"handpicked" poems
There are grapes in my path
This abundant trail
now invisible as if we never were
Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap
for pleasure and pain
I picked you some flowers,
I baked you a pie,
labors of love
with your own hands
connected to earth.
Breaking backs, and clinging sweat
Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton
Keeping more out than simply the sun
Depleted soil
Exhausted soul
Bursting with juice
Bountiful and hand chosen
And you in a hurry just drive by
Dust in the wind
Skin of clay mud
Day after day,
A boulder among the rows
Hunched in fields
Blistered and callused
Searching for more
Ripe for the picking
Migrants moving
Servitude by season
Benevolent harvest
Handpicked strawberries
By chocolate covered hands
destined from birth
closer to earth.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
The pick
All the stress that an orange has caused is painful.
It is painful for the tree from which it came.
Snatched away with promises of sweetness.
A tree mostly green, engulfing
Small speckles of that deceptive orange.
It was such a bright colour – high hopes!
Handpicked by a man only looking for the best,
Choosing poorly not for the first time.
The green leaves frantically try to reclaim what’s theirs.
Branch after branch reaching out, trying to uproot him.
Close, so close. But they are a sea apart,
At least an apple has a core, a heart.
The peel
Now it is pilfered, the painful process begins,
Never quite ending: disappointment beckons.
To try and taste these orange juices
You soldiers must bear the burden.
Each soldier, a finger digging themselves
Into the tough stressful shell.
Fingernails stained with orange blood,
Eyes blinded by the same tangy juices.
It never slips off in one go
Like a roomy balaclava,
But crumbles like the remnants of a bombing.
Brick by brick, orange by orange it crumbles.
Now it is finally undone
But neither tree nor man has won.
The preparation
The crust collapsed, but now
It is time to untangle the web the mantle holds.
First, a division – the separation of brothers
Who served side by side at birth.
Dissected by these soldiers
Acting as a bomb squad,
Searching for those hidden pips.
Found, but not without casualties –
Sticky fingers with no taps in sight.
Once removed the web is untangled.
Tired, he hopes that the stress will swiftly end
Unaware that the sweetness was just pretend.
The pain
Finally the moment has arrived
And illogical ceremonies commence.
I fear the celebration is far too soon,
For as white touches orange and tries
So desperately to unite,
The tartly taste slays the poor man’s buds:
Igniting like petrol on his burning tongue.
He wishes he could return that orange
To the green tree to which it belongs,
To return a bullet-sprayed windscreen is not an option.
The orange, once bitten, enjoys its trance
Latching on to those pained tingling taste buds.
His orange, a disaster to undress:
Bad taste – a foolish price for such a mess.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
A rose without thorns.
A rose so beautiful as yourself. Who dares to clip your thorns? Those you use to protect yourself. Or did you just let them fall off in that lonely dark shelf.
What kind of rose are you?
Where are your sharp pointy thorns?! You were a devil back then, with those long and black horns. They protruded to my core, you stabbed me with a double edge sword that ran through my heart, leaving bittersweet memories and myself wanting for more.
So, let me ask you again
What kind of rose are you?
I see you have bloomed so well but no more thorns to impale. now I’m sitting next to you listening to your tales. I’m sorry to state but I must say farewell. 'What a fine gentleman you have found as your mate
What kind of rose are you now?
I guess you did let go of your thorns. You made me bleed and drop to my knees back then When I tried to carefully carry you, earth and root right off the ground
to make a home for you where you will be safe and sound.
Mother nature gave you that wonderful protection
which is my motivation
to keep going after you, because I know you’re not going to be easily handpicked by anyone.
Hm what a fine gardener he was,
now you’re in vase.
A rose without thorns
Withering without a base
Sooner or later he will think your just a piece of waste.
"Thank you for the view what a wonderful taste"
He would say.
Not I
I would fix your heart and never let it come apart.
So what kind of rose are you?
Are you the kind that has been grown by light
the one that has so much pride but doesn’t fight back?
Or are you the one raised below the shadow struggling your way out of a thin crack.
What kind of rose are you?
Whether you’re a rose whose thorns were clipped or a dead rose drowning in grief there always will be the right person who will protect you
and help you in your needs.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:50 AM UTC
handpicked blueberries in yogurt,
tea on the porch, Ellen,
in desperation to plant a raspberry bush.
jogging through a grasshopper field
holding in screams at the small green chirps
shooting up around my ankles.
grimy trails of sweat, the daddy longlegs
crawling out from under my thigh
the dirt at home under my nails.
nickel-bright stars above
the trees, a cool tress rising,
buzzing in the porch light of
bugs going for our jugulars,
still tight and smooth.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
I don't love you
I don't love your flaws
I hate them
you tore me to pieces
I hate so many things about you
you are like nicotine
worse than the hits I take
I crave so many pieces of you
but only pieces
I can never love you fully
as a whole
I love the sections of you I handpicked
and re arranged
into who I want
I don't love you anymore
I love feeling loved.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
It is because of you that I am fully attentive
Soundwaves that wash over me from start to end
Music, my only friend
Now, we ride the waves of wifi to get what we need
But our gaze upon an artist is lost
Once our playlists consist of only a few of their songs
Handpicked amongst others, so our entertainment isn't lost
I understand the desire of variety
But I value the intimacy of a record I can hold
Knowing that for a while, it's just me and this music alone
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
Harvested perfect eggs,
of the mother to be,
are kept, in deep freeze.
enriched sperms of paid donor
(looked after well
to keep perfect fit)
are getting impatient.
the bee, fertilizer nonpareil
handpicked and hired,
fertility specialist,
didn't keep his word;
away on leave,
"pollinating vacation"
over phone, he explains,
"my last chance to
proliferate my clan,
wife is excited,
need to make it happen now
this time, of the year,
the chances are the best"
*a melancholy moon, barren woman
silently weeps moonbeams
over the sparse, still thinning forest*.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
You are beautiful
I see it in the way your crooked teeth show when you smile big enough to make me choke
I feel it in the soft cracks in your voice when you are nervous
You are beautiful
In the way that your body shakes with all the energy bursting through your fingertips like life isn’t always moving at your pace
In the way that your brows furrow when you are focused
You are beautiful
Like the golden red and orange sunset reflecting on the ocean and big puffy clouds tinted pink
Like handpicked bouquets you gave to your mother when you were 7
I love the way your toes curl and your hands shake when you’re anxious
I love brushing my fingers across the soft expanse of your skin, every freckle and scar, the stretch marks that grew with every inch that you did
You are beautiful
I am so lucky to live a life with you in it
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 5:13 PM UTC
I dedicate my heart and give you all my love
For you my sweet are like the flower called Dove
Your distinctive features give off such power
Soft and beautiful like a Lewisia Cozyledon flower
Colorful like a wild Daffodil, giving off a sweet smell
As bright as a Rose Swallow with a head built quite swell
Shaped like a pretty Lily, curved and slender
Lovely as a Buttercup, radiant and tender
Built like a Red Rose, with perfect formation
Giving off exhilarating fragrances that imbues such sensations
Your pedals are firm, and round and thick in all the right places
Silky and smooth, you earn stares from all types of faces
Unique as a Kadupul flower, but thankfully don’t perish at dawn
As rare as a Ghost Orchid, won’t be found in just any old lawn
Men and women a like, have wished to re-plant you in their home
But with a little help from God, in my garden bed I have you all alone
I cultivate and regenerate you, giving you nutrients to keep you well
Providing you space to breath and warmth wherever we dwell
My enriched soil is full of caring and understanding of your needs
Keeping you safe from harmful pests and ridding you of weeds
With you by my side, life is a refreshing spring breeze
Enthralled with your beauty, you knock me to my knees
I knew my heart was right, no second-guesses, I was not tricked
That you truly are a rare flower from the first day you were handpicked
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
I am your masterpiece,
I am what you made me; every stitch and every crease.
Like the finest tailor, you cut me open at the seams,
And sewed me back together as a quilt of your insecurities and dreams.
I was hand-stitched and handpicked to bare the weight of your pain.
And in my strength you found another string to pull time and time again.
Before I collapse and fall apart, you sew yourself into me,
So instead of all the holes and tears, it is only the beautiful patches that they see.
Your strength was drawn from my frayed and fragile heart,
I am your creation; I was built for you to use and tear apart.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
The land of the free
The huddled masses
Salute the flag and
Raise your glasses.
Just going along fine;
You never had a hunch
And then America gives
A sneaky sucker punch.
With malice toward none
The land of equality
Everyone the same
Just like you and me,
Unless he is black
Or some other non-white.
Then, not really equal.
No, sorry. Not quite.
The rules are laid out,
Not in the constitution.
To be okay in the USA
Is an ironclad institution.
You don’t make waves,
Or rise above your station.
A handpicked few white men
Are in charge of this nation.
The land of the free
The huddled masses
Salute the flag and
Raise your glasses.
Just going along fine;
You never had a hunch
And then America gives
A sneaky sucker punch.
So, don’t start whining
About equal opportunity.
That really isn’t for you
Only for the likes of me.
I’m a rich white man, you see
I control most of what there is
Which is almost everything.
Tell you when to take a whizz.
There are haves and have-nots
And you know which you are.
If you’re lucky you get to own
A TV and inexpensive car.
But other than voting for
The two parties we allow
You just pay taxes, that’s it.
Nothing else, not ever, not now.
The land of the free
The huddled masses
Salute the flag and
Raise your glasses.
Just going along fine;
You never had a hunch
And then America gives
A sneaky sucker punch.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
he’s sensitive. god he’s so sensitive. don’t push jokes too far, he’ll get offended.
he’s thoughtful, he’ll remember every important day and everything you’ve ever said.
he’s dedicated, he’ll do everything to make your relationship work.
that includes staying up late to talk to you,
but giving you space when you need it.
he’ll do everything and anything to keep a smile on your face.
he’ll write letters when he can’t find the right words to say at the right time.
he’ll hold you when you cry and he won’t let go, ever.
he’ll tell you everything you want to hear and he’ll compliment you to no end,
especially when you don’t believe him.
he’ll give you a long romantic speech about how much he values you
but he’ll also tell you everything he wants to do to you.
he looks like a god without a shirt on, and his lips taste like handpicked stars
he’ll make you his priority, don’t take him for granted.
he loves being reminded you care, even if it’s a random ‘i love you’ in the middle of the day.
don’t use his past against him, he’s trying to move on.
he loves being given a window into your soul, open up to him.
he’s terrified of failure, remind him that he’s good enough.
watch him play football. he'll show off for you and his *** looks chiseled by the gods in those shorts.
he loves you for your personality, but he’ll appreciate seeing what’s underneath every once a while
he’ll get jealous, reassure him he’s the only one you want.
he loves it when you wear lace underwear and his favorite color on you will be navy blue.
he’ll want to show you off, let him.
he’s going to try and make every moment perfect, let him
love him unconditionally, he’s not perfect, but he deserves it.
he’ll treat you like the whole world, return the favor.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
I don't love you
I don't love your flaws
I hate them
you tore me to pieces
I hate so many things about you
you are like nicotine
worse than the hits I take
I crave so many pieces of you
but only pieces
I can never love you fully
as a whole
I love the sections of you I handpicked
and re arranged
into who I want
I don't love you anymore
I love feeling loved.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
The light in your bedroom keeps me company
Though it makes me wish you'd disappear
Because I don't think you deserve my sadness,
And yet I give it to you anyway - everyday
Handpicked and wrapped up with a sort of pleading desperation
A "please take me back there, sitting on your front step with sweet consolidation"
But we don't go there anymore,
And so the light in your bedroom keeps me company,
And at nighttime I wish I'd disappear
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:50 PM UTC
Forbidden fruit
Ripened by the sun
Handpicked imperfections
Never to be tasted
Hungry for the wind
Sweet honey painted lips
Decadent play thing
Lover of the lost
Beautiful chaos
Rabbit hole choices
Peephole neverland
Necessary whimsical
Carry me away honeysuckle
Watercolor visions
Wildflower dreams
Just is, just because
Cross the line
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
Your red tide
is burning rust,
making newly polished things
out of polished things
we once bonded in lust.
And at the bottom of this ocean door
lay the dead skeletons of dead fish-
their ivory bones gleaming and moored
like pretty faces,
handpicked and carved,
from the prettiest crowd.
So beautiful these dead reminders,
hanging from a Christmas tree-
hanging from a gold chain on my neck-
hanging from your mouth
like a *** of spit ready to fall
into the ocean,
to be drowned.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
Picture a house.
Picture all the things in that house.
The hard-wood floors,
The carpets and chairs,
The drapes and doors,
Even stairs.
Now picture the people in it.
Mom, Dad, Brother, and Sister.
Did they pick your or did you pick them?
It doesn't matter who picked who,
These people in the house were meant for you.
And I hate when the house seems to disagree,
And the walls are yelling back at me.
I don't know about the other houses,
But I do know about what's in mine.
These people inside my quiet house,
I love them all the time.
I don't know about other people,
But I know about what's in me.
I handpicked every single soul that lives in this house with me.
Sometimes our thoughts can get kind of sloppy and Mom has to mop them off the floor.
Sometimes we throw our patience away on our way out the kitchen door.
But all the time, not just sometimes,
I finish every night,
Soaking all my thoughts in my gray walls,
Where white and black meet and dance down the halls.
Mae.B
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
*Ever since I discovered Love
Or that silly thing I called it,
I've written poems for the boys
Though when I started, with little wit.
I have always fancied artists
Doesn't matter what their kind,
The creative bunch intrigues me
Probably why I study the mind.
A poem for this boy a poem for that
I have one for each I've cared for.
(There's one that has more than most
That one boy, I especially adore).
But someday in my life
I want to be the subject
Of someones endearing words,
Each stanza delicately handpicked
They don't have to make me swoon,
Fall in love or be romantic,
I just want to be admired
By sketched words not a tactic
Now please don't judge my soul
For wanting admiration,
Everyone one this planet wants it
Regardless of city, race or nation.
Some desire it less
Some desire it more
But would you really reject
A lovers kiss in a bookstore?
But as for now at this time
I don't need a kiss right away,
I just want a poem for me
(Pardon the atrocious cliche).
So someday in my life
I hope to be the subject
Of someones endearing words,
Each stanza, for me, handpicked.*
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
Golden walls intricate
regal behind your stead
Lights reflect every detail
on your beautiful head
on fabric, indigo
pressed against my body,
my bed
Beams, dim, light your cream skin
Vivid images shown
Distance, a hairline fracture
Inhales, exhales, become
beautiful exchanges
heavy plunges with our–
deep moans
Words intricate, precise
handpicked by lips so chapped
Marvelous, perilous sounds
graze my skin, steel bullets
as painful as your thrusts
Inaudible groans leave
your love
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
it wasnt the first text
rather the initial sext
that set me head over heels
no, i wont forget the next
for it surpased the rest
and passed the ultimate test
left me grappling with feelings
feelings that may never be entertained
except he felt the same
the same as i....
left me wondering, which did he love?
is it my name or my fame?
or was it the heart or face?
whatever it was,
it ran with the river tibet,
im gona go fishing today,
to look for the treasure,
the treasure to win him all over again
for he is mine.
handpicked i say, handpicked
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Let me inject parts of you
Into words, handpicked
The kind I’d use to write poetry
Free-verse, haiku—
Or what may have you.
I’d pick up a black pen and write you
The brilliance of your face
And that fascinating grace,
I could swear at any light
Or time of day,
It could have easily lifted a pen
As well as moved me
With strokes that were
Possibly subtle and potent
But with a common wish
That is—
To perpetuate you
Somehow with me
In these lines as we've come attached,
I have written you to never end
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 1:46 AM UTC
A handpicked lemon from Saturday’s market
Plump, juicy, and golden.
Tear its skin off,
Throw the rinds in the green grass,
And chuck the good stuff in the twilight.
It sticks.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
We live in the reality of spirituality
The universe only lets us think we make the rules, so we'd believe
we had the power to pick our own lovers.
Well the Truth is we were handpicked for each other.
You were always going to be mine, I was always going to be yours.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
The fire that burned everything?
Every single thing I carefully amassed,
My diary of thoughts and poems,
Every song I wrote and my acoustic guitar,
The moments trapped in those photographs,
My cheap telescope my cosmic time machine,
My passport, doctor's note, my social security,
All those drugs I took to stay alive.
I burned my hands trying to extinguish,
Until those little snowflakes assisted,
The clouds of ashes took a while to subsidize,
After I lost everything; what I had I realized,
That beautiful ivory box that you loved,
Something very valuable was kept safe inside,
Only our handpicked set of memories survived.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
on the breakfast table
placed carelessly
with great love
in an old busted
coffee mug
a handpicked bunch
of fresh peonies
still damp and dewy
pale pastel linensilk flowers
crumpled and beguiling
beside, a note
my love is but a garden
that blooms for you..
each and everyday.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC