line to receive it.

The majority of those in my town of Prichard respected Mr. Ito, at least those who did business with him. He was not only able to get good tailoring business in town, but some of the neighboring towns gave him a bit of work, too. When he was not working in the textile factory, Mr. Ito was busy with his measuring tape and sewing machine.  

Even though Mr. Ito gained the respect of the townspeople, he still was not one of us. I am sure he knew it, too. Yet Mr. Ito lived in America most of his life. He was only nine-years-old when his parents came here with their children. Like David, Mr. Ito certainly knew he was Japanese. The mirror told him that every day. But he also knew felt an internal tug-of war that America was his country more than Japan was, even when he was proud of his roots, even though he was once locked up in that camp, and even when some people felt that he did not belong here.

If David was called an unkind name, I felt it insulted, too, for our friendship meant that much to me. How many times I got in trouble for fighting at school! My father would be called into the principal’s office, and I was asked by Mr. Murray to explain why I would act in such an undignified way. “They called David a ***** ***”, I exclaimed. “David is my friend!”

Because David and I were best buddies, we heard lots of jeering remarks. “Josie loves a ***! Josie loves a ***!” some of the children taunted. And Carl, with his meanness, loved to be head of the line to pick on us. He once said to me, “It figures that the only friend you can get is a scrawny ***!”

In spite of my troubles at school, Father greatly admired David and his father, and he thought that David and I were good for each other’s company. Mr. Ito greatly respected my father, in return, not only for his business but because my dad could fix any car with just about any problem. Jim Dunn was not only a brilliant man, in my eyes, but the best mechanic in town. When Mr. Ito needed work done on his car, my father was right there for him. It was an even exchange of paid work and admiration.

Both my father and David’s father felt our relationship was harmless. After all, everyone in David’s family knew and expected that he would marry a nice Japanese girl. There was no question about it. Where he would find one was not too important for a boy of his age. Neither of us experienced puberty yet and, under the watchful eye of my father, we would just be the best of buddies.

David pretended like the remarks said about him never bothered him, but I knew differently. I knew he hated Carl, and we avoided him as much as possible. David was nothing like me in this respect—he was not a fighter. Truly, he did not have a fighting bone in his body, not one that picked up a sword to stab it in the heart of someone else. It was not that David was not brave, for he was, but he knew the ugliness of war without ever even having to go to battle. Nevertheless, he used his intellect to fight off any of the racist remarks made about him or his family. He had to face it—the war had only ended nine years prior and a few of the war veterans in town fought in the Pacific.      

Because of the taunts David had experienced in school, I was not surprised what David’s father had in store for his beloved son.  Mr. Ito could barely afford to send one child to private school, but he was about to send one. David was about to be that child. When David told me that when school resumed he would be going to a boy’s school in Chicago, my heart sank. Why? Why did he have to go? I would never see him again!

“You will see me in the summer”, he reassured me. He looked at me as I tried to appear brave. I sat cross-legged on the grass and stared straight ahead like I never even heard him. I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit, and my lips felt like they were quivering.

We were both using old pop bottles for target practice. They sat in a row on an old tree stump shining in the evening sun. David was shooting at them with his prized slingshot. I had a makeshift one that I created out of a tree branch and a rubber band.

“You won’t even remember me”, I complained.

“I will to”, he insisted. “I remember everything.”

“Oh, sure you will”, I said sarcastically. “You’ll be super duper smart and I will just be a dummy”. In anger, I rose up my slingshot, and I hit all three bottles, one by one, then I threw the slingshot to the ground. David missed all the shots he took earlier.

David threw his slingshot down, too. “For being a girl, you are pretty smart!” he shouted. “You are too smart for your own good! The reason I like you is because you are better than anyone I ever met in my entire life. Well…not better than my parents, but you are the neatest girl I ever knew in my life!”

For a while, we didn’t talk. We just sat there and let the warm, summer breeze do our talking for us. I pulle
copywrited 2010
haley Oct 2017
you
had a chapstick tube
stowed away in your bag of things you never put to use
those scarred chapped lips
scratching, tearing
crevice of your mouth craved my heart
bleeding, uncaring
and subsequently my mango chapstick would serve it's purpose
on your lips and never mine.
among other things, you had a pair of white socks.
you never wore them,
too pristine
(you'd ruin them as you teetered on slippery suspended logs)

you reminded me of a cracked open window,
always hoping you would be at the mullioned panes
chapped lips, white socks and all
but the only thing that pushed against the glass was the scent of mango air.
and
mango never smelt so bitter.

when
will you come home
replace the mango air with your feverish cologne.
a swaying of the breeze and your tee shirt wraps a cotton arm
around your waist
the bitter aftertaste
your tongue like grapefruit wedged against my teeth

i missed the smell of burnt bread bottom,
when we were in the kitchen
and the gown of silver hemmed water that danced down the roof,
tapping
again and again and again
but, when you come home next month.
I will be gone.

the mango
around our home
had long since
turned bitter
and that brown picket fence no longer bends around my heart
i am somewhere where the mango still smells sweet
and
boys give my their chapstick for i've long since run out of mine.
Patrick Hart Apr 2013
Orange 4 squared room,
Purring of Cat
a Dripping White Spoon
Is this a Yellowing Moon
Floating Upon oceans
With it's Glowing  Swoon

Dashing Ones Palette
with Grape Fruit Juice
Bitterly sweet
Like raptures beneath Moon
forcing ones cerebral Ecstasy
To begin begging for
Beginners Tune

The ocean Now a Purring white satin
Basque in beauty
Rotating its symmetrical fashion.
Coop Lee Jul 2015
new summer, spoken then lived.
new letter, spelled in crayola crème.

you were the love of
my life.
plucked my heart like
squishy fruit.

we once turned the night
into paintings and poems,
particulates of
a golden time gone by.
Matt Mar 2016
It's 10:34
And life
What a beautiful bore

I am not a productive
Worker

I just got out
Of the shower

Move like a sloth
Dragging my feet

First a grapefruit
Then an orange to eat

And money
So funny

Who really cares?

Love being poor

So be it
So there
Tawanda Mulalu Oct 2018
(for children)


(1)

I heard a big word once. 'Armamentarium'.
It's a word with old parents. It means things
like medicine and how doctors feel your chest
for beats that don't quite fit. It means red
and the things inside your body that need
hands to help you. My hands help by wandering.
I tap my hands on tables, I comb my hair,
I pick up flowers, I hold up faces
of people I love when I feel blue. But my favourite
is red, because it is inside me, beating.
I learned a big word once. It was my name. I said it and it sang.


(2)

If you peel me you will find songs
as thick as grapefruit. I am red inside.
I take some time. I am always late.
I am best in the mornings but at night awake.
I'm from a place that is not as green as here.
Our grasses are yellow and say so with the wind.
My mirror is both my best friend and enemy,
sometimes a lover, often a bully, either way
hands are caught. I like to read. I read
so much that I think of my skin as grapefruit.
I don't even like to eat it. I just like the red.


(3)

Planes have mouths. They swallow people.
They fly them away. They spit me out.
Sometimes I do not know whose stomach I am in.
Inside the planes I dream of reds as dense as
roses. When the planes land I give them to
me as myself. Let me explain this better:
my accent is a grand liar because my
country is blue. It never rains there
but when it does you will find my mother's throat.
I croak with such dryness that the sounds turn to words.


(4)

When I see me I see soil. I grow roses
in my skin. People who don't look like
me first brought those kinds of flowers
to my country with ships. Kind of. We do not have
oceans. They must have walked so far for me
to speak with things they then planted. People think of me
as oceans reflecting the sky. I say I want the sunset
petalled perfectly into soil. My skin. When you see me
you must adore me because of your planting. I am not
your garden. I bloom.


(5)

When you hear words do not forget that someone
taught them to you. Maybe your mother
who read books about cats in hats to you
at airports. Maybe your father
and his stories of his childhood with feet
twisting through thin sand as roses dancing.
Where I am from we do not have soil
for those kinds of flowers. My father still grew
and my mother still grew me. Peel my skin
and you will find that sort of red beneath. If you ask me
where it came from I won't say. I will sing.
A better singer: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluets_(poetry_collection)
Forbidden fruit of Barbados
Oh how she glows.

Sectional sweetness
Bitter in aftertaste

My favorite things in life
Always seem to be similar

Maybe because
I prefer the familiar

The curve and the shape
Contour and ripe

As I slice thee in half
I notice your walls

Serrated spoon in hand
Showing gratitude toward the land

For it bears blessed fruits
The fruit blesses me

Upon receiving sour
Bite after bite

The bitterness sets in
Night after night

Grapefruit makes me happy
Grapefruit makes me smile

I hope that I don’t get sick
At least not for a while
I love grapefruit, I just hope it doesn't make me sick!!
ellis danzel Dec 2014
That night you told me we were the same kind of crazy.

I take a peek at you through my Wells goggles. I've had a sip too much of my grapefruit ***** and we are the only two people in the bar.

I'm light as a feather and with gin nipping at our noses, we let Jack Frost drive the car that night.

That's the thing though, sober or not it's all the same game. The wells is just gasoline to ignite our volatile roulette.

Drink number two still as pink but this time I'm ******* faster. I'm trying to imagine that the lime at the bottom taste like your lips and I am inching towards your soul.

That night you told me we were the same kind of crazy.

Chemical malfunctions in our past, led us to that moment. Infinite understanding of misunderstanding.

I'm light as a feather and I let you drive home, but I never asked if I could stay.

I cannot do simple math to save myself from blushing. As people start trickling in I count my breath and catch the eye of a familiar stranger.

He was wearing the most arousing scarf.

I wish that was your scarf.

With Jack Frost waiting in the car and grapefruit in my veins I count the steps synchronising the strides with my heartbeat.

**** it's cold. Please let me hold your hand.

Pack the bowl, pack the ****, pack the one-y

Isn't it funny that rhymes with honey.

Glossy eyes and records. Your White as fresh snow sheets.

I digress.

Why do you always make me leave?

I could just lie with you, I'd just like to listen to you.

We talk, but vaguely. I wish you'd open up to me.

I'm sorry.

Comfort keeps us swollen, but what we have is frail.

Maybe I don't love you, but I don't feel cold to you either.

Give me something to think about when you aren't around.

You're my friend.

Platonic, no depth, just silence.

My vocal absence attempts to create space for your stories.

What are you about? How did you get here? What happened to make you untrusting of my company?

These are these things you think I cannot see.

Somewhere in our cloud of smoke is the door to your heart.

I don't want it to be mine, I just want it to tell me stories.
AapkiHamesha Sep 2012
The orange moon above my lake
Floats there, so awake.

Smiling,
Admiring,
Itself in my water.
 
He looks up,
Blows me a kiss
So sleepy,
So breezy,
So lovely.

I blush,
Smile shyly.
How lovely,
So lovely.

He looks and winks.
I shrink shyly. 
Such beauty.
How lovely.
David W Clare Dec 2014
When you no no want eat Lemmon
'cause it no no not taste sweet
You should not have sugar candy
It's not healthy as can be...Now!

There are new Thai Fruits discovered, in the Tropic Jungle heat!
All them lovely Thailand Fruits! Make you mouth say" Tutti Fruit, Ah!"
All exotic and delicious.. at first one is so suspicious... cause it taste so crazy wild
But, even good for baby child...

Big banana grow for monkey Yes, Thai Fruits tastes so fun funky!
Mango for Bangkok street dancing, All Thai Fruit best for romancing...
GrapeFruit great for big-big ape! Thai Fruit, in my my milk-shake!
Grow head hairy with Strawberry! Dandy Fruit lovely big Cherry!

Melon make wild man go yell... Thai Fruit put you in love spell
Guava flavor in coffee Java yes, Thai Tree found in Bahama!

Now, we eat up all da fruit, lovely-lovely Melon Fruit!
cuase it makes sweet-nectar juice! Cleanse your Healthy body loose!
There are new Thai Fruits we eat discover deep in Jungle heat!
We love spicy Thailand Fruit! Make you mouth feel Tutti Fruit!

"Yum Yum" sez baby child...
Get Fruity Now! Sweet & Sour! Hep Hep Hurray!

Thai Fruit, yum yum yum!
Don't need no *** *** ***!
Feeling Fruity all over, sensation of all flavor...
a brand new taste I now savor .... Mmmmmmmm Deeelicious!
Thailand Fruit is now: what we all Favor !!!!

Thai Fruit Taste, the one we love...
All the many are so nice...
Like Mangosteen herb spice

We all want Thai Fruit now, is the flavor in our mouth...Sugar Chocolate Candy can go south... '
'cause dem no don't tastes as sweet...

Theres the new Thai Fruit we discover in the Jungle fill with heat!
It is the lovely Thai Thai Fruit! Make you go go Tutti Fruit!
It is exotic and delicious.. Now no one is suspicious... cause it taste so yummy wild
We feel like baby child... Yep, it make all go hog WILD!!!

(c) 2009 David Wayne Clare all rights reserved in perpetuity - Intellectual Property use by permission
Written in Bangkok 2009
Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails!  Sleep, sleep!  Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil.  Food!  Food!
Offal!  Offal!  that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .

Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby!  The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—

A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep.  The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window.  Pay no
heed to him.  He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in.  He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it.  It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.

The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.

The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby.  The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves:  go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—
Paul Rousseau Jun 2012
Burnt adolescence, the smell of survivors
The satiric regime beholds.
White-gloved landlords, picking at grapefruit
By what means was this chapter told?

By a pigheaded guerilla lad
In a trench coat and top hat
With an ego to the distance of the sun
Alcohol is flammable
To the ones with sharpened mandibles  
For myself, it was all jolly good fun
Martin Narrod Mar 2015
basilisk ****
nonparticular inexecrable exit
art ****
the lips on for breakfast
twilight zip entanglement
meticulous bending and sensual telepathy

fever-sickness
rock 'n roll boo-boos
lilting black 'n blues on the caboose
puppeteering every tasty ***** loose

chews the collar
thighs and necking room
bustling bussers it gives ifs
gets down with

daisy, dior, dkny, grapefruit(purple) to narcisso and pink sugar too

Bliss tainted madness
playing tug-o-war with
January's vacuum
Years of passing down groupies
to the most recent djs playing bad dubstep tunes
and that sickness of seeing iloveyou's abused
argument groupies arcticmonkeys rap hiphop lyrics January in March dubstep tunes dj iloveyou you i love s apostrophes and apotropaics not amused thefeverbythecrammps use kicking being used abused musedandabused lust dkny dior daisy marcjacobs fashion neon blinking ******* black and blue blackandblue red fever booboos ouies ouch basilisk magic eit bending ****** telepathy sensual i'm cramped thecrammps
michelle reicks Nov 2011
deli meats and cheeses
i look past them at soft crinkling smiling faces


and i drink my java
warms up my hands and ******* and i sweat
in my coat


walking up and down the isles

I see trail mix
and sunchips

and sweet sweet sweets
the yummies

that i adore

chocolates
especially

dark chocolate cocoa orange cherry strawberry berry red brown

it's the sweetness and saltiness
of summer time ice cream

It's the cold crispness
of carrots and snap peas

It's the warmth and comfort
of big muffins and a plate of hashbrowns
at Perkin's
after a stressful morning



spice smells
of pad tai noodles


sourdough bread, fresh baked
crunch crunch on the outside
soft hot squish
inside
(save that part for me, i eat them separate
-you laugh)

how many times did we
laugh
about how you ate that bug
and we were never picky



cherries
all those cherries.






we ate nutella
on bread,

washed it down with cold organic orange juice
from a cafe neither of us had ever heard of

and tofu
tofu tofu

always cooked perfectly (we wondered how they do it)
(i still don't know)

chocolate, melting slowly

"you missed some."

-------just an excuse to kiss me.
i giggle


peanut m&m;'s

turn my tongue colors.

Watermelon at a potluck
wedding cake
cheesy potatoes
and an extra helping of bread
(we laughed so hard at the white bread, squished into a cube)

ruby red
made you wince

I drink it straight from the bottle
and smile

remembering every kiss
that tasted of grapefruit
in that tent

every kiss that tasted of salt
from the eggs?
or from the sweat on your lips

the sweat on your lips.

we kiss more
i smile into your lips
i remember that, especially

we never got sick of each other
nutella on everything, now.
especially on s'mores


i smile with every memory




i put my hands in pockets, the cold rushes to meet my face
in the ice cream aisle

i cool down as i graze
through the tubs or corn syrup and double churned triple churned
cream with extra fudge

sherbet

i chuckle to myself


memories memories
of sitting up high
with you,

sand on our toes
chocolate caramel fudge coffee
on our tongues

love

in our hearts


you remember.

the taste of that summer

— The End —