"mulberries" poems
Licking lips and tasting purple fingertips,
we paused to sensually share from each.
You,with your mulberries of juicy richness,
and I with naive blueberries without guile.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
willows weep at the doorstep of a ravine
back home, where I grew up,
a long time ago in Michigan
Cardinals and Redheaded Woodpeckers commonplace
Cherry trees
Mulberries
my favorite grew ripe and sweet,
better than cherries, then.
As the valley creeps away in my memory
the magenta berries remain
in my head.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
It is the few that truly matter
the who whom look at the wounds
after the woodpecker visits
or spread petals for a hummingbird
with ADHD
Ripe are mulberries
sweet are the cherries
If they pick through limbs already
raided by Mockingbirds.
Feel the tremors left
if you look into the sunset you see wavy
that is the shock waves spreading out
diffusing the flames
the heat of the day
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Adam and Eve
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths, ...
--from Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning"
In Eden fair did Adam and Eve
live in perfect harmony.
"No plant or animal devoureth we,
only ripe fruit as falls from the tree."
By bright-green lily-pads in sphagnum bogs
the herons waded gracefully,
bullfrogs croaked their deep, clear calls;
bluebells, delicate yellow buttercups
were rampant; larks sang in the mulberries.
"No pain or hunger knew we there,
only the sameness of Eden fair."
Even the bounty, the beauty, the civility,
the rich perfection, stretching out like the wall
of the great oval garden, day after day,
year after year to eternity,
grew tiresome.
"No shame in our nakedness knew we ...
nor lust, nor desire, nor carnality."
It's the exogamous, the unfamiliar,
which stirs in us the deepest passion,
the basso continuo of mortality
which gives to desire its piquancy
--of which they knew nothing in deathless Eden.
"We wanted to look outside the wall.
We didn't mean from God's grace to fall."
Their lack of control, their disrespect
invited tragedy....
But to deny what one feels,
to deny what one is
is to risk even greater calamity....
"God expelled us from the Garden.
Now we'll know death and all that's human."
Discord ... despair.... Are you better off?
Coaxing grain from the cracked, parched earth?
Maybe you paid too much for your freedom?...
Maybe you wish you were back in the Garden?...
"There be good inside the Garden;
there be good outside....
There is no perfect Eden."
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
An old man’s eyes
So much they have seen.
Actors and extras
In some memorable scenes.
Dim with time, perhaps
Yet they’re working still.
Seeing all the landscapes
But, from over the hill.
Happy young children
Playing with jackstraws,
Sliding down hills and
Riding on seesaws.
Growing up quickly
And thinking about cars
Becoming too busy
For looking up at stars.
An old man’s eyes
Saw the ages go by
Learning the lessons;
By unsuccessful tries.
Trying so hard to be
Just one of the guys
Growing old gracefully
And hopefully wise.
Singing songs of sixpence
Not knowing what it was
Echoing parent’s politics
Not understanding the cause.
Hearing about god-fearing
Never reading the book.
Not retaining a word said
In the courses we took.
An old man’s eyes
Can be fooled at times.
It doesn’t work out like
In old nursery rhymes.
The wolf gets the grandma
The houses blow down.
And beneath the old eyes
There was often a frown.
Going into the military, then
Looking but not really seeing,
Ignoring people without my luck
Selectively blind way of being.
Told there were people who were
Not part of the world we live.
Gathering mulberries while I could
Not having extra I could give.
An old man’s eyes
So much they have seen.
Actors and extras
In some memorable scenes.
Dimming with time, perhaps
But they are working still.
Seeing all the landscapes
But, from over the hill.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
Is it true that she may overlook my fallacies repeatedly delivered to her door?
And a self dignified renewal will excuse my ambivalent decisions
On a somber night, sweet rapture will prompt us to awake with a startling siren of urgency
Oh the sporadic foreboding of my subconscious chiming in when all is still
But is none the less heard
Honesty
Compassion
Reassurance
Intimacy
Whispering echoes in my frail chamber of a mind
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
Vernal breezes gently rocked
the garden jhoola
the blue sky vine looping
across the butterfly bench
created a festoon of stunning amethyst flowers
Ram Namavali was approaching
contemplating Him, Lion of the Raghu dynasty
embodiment of dharma and source of bliss
my heart and lips blossomed open
a garland of melodious Ram
bhajans perfumed the noonday air
after the sweet singing session
I did a few Yoga stretches and
decided to pick some luscious black mulberries
I approached the mulberry tree skyrocketing in the
western corner of the backyard
lifting large heart shaped
green leaves I found one or two ripe berries
“Hmm” I thought to myself I wonder what happened to all
the mulberries?
Parting another section of the tree, two orange speckled eyes
met mine exploding in innocent wonder
there seated nonchalantly on a happy branch was a
pretty lil’ brown dove
“So it’s you who’s been goggling all the mulberries!” I exclaimed
caught “red-winged” the bewildered bird took off scampering
across the sky
I gathered my meager but delicious bounty added a few frozen
blue berries squirted a heap of whipped cream
then myself and Rama (the kitty) eagerly licked the platter clean
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
In deepest wood
A home once stood
Roses bloom by chimney fall
An old stone wall
Lines remnant trail
Gives heed to open well
Where lilacs trace
An empty space
And fills the air
With scent to wear
An apple tree
And mulberries
An old home site
In morning light
r ~ 9Mar14
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
Hazy summer dreams of Independence Day,
Sitting in a field and an alcove of trees
Watching fireflies and fireworks
With nothing but a peace pipe and the pleasure
Of each other's company.
Four in the morning blues
Writing music inspired by
The light reflecting off her box wine,
Bird feathers and new frontiers.
Four in the morning band practice
Where the kitchen was filled with
Jaw harps and nose flutes and ukuleles.
She hated the fact that the string bassist
Parked right in front of the fridge.
Sun-drenched days of exploring
And picking mulberries from the
Fallen tree at the creek.
They tried to make pen ink from it,
Once.
Dreams of open mic nights with
Milkshake stouts and summer sweat
But never once complaining
Because the air felt so electric
And full with the sound of kindred souls.
Place closed down since then,
But she won't forget the time she was
Asked to stay on stage when her set was done.
Maybe they're all romanticized, but
These memories stick like push pins
In her mind, in her heart.
There was something more authentic
About it all -
All those days of watching
Fireworks and fireflies.
Something real, and true.
Something changed, shifted in the universe.
Maybe it was her.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
There was once a poet from long ago
Who stories told of transformations
I shall tell of one that you may not know
Pyramus and Thisbe who loved through a cracked foundation
Whose houses were connected, neighbors were they
Families ensnared in rivalry and outrage
Oh how did it so weigh
On these blind lovers left with lips to assuage!
A crack so small only a desperate lover could see
A whisper only could dance through to ease
Two star-crossed lovers crouching on hands and knees
Expressing words that warm and please
To bring to light
Their love they did agree
To meet late at night
By the white mulberry tree
Thisbe first to show and await did she
Until a loud rustle filled the air
Frightened she ran off and hid thee
So fast her veil escaped the grasp of her hair
A lioness fresh from feeding
Paraded on passing by,
She went sniffing and licking
Veil now red left under the midnight sky
Pyramus, with the white specked tree in view
Sees just an empty sheath
Just a mulberry tree under a blanket of moonlit blue
With a crimson soaked veil underneath
Thinking he lost his heart's desire
She the cure to eternal strife
Life now nothing but mire
Wishes to follow her in afterlife
A sword he did reveal
With both hands set and firm
Fell on this stinging steel
Left as food for the callous worms
Oh how his blood did gush
Painting white mulberries incarnadine
Thisbe returning in such a rush
For Pyramus she did pine
A lifeless corpse awaits for her
Under that maledict tree
Blood soaked veil she did incur
So she dropped to one knee
Life without him she hated
A breast she did beat
Cried to the gods, fated
His sword she did greet
Forbidden love changed white to red
The berries we have today
Ill fated lovers left dead
To embrace in rot and decay
Together on the pyre
Rivalry has come to end
Lovers cradled in fire
Ashes in one urn, together again.
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
All I have to love is this
this lovely heartache of mine to kiss
this brokenhearted emptiness
to carry with me as I embark
on this journey of a broken heart.
Take me someplace where I can dream
take me to the river that meets the stream
of dreams wherein I can dream
take me to a place where the mulberries
break their hearts instead of mine.
Take me somewhere we can run away
where cold broken hopes can't find a place
a paradise that somehow still exists
take me to anywhere better than this
I've shaken my feathers, I've grown new wings
I'm flying somehow, you know, oh you'll see
it doesn't matter where I go I just need to be free
catch me if you can, the gypsy bird needs peace
keep me in a net, the gypsy soul dies
rescue me if you can, there's so little time
I'll die before you come, how can you just say
just lay there and love your lovely heartache?
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
Lumps appear under my skin
wishing them away doesn’t work
some look like mulberries
There are ones with greenish hues
others blue-black, juicy and ripe
these are the ones I want to bite into
I remember that great mulberry tree of our youth
down by the creek
We climbed that tree and sat for hours
on hot July and August afternoons
devouring juicy dark purple fruit
Our mother’s called as the ballgame dispersed
and we pretended to be nowhere in sight
or within ear shot
We knew the way home
And as we stared at each other’s stained
magenta toothy snickers
faces, hands, tee shirts
even ears and grimy hair
We made a pact
to eat our way to the tippy-top
of that delicious, decadent arbor
I’m home, again
noticing that mulberry tree no longer exists
but I see you at times
and you kindly wave to me
upon passing
I know there’s no need to wait around
till July or August
as I don’t expect our summer dares
mulberry gushing ecstasy
will ever be again
O to be the fertile compost
down by that creek
where a mulberry tree might grow
Again
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Hallo is it you *****
I am trying to reach Robert but his phone is off,
Noah cannot pick either, bet he's still sleeping
Try getting hold of them and tell your brothers Charlie has just died,
His house burned down last with him inside.
The children saw it when they were going to school this morning
I have sent Mama Jane down to see
Wekesa, our house help is here but cannot speak,
That is Mama Jesca wailing,
I don't like screams, off you go Jesca, stop the wailing
Its a sad time son,
Plan and come down here as soon as you can
Quickly tell your brothers,
I want you all here with me,
The family needs each of you.
The askaris have come to take away his body to the mortuary,
They're also investigating the cause of the fire,
I cannot go down there with my swollen feet,
I just hope he did not do it himself with the petrol he was stealing from the generator,
He had gone to take ***** with Turkana the night guard.
My poor Charlie,
I don't know what I feel right now
I am sure Mama Helen is devasted,
It must be so hard to loose a son, I was not ready for this,
I don't know *****
We will lay him on the left lawn with pink frangipani trees
We will have to chop down a few oleanders and mulberries
We will make him a small house over his grave
After a year I will work on his tombstone with help of you boys
I will write the epitaph myself.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC
The girl follows the fox follows the girl.
--
(Excerpt from a fox story of the Songlands 1000-1200 AD, author unknown.)
“Fox, I must go.”
“Don’t go,” the Fox pleaded, “Who will play with me in the streams? Who will hunt with me in the spring? Who will make dumplings with me and watch the sunrise?"
“I must go. The winds call to me.”
“Let me come with you. I shall be your companion. I will guard over at night when the road is long and dark and gather berries and hunt in the woods so that you will never be hungry.”
“What of your home, dear Fox? Are you not a fox of Ming Yue Mountain?”
He became shy from this question, unable to meet her eyes. He muttered something she could not hear. Then his usual bluster returned.
“These lands will not hold me.” They are not my home.
Abril smiled, “Then we shall go on a great adventure together.”
The Fox jumped into the air in delight and flipped around. When he touched the ground, he had grown a sleek dark red coat and proudly displayed his nine fluffy tails. Abril marvelled over them and scratched behind his ears.
--
She is the hunter, storm clouds in her eyes and lightening in her veins. She is no stranger to blood, to bloodlust, to holding death in her hands. She bares her fangs. The air cackles with ozone, fresh pine, and mulberries.
Where she runs, she leaves no trail. The winds whisper her name.
A fox runs with her. Sometimes a woman, sometimes a man. Sometimes neither.
She runs and the world turns –
Fall autumn winter spring,
She runs along the Tree of Worlds,
From one life to another.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 6:19 PM UTC
That morning when I’d first heard of your departure,
I cursed the sun—how dare it beam through my window,
how dare it attempt to warm my skin?
I was filled, for just a moment,
with a rage I couldn’t swallow,
as I picked mulberries
and their juice stained my quivering lips.
Birds sang at your funeral—
their songs couldn’t drown out your father’s grief.
The same birds I’d spend months shooing away
from the fresh soil where you were laid.
For weeks, as I’d drive to work,
I’d spew hatred at the stars—
scattered so carelessly in front of me.
They mocked my loneliness with their togetherness.
I hate that you’re gone.
I hate that I know
that the stars would go on shining without me, too.
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 4:31 PM UTC
The magpies
have eaten mulberries—
their **** is purple
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 5:50 AM UTC
sand castles and searching for seashells
scraping knuckles against stones,
swinging on creaky chipped bars
my twin covered in matching calluses,
my childhood my youth
we will meet again.
sand dunes and metal hunting,
my friend's fingers interlocked with mine
submerged under the grains.
course and sharp and dry
searching for pirate treasure,
my childhood my youth
we will meet again.
splitting candy and rolling down hills,
feeding mud pies baked with mulberries,
grass stains and bees buzzing
oh neon lensed life,
my childhood my youth
we will meet again.
but when?
lyinging at night, isolation's blanket covers me
when i stop and remember
my childhood my youth.
the scent of the memories fade from my nose.
the touch and sensation leave my fingertips.
the sound of their voice get lost in my ears.
their names elude my tongue.
their faces become a blur.
oh but sweet youth,
don’t fret, don’t cry
just know,
despite the hourglass’s sand clouding my brain
my heart shan’t forget—
the joy, the sorrow, the disgust, the pain, and the love i felt
over these years.
i’ll never forget you, i promise.
my childhood my youth,
we will meet once again,
that’s my promise.
whether it be now
or at death’s sandbox.
Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 2:15 AM UTC
Dotted brush strokes
fill the air,
arresting me
All I do is stare,
yearning to be
on higher ground
Yet all I have is concrete
I walk to where
grass meets the worm
and look up at the s.weeping sky
delicate golden light facing me
The variegated rose catches my eye,
Yet escapes my lenses...
capturing mulberries instead
Mosquitoes feed upon me
and I let them
"Revel in this", my soul says
*"It's been too long since you last
saved moments for your spirit."*
sometimes
It is good to just be
like the mullberry
To darken as it ripens,
to fall,
possibly leaving stains
Yet can also feed the earth,
to grow...
then reach upwards
to touch
those brush-stroked clouds.
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 5:20 PM UTC