"mandarins" poems
ARTICHOKES are very nice roasted with pine nuts
Who likes BANANA cream pie?
They say that eating CARROTS improves your eye sight
Along the river Nile there are many DATE palms
ELDERBERRIES make a flavorsome wine
Piths from a FIG can easily get stuck between your teeth
Nape tape and shape all rhyme with GRAPE
HORSERADISH has a hot tangy taste
ICE-PLANT is a much used vegetable in Chinese cookery
The oil extract from JUNIPER BERRIES produces quine
My sister likes KALE steamed with lemon rind
It is so nice to munch on a LETTUCE leaf
MANDARINS are presently plentiful at the green grocer's
NEEPS can be mashed or left whole
On a hot summer day chilled ORANGE juice goes down well
Has anyone got a good PUMPKIN scone recipe?
Lashings of QUINCE jam were spread on my toast
The lady next door grows RHUBARB
SPINACH gave Popeye much strength
Smothering sausages in TOMATO sauce is sensational
UGLI is a member of the citrus family
In New Orleans you'll find fresh VELVET BEANS
WATERCRESS salad is so easy to prepare
XIGUA is a type of WATERMELON
YAMS are a staple of the New Guinean diet
ZUCCHINI bread is delicious fair
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Tu voudrais que j'improvise
Les chemins qui mènent au septième ciel
Pour notre prochain congrès
Que je vienne les mains vides
Sans notes ni croquis
Pour te couronner reine et courtisane.
Mais demanderais-tu au peintre de venir à toi
Sans son pinceau, ses fusains, ses tubes d'aquarelle et son papier canson
Ou au photographe sans son posemètre, son trépied et ses filtres, son appareil photo et ses objectifs
Et un auteur de théâtre pourrait-il officier sans donner des indications?
Des orientations, des pistes pour que les acteurs puissent mieux jouer leurs personnages
Eh bien moi je voudrais écrire de concert avec toi les didascalies de notre lune de miel.
Pense au Cantique des Cantiques
Pense à Salomon, à son épouse et aux jeunes filles ,
Penses-y bien, ma sans rivale,
Ma muse venue au monde sept fois
Et dont aucune galante n 'arrive aux chevilles
Comment veux-tu qu'on se retrouve dans la mare aux nénuphars
Deux canards mandarins batifolant
Sans didascalies...
Tu connais les soixante-quatre manières du kama
Tu sais la différence entre baratement et percement
Et tu veux goûter le chalumeau du miel
Lors du congrès de la corneille
Alors tandis que tu me provoques du regard et du geste
En dansant comme une bayadère accomplie
Souviens toi des didascalies.
Je suis ton vert-galant, ton esclave, ton cornac
Ton renifleur, ton cunnilingue, ton Sigisté
Si tu veux tu seras ma nymphe, mon myrte, ma lanterne, ma crête,
Ma landie, ma douceur, mon amour de Vénus
Mon gaude mihi, mon impudique
Organisons nos langues et nos boutons
Nos protubérances.
Pour qu'aucune partie ne soit honteuse
Pour que toutes soient honnêtes
Il faut des chapitres et des actes
Dans lesquels les morsures, les égratignures, les baisers
Les succions et les caresses s'emboîtent dans un naturel
Si joliment organisé que chaque posture génère
Une improvisation et que chaque improvisation génère une nouvelle posture.
Alternons les phases pudiques et impudiques
Sans tabou éperonnons-nous
Empalons-nous dans les postures de singe ou d'éléphant
Peu importe si la mentule précède le tentigo
Ou le contraire
Peu importe qui est dessus ou dessous
Qui lèche et qui est léché, qui est mordillé, qui est marqué,
Qui est baisé et pénétré
Si c'est simultanément ou séparément
Nous appartenons nous aussi au règne animal
Et que la verge soit masculine ou féminine
C 'est toujours l'aiguillon de la volupté qui guidera nos didascalies.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
Creases cemented in skin of ages,
bending forward ratcheting wrinkles
piled like a car crash, systemically dried
routing for moisture moguls, malfunctioned,
marked measures of time spelt skin attack,
pillowed ruts run deep, prolonging
their birthmark, plumping....out on a date
with new age spaces yet to be filled
Sarcasm streets, filching frowned brows
suns' stolen chastity, lifting out brown
messages spotted at random
grey mandarins, juiceless, bribing
to be heard, a manifesto hidden,
shrivelled prunes wallowing in dried skins
reaching out for the bottomless custard jug
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
(Memories of a Far Away Land)
I miss the mornings when I could listen to the roosters that loudly crowed.
Open the window to the scent of fresh tortillas, from the abarrotes it flowed.
Everyday I would wake engulfed by mountains and their fresh fresh air.
Alonzo's voice carrying loudly, "Empanadas, Empanadas, get them here."
Daily cruises through the streets of Juarez Mexico I often will reminisce,
Ending up in Downtown Centro to buy whatever, it was anyone's guess.
I miss going to the little grocers to buy, mandarins, avocado and mango,
The long waits in line on the Bridges of America trying to cross to El Paso.
Bathing in metal tubs, washing clothes by washboard with your bare hands,
I'll forever keep the precious memories safely in my heart, of a far away land.
Lopez ©reationz 2014
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
I used to hate the color orange,
But when we pop mandarins into our mouths between Creamsicle-sweet kisses I feel as if I’m being transported to a different dimension where we’re the only two in existence.
You’re the sunlight that hits the earth at 6pm, making everything seem as if it’s warm and glowing.
Every time I see a candle flame flicker I can’t help but think of you who exudes the same ambiance of alleviation that the walls of my childhood home once did.
If sunrise and sunset were to be combined, they still wouldn't compare to the magnetizing brilliance of your aura.
You emulate autumnal earth tones and crackling wood in brick fireplaces, echoing your heartbeat and bringing about a sense of raw intimacy shared between two.
I trace my fingertips down your spine, reflecting upon the likeness between you and the sun,
And I wonder why no one ever named a color after you.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
They gave me a guitar
and asked:
what do you wanna do with it?
I said in ecstasy
I wanna be like that once baby faced old
man a street musician and travel the world
with the perishable fruits in my cap
Oh let these tingly breadcrumbs
pave us a miraculous path
where all folks stand tall and free
but
Art is Art
happens as is
Art
doesn't need
my-your-his-her-our-their
words
Are you awake yet
oh my favorite poet?
I can feel your pulse -if I want to
and you may know if you wonder
but it is no wonder
and You be sure You
I identify not by I
and for good
remain so
in the unchanging
purification of my time
observe
you -s
from everywhere
thou art a neutral witness
of such wireframes
embodied by the
conditionings
of temporal
identities
full of blind
desires so
I fast
on mandarins
it is no punishment
neither a fruitless training
but a method
of eloquent technology
blah blah
yeah
something brainy
in short
about our humanity
1-what it means being human
2-what it means to be
3-what it means not to be eligible
to be controlled by nature
as animals
because we are humans
and Not! what it means to be innocent as animals once we are
controlled by nature -because we are not animals
yes and only when you are free
you can play joyfully
with all pronouns
that instrument
called mind
becomes your
blissful tool
for making
Art
just
I said
and
they
they
they
broke my
guitar
Recycled now
thankfully
to a new
instrument
branded
as
Thou Art Art
available
to all
for free
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
I see the mechanical men that peddle the illusion of wheels which drive down to the crankshaft,staffed by robbers and thieves that steal into the day putting a tax on the way you would speak,
and I peek in through the keyhole of Whitehall, dragging the chain and the ball that is tied to my leg,and sooner or later I will beg for some leeway from the mandarins but they'll say,
'Go away little man,we are the mechanical men in the doing of things and we'll bring blood and thunder,put you down 'til you go under,don't bother us now',
I have bowed to their power and ****** on their shoes,I choose not to be used by the ones who abuse the privilege of rank and position.
Please tell me that this is not true,
that the election of robots to Westminster is actually down to me and to people like you, and we get what we vote for,the
***** dealing,wheeling out manifestos,posing for papers,oil cans for arseholes and bolts for their braces,automatic voices,you've got so many more choices than this shower of ****
do your bit,a bit of research,search online, easy most of the time,vote for them and you'll vote for anyone,vote for anyone but,
the mechanical men have replicated in them and all is lost,we are screwed,might as well use the suicide pill.
I will.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
As uncertain as the first drop of rain, an undecided sky trying to pick what game to play, she was the wild kind of beautiful. With her, every heartbeat was a fist against heavens door and my chest was left a battered jukebox playing broken tunes for broken men. See wild things always leave broken in their wake.
So we unlearn love by attaching orange peels to naked mandarins, and maybe one day I will love mandarins for who they are but I still see your face in every crowd because most times close enough is good enough, so apologies to mandarins. When I said forever, please do not believe I lied, for forever is just another way of saying from birth to death, so let us bury this alongside old jumpers and handmade cards. Let us gather all the orange peels from the kitchen floor and find all the places we hid ourselves in each other.
Now my mother worries about me, she doesn’t mention it but she says “remember your roots”, I almost said it’s hard when you’re trying to branch out, but I just said always, I always say always. I always mean sometimes the ocean between us makes me feel like half a story no one will ever truly understand. So apologies to mandarins, until your skin learns to unravel across an ocean to the doorsteps of old black women with crowns for hair that doesn’t know how to fall and wishing well bellies where dreams come from, I will always be half a story and you will always be half my life.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
Sleep, sleep, dream about his mother,
how surprised you have been when she proposed,
that we should visit
and give it a try
in fresh air, at semi-high mountains,
we can wash there the old soft blanket.
You're holding her in your arms
and swing your memories.
The translucent sea
water is curling waves kissing
one tiny piece of our great mother's web.
Earth has sandy plains
We are shores of time awaiting
magnificent wave of fortunate
Fate.
White coral necklace on the bronze, beautiful shaded
delicate skin; breathing mild Mediterranean.
Scents.
Fishermen have captured seabasses, seabrims
gasping for air on the wooden deck of Aurora.
Two kids are crashing the sea urchin's armor
with a stone.
Shield.
This contrast transfixed his attention even more
on the contour of her graceful figure
and ripe ***** waiting under her summer dress to ..
He could not withdraw his gaze.
At that moment.
The urge of yearning attacked his intricate muscles
belly was on fire and he knew at that precise moment
his lips were destined to kiss this charming cusp, this
ineffably bronze spot between her neck and a slick collarbone.
Someone is already stroking on strings
The chords of cello have blended everything.
Even the
Bundle of hot dust.
Around.
You may view seagulls. Flutter.
Their gaze, and the sun particles may have caressed you.
All in the highest promised secrecy of silent
Transformation. From silence to melody.
From forms to underlaying space.
Time.
Guards and fights are between me and you. From teen. Age.
Albeit ! Albeit! Murmuring sounds have just overlaped the sensible reason. My usual rhythm pounds with frenzy
I can not ignore. Her! Her! Her!
Me!
I hide among the crickets.
Their song allures me attached to your scent.
Woman. Lemon trees flower.
Mandarins. Laurel. Olives.
I look up at the whitest cloud and in it's form
There's the image of us..
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 2:29 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
we
hung up our mutual fascinations
at the door, on coat rack hooks,
tarnished like the afternoon was
slowly pouring into.
speaking in short sips from *****
mugs, i realized i couldn't even
figure out how to like you, when i
thought i had loved you so dearly.
the story goes:
i bought your love, commercial
and diffuse. i bought your love top
shelf in ****** bars. i bought your
love at k-mart. the fluorescent
promise on the display case
cupped small hands around my
face, covering my faltered eyes,
and fed me to you on ornate
teaspoons like quartered
mandarins.
no.
i can't do this. i can't do this to you,
to me, to this grand ******* world;
this ugly spectacle of ceaseless
movement around us. i can't let
you be a mistake. i've collected too
many. you'll be lost. you are lost.
you're lost. you're lost.
now, i only remember you when
i'm trying not to.
*my heart is a river, and you were a
chemical spill,
were every fish,
every streambed,
you were every fleck of shale,
every mote of dust,
the cumulative gravity of
all galaxies in one instant.*
and what, now?
you're just gone,
and
i'm just breathing.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
We've got our backs against the wall as someone knocks it down, and we are being bulldozered right out of London Town.
Keep your freedom,information act
and act as if you give a ****
but too a man
you aren't any men if you would kick a man when all that man is trying to do,is muddle through and pull his weight
what a god ****** awful state and if it is then where the hell is he?
Supping tea with Cameron no doubt and wondering what the fuss is all about.
He'll get no prayers from me,
not while drinking Indian tea from China cups with saucers full of biscuit crumbs,while bums are begging on the street and Mother's can't make two ends meet.
what a god ****** awful state it beats me why we soldier on
we're as good as dead when all hope's gone
we ought to take a tip from those who've seen it all before and smash down the doors of greed and hyperbole,set the dogs to war and then we'll all be free.
Anarchy
the only way
break the day apart
reassemble what we've got and let's get shot of the lazy lot who stifle our ambitions,
Take positions
let them have it,
**** will rise, and look into their fatman eyes they know,it's long past time for them to go.
Just blow them all away
sweep them into yesterday and start afresh,anew
the only thing that we can do is fight,
set light to parliament and the mandarins,make effigies and stick them full of poison pins
and tear them limb from lying limb,
Time to begin?
You tell me.
Is it time yet to be free?
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
When my father asked me what the basis of our relationship was,
I couldn’t give him an answer. Now, as the aftertaste of it -
that bitter tang of overripe mandarins -
Sits heavy under my tongue and on my teeth, I can say,
it’s because I love fruit.
I saw you,
faded and frail, in early winter.
Had seen the promise of sweet giving, of tired roots aching for warmth,
waiting.
You had tried to cut yourself down,
so I became your giving tree.
I tended to you, gave you many of my firsts.
In a way, so did you. At least that’s what you told me.
You had promised me growth.
That you would tend to me
As I did you. That we would create our own harvest.
Apple orchards, cherry blossoms, bountiful vineyards.
I had taken your word to heart.
It was sweet, cloying nectar.
I let it smother me, sink into my skin.
Let it seep into my veins.
Let it ferment.
I was drunk on your touch, worshipped
the saccharine velvet of your skin,
Like supple nectarines.
You didn’t mind the gentle scrape of teeth
or nails, of wandering lips, my curious hands teasing, testing.
Tracing the ink outlines of sacred swirls and ancient patterns
Adorning an ignorant and undeserving left arm.
Nor did you mind the growing rift, the root rot festering,
the mandarins that were left out on the counter on those hot nights,
the fruit fly that fed on them.
You could not be bothered to bat the fly away.
Worst of all, you forgot to mention
Orange never quite suited you.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
For ny honey-bee...
something must be wrong with me
if even eating a mandarin
has me thinking of thee
hot sultry passionate thoughts
not really ones usually fraught
with ***** longings & mind fed scenes
oh lordy, here come the nectarines
I guess it harks back to when you fed
me your luscious fruitful breakfast in bed
did things with fruit that made me blush
talking your sweet time in no real rush
to savour the flavours of every bite
another new chapter for our lovers rites
so now as I eat mandarins sitting in bed
all I see now as juice bursts is you in my head
and as the citrus scent fills my nose
I can't even whisper where my mind goes
to make oneself blush is no mean feat
yet it has me squirming, jump in my seat
no innocent poem about sweet mandarin
rather the undone state you have me in
J.C. "honey-owl" 04/05/2019.
May 4, 2019
May 4, 2019 at 2:33 AM UTC
one learns how to operate legs,
and standard procedures in finger movement.
eventually, the career of inhabiting one’s own body becomes routine,
and not to be described as sublime or miraculous.
futures are foreign and wonderful.
or they’re not,
and your perceptors block all that out,
so you may remain in waking sleep,
trotting down express lanes into life as Mandarins,
officiating in a court so rigid.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
You remind me of sun kissed mandarins & moon rock;
A precious stone- you’re earthy though of a different nature
I carry this void full of sorrow
You replace it with ecstasy
I let these demons get the best of me,
I apologize
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
Your laugh is sweet like mandarins,
locking fingers, eyes the same,
Your breath, a hundred violins
gasping as you came
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:15 AM UTC
bring and buy wherever the eyes lead you
and
in Peking they're leaking ingenious devices.
I follow the old road, the silk road and eat mandarins for dessert,
there are no ships in the desert only an ocean of sand,
the land appears barren, but it's only a mirage,
a collage of life exists here.
Anyway
I really did like Cathay
Now I am flotsam
floating off Haiphong
so long
'me old China'
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC