"nectarine" poems - Hello Poetry

Her eyes were fiery While her lips peeled away Her sun was setting But her colors never fade When she bites she is bitter But when she smiles she is sweet Like a nectarine emblem She’s the fruit of life’s tree.

0

Mar 15, 2019

Mar 15, 2019 at 6:47 AM UTC

Poetically_Elena

Orange Popsy

Her eyes were fiery While her lips peeled away Her sun was setting But her colors never fade When she bites she is bitter But when she smiles she is sweet Like a nectarine emblem She’s the fruit of life’s tree.

8

i told the girls at work about time spent with jane. they seemed awfully excited for me. maybe they could smell that jane is new, but familiar like a car bought used. she is barely driven though. i still drive over the skids i left from trying to stop too quick. you can see my tread worn out like sanded wood. or maybe they could smell the hope like dew on the morning grass. fresh but dangerous. waiting to trip me with my eyes set ahead but not infront. theyll leave the wire right where they got me the last time. it would be an honor to be fooled by something so sweet to the touch. it almost feels alien to not be so upset by the way the weather dictates my evenings. i do not FEEL like i used to. my love and guilt helix and weave like code. i would only kiss you now, if it brought back the one i poisoned. i live in a farm upstate now like a dead house dog. if ive really moved on know that i did the impossible we'll be better off for it. and if things never work out with jane, you best pray someone loves me when im dead cause they sure as hell dont love me now.

0

Jul 21, 2018

Jul 21, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC

yano

nectarine // an ode to new love and a potential farewell to an old one

i told the girls at work about time spent with jane. they seemed awfully excited for me. maybe they could smell that jane is new, but familiar like a car bought used. she is barely driven though. i still drive over the skids i left from trying to stop too quick. you can see my tread worn out like sanded wood. or maybe they could smell the hope like dew on the morning grass. fresh but dangerous. waiting to trip me with my eyes set ahead but not infront. theyll leave the wire right where they got me the last time. it would be an honor to be fooled by something so sweet to the touch. it almost feels alien to not be so upset by the way the weather dictates my evenings. i do not FEEL like i used to. my love and guilt helix and weave like code. i would only kiss you now, if it brought back the one i poisoned. i live in a farm upstate now like a dead house dog. if ive really moved on know that i did the impossible we'll be better off for it. and if things never work out with jane, you best pray someone loves me when im dead cause they sure as hell dont love me now.

49

He loves his soca and His carnival. He calypsos Like only Dionysus could. His power is like the Nymph's - the Oceanid daughter that Kept Odysseus from Penelope - only stronger. So mesmerising: his smile Bursts with a contagious Warmth, like the sun Over his island homeland. A gold cross hangs from a chain Around his dark, dark neck. The smell of his skin spices the air around him, Making my mouth salivate. He tastes like Mayan chocolate; Slightly bitter and tinged with chilli. The scars on his shoulders and back Feel like a ripe nectarine againt my tongue. I want to bite down and feel the juices Run. But. He's a good Christian boy. This island boy is an enigma. Tall and willowy Like a rapier, and Strong and beautiful. I wonder if this island boy Would sheath his faith In my worship, For just one, cool, island night.

0

Jul 8, 2011

Jul 8, 2011 at 12:36 PM UTC

cinnam-muscat

Island Boy

He loves his soca and His carnival. He calypsos Like only Dionysus could. His power is like the Nymph's - the Oceanid daughter that Kept Odysseus from Penelope - only stronger. So mesmerising: his smile Bursts with a contagious Warmth, like the sun Over his island homeland. A gold cross hangs from a chain Around his dark, dark neck. The smell of his skin spices the air around him, Making my mouth salivate. He tastes like Mayan chocolate; Slightly bitter and tinged with chilli. The scars on his shoulders and back Feel like a ripe nectarine againt my tongue. I want to bite down and feel the juices Run. But. He's a good Christian boy. This island boy is an enigma. Tall and willowy Like a rapier, and Strong and beautiful. I wonder if this island boy Would sheath his faith In my worship, For just one, cool, island night.

32

The poorest juggler ever seen Was clumsy Clara cleech, Who juggled a bean, a nectarine, A pumpkin, and a peach. She juggled a stone , a slide trombone, A celery stalk, a stick, A seeded roll, a salad bowl, A bagel, a boot, a brick. With relative ease she juggled a cheese , She juggled a lock, lime, Yes, clara juggled all of these . . . But just one at a time

0

Mar 14, 2014

Mar 14, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC

IrairaCedillo

Clara cleech

The poorest juggler ever seen Was clumsy Clara cleech, Who juggled a bean, a nectarine, A pumpkin, and a peach. She juggled a stone , a slide trombone, A celery stalk, a stick, A seeded roll, a salad bowl, A bagel, a boot, a brick. With relative ease she juggled a cheese , She juggled a lock, lime, Yes, clara juggled all of these . . . But just one at a time

12

i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness- the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little ***** thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls screaming under their breath, not enough. i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction and- blood running over the cum-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street- down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate into sewer pipe salvation- destination unhindered by your humanity. god, this must be insanity and not even the good kind. but let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof- crawl out the attic window i let you go first to watch the electric calico trickle down your legs like a promise. i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair- the handkerchief at your hip, i like the crazy and the cool- the too cute for comfort and the fake angsty danger of your darkside. like morphine- the band or the drug? you're ironically detached with your semi-satanic languidity- and overdue serenity [i got a few overdue books at the library.] [they closed the library a long time ago.] i like to play catch with your presence- our eyes with the back-and-forth, the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking. but we were always looking- or at least i was always looking at you. i could see half inside of you. you were always half-naked- in the scanty rags of the latest fashion. when you breathed it was like nectarine noises- and muffled yelps of love. i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest and told you about "never knows best" it seems i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms. and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day. don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets it's just one more night of strangeness and then you can be free again.

0

Jul 11, 2012

Jul 11, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC

k_faye

shameless

i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness- the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little ***** thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls screaming under their breath, not enough. i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction and- blood running over the cum-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street- down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate into sewer pipe salvation- destination unhindered by your humanity. god, this must be insanity and not even the good kind. but let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof- crawl out the attic window i let you go first to watch the electric calico trickle down your legs like a promise. i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair- the handkerchief at your hip, i like the crazy and the cool- the too cute for comfort and the fake angsty danger of your darkside. like morphine- the band or the drug? you're ironically detached with your semi-satanic languidity- and overdue serenity [i got a few overdue books at the library.] [they closed the library a long time ago.] i like to play catch with your presence- our eyes with the back-and-forth, the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking. but we were always looking- or at least i was always looking at you. i could see half inside of you. you were always half-naked- in the scanty rags of the latest fashion. when you breathed it was like nectarine noises- and muffled yelps of love. i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest and told you about "never knows best" it seems i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms. and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day. don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets it's just one more night of strangeness and then you can be free again.

51

When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home. I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through. I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches. When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness. Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper. I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see. This story, too, is a prayer. A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.

0

May 16, 2016

May 16, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC

Ambi

The Day Lucien Died

When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home. I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through. I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches. When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness. Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper. I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see. This story, too, is a prayer. A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.

8

*You arrived suddenly in my tangerine bliss with my heart clinched in your fist you touched me... and the dance started with a gape of spontaneous combustion you swirled me around the dance floor dancing cheek to cheek....* we skipped the light fandango fox trotting and waltzing to the beat of tango the big band broke into a swing while the love light shone as a crystal disco ball jitterbug jive and a reet beet dance macabre and so light on our feet *You lead me by the hand bodies musing all the while... you lead me out by my hand and made way into the galaxy for our feet as we danced like fine wine...becoming intoxicated by its beauty~ you danced me into Shangri-La with my eyes wide and full of imagination we danced through tangled forests of light* like Fred and Ginger tiptoeing upon the backs of stars dipping into galaxies and twirling on quasars i hold your hand as you pirouette upon the moons of a mystic world as our romantic lambada is unfurled forbidden planets and forbidden dance the secrets of whirlwind romance *we were like Phoenix that had risen dancing into the morning dew and nectarine and I kissed you as the tangerines fell from the sky~ dazed with a trial of stars and then oh yes then.... I pronounced myself as yours....as we escaped to paradise dancing all the while.....cheek to cheek as you gave me the Tangerine Kiss.....* tangerine kisses, tangerine dreams sipped of the nectar of the gods the fruit of creation in the form of love a blessing from goddess, earth and above we dance the steps of swoon and lean and sweet nuances of tangerine with every blessing in between *I felt a kiss upon my frozen cheeks a clear promise of all our tomorrows as I sleep with love within our hearts your sweet tangerine kisses and dreams are part of our creation... straight from above My heart is dancing and dreaming with you always a blessing from God.*

0

May 18, 2015

May 18, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC

deborah-brooks-langford

The Tangerine Kiss / collabration with wolf spirit aka quinfinn

*You arrived suddenly in my tangerine bliss with my heart clinched in your fist you touched me... and the dance started with a gape of spontaneous combustion you swirled me around the dance floor dancing cheek to cheek....* we skipped the light fandango fox trotting and waltzing to the beat of tango the big band broke into a swing while the love light shone as a crystal disco ball jitterbug jive and a reet beet dance macabre and so light on our feet *You lead me by the hand bodies musing all the while... you lead me out by my hand and made way into the galaxy for our feet as we danced like fine wine...becoming intoxicated by its beauty~ you danced me into Shangri-La with my eyes wide and full of imagination we danced through tangled forests of light* like Fred and Ginger tiptoeing upon the backs of stars dipping into galaxies and twirling on quasars i hold your hand as you pirouette upon the moons of a mystic world as our romantic lambada is unfurled forbidden planets and forbidden dance the secrets of whirlwind romance *we were like Phoenix that had risen dancing into the morning dew and nectarine and I kissed you as the tangerines fell from the sky~ dazed with a trial of stars and then oh yes then.... I pronounced myself as yours....as we escaped to paradise dancing all the while.....cheek to cheek as you gave me the Tangerine Kiss.....* tangerine kisses, tangerine dreams sipped of the nectar of the gods the fruit of creation in the form of love a blessing from goddess, earth and above we dance the steps of swoon and lean and sweet nuances of tangerine with every blessing in between *I felt a kiss upon my frozen cheeks a clear promise of all our tomorrows as I sleep with love within our hearts your sweet tangerine kisses and dreams are part of our creation... straight from above My heart is dancing and dreaming with you always a blessing from God.*

49

watermelon grin strawberry lips blackberry eyes nectarine skin *you are so sweet to me you taste so sweet to me*

0

Aug 27, 2012

Aug 27, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC

alexis-martin

fruit salad

watermelon grin strawberry lips blackberry eyes nectarine skin *you are so sweet to me you taste so sweet to me*

6

when i asked if this was the end you said "i don't know" and i heard "yes" if you had stopped talking for long enough i think you would have heard me breaking but instead you went on with your conversation as if i wasn't crumbling to pieces in front of you my nectarine soft heart spoiled, the juices running onto the floor, hands messy from trying to hold us together.

0

Feb 18, 2022

Feb 18, 2022 at 8:08 AM UTC

_rk

spoiled fruit

when i asked if this was the end you said "i don't know" and i heard "yes" if you had stopped talking for long enough i think you would have heard me breaking but instead you went on with your conversation as if i wasn't crumbling to pieces in front of you my nectarine soft heart spoiled, the juices running onto the floor, hands messy from trying to hold us together.

21

Within the lotus pink petals of my tear soaked ***** He has hidden His splendor Under a raincloud the color of His peacock skin camouflaged He waits Darling Giridhari I have driven the tenacious, evil bats of hatred, envy, anger and greed from the tall steel towers, belfry of my mind Nectarine incense of prayer and contemplation on You burns day and night on the altar of my penitent heart Ceaselessly my breath does not hesitate to chant Your divine name From these eyes the Yamuna river pours and floods its banks while I wait for You to dance with me Every season is an endless Winter without your warm Spring embrace snow drifts pursue and threaten to bury the tender shoots of love Hurry Hari Krishna pull this poison cupid's arrow from Your devotee's smitten heart

0

Nov 27, 2014

Nov 27, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC

sonya-ki-tomlinson

Eternal Rendezvous

Within the lotus pink petals of my tear soaked ***** He has hidden His splendor Under a raincloud the color of His peacock skin camouflaged He waits Darling Giridhari I have driven the tenacious, evil bats of hatred, envy, anger and greed from the tall steel towers, belfry of my mind Nectarine incense of prayer and contemplation on You burns day and night on the altar of my penitent heart Ceaselessly my breath does not hesitate to chant Your divine name From these eyes the Yamuna river pours and floods its banks while I wait for You to dance with me Every season is an endless Winter without your warm Spring embrace snow drifts pursue and threaten to bury the tender shoots of love Hurry Hari Krishna pull this poison cupid's arrow from Your devotee's smitten heart

30

She's absolutely delicious, sweet like a nectarine, light fuzz covers her in all the right places. I love the way she gushes, so juicy like a ripe peach, flowing in abundance, heavenly-stickiness, her face looking stellar. She's very kind & super fine, teaches me how to love her, tasty like a cobbler, I gobble her up every chance I get, it drives me out of my mind. She's definitly not a pet, but rather a bowl of succulent fruit, ******* the size of peaches with stout lovely-nipples, as hard as the pits. I can't wait to jam it with her, I want to make some marmalade of my own.

0

Jan 28, 2014

Jan 28, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC

jonny-angel

Making Marmalade (Out of Peaches)

She's absolutely delicious, sweet like a nectarine, light fuzz covers her in all the right places. I love the way she gushes, so juicy like a ripe peach, flowing in abundance, heavenly-stickiness, her face looking stellar. She's very kind & super fine, teaches me how to love her, tasty like a cobbler, I gobble her up every chance I get, it drives me out of my mind. She's definitly not a pet, but rather a bowl of succulent fruit, ******* the size of peaches with stout lovely-nipples, as hard as the pits. I can't wait to jam it with her, I want to make some marmalade of my own.

28

My mind flutters, A dainty butterfly... Disquiet even over a nectarine pie, Oft times the color allures; A serrated edge attracts, The stamen invite; A pollinic conversation... Little resting respite! My mind flutters, A distracted butterfly... Does she not know; She shall starve... Concentration deprived, Unable to trace the scent of the elixir; That shall hold her high!?

0

May 29, 2013

May 29, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC

kirti-pabrekar-patil

Butterfly

My mind flutters, A dainty butterfly... Disquiet even over a nectarine pie, Oft times the color allures; A serrated edge attracts, The stamen invite; A pollinic conversation... Little resting respite! My mind flutters, A distracted butterfly... Does she not know; She shall starve... Concentration deprived, Unable to trace the scent of the elixir; That shall hold her high!?

15

~ One spoon at a time they feed the morning horizon Soft offerings of color picked ripe from the vine ~Cantaloupe dreams~ A small slice of moon the dawn’s crescent smiles on me with a Cheshire grin cocked slightly to the side ~Plum pudding blankets~ Suspended above life, moving slowly but coming of the day as alarms break the solitude nestled in down pillows ~Raspberry whispers~ Singing the scent of the fresh sunrise dew on wishes coated in sparkling splendor and footprints beyond the gate ~Nectarine blessings~ Sweet on my lips beneath an orchard arbor I hold you close of my morning and taste the bounty of your love

0

Mar 23, 2015

Mar 23, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC

jack-3

Marmalade Skies

~ One spoon at a time they feed the morning horizon Soft offerings of color picked ripe from the vine ~Cantaloupe dreams~ A small slice of moon the dawn’s crescent smiles on me with a Cheshire grin cocked slightly to the side ~Plum pudding blankets~ Suspended above life, moving slowly but coming of the day as alarms break the solitude nestled in down pillows ~Raspberry whispers~ Singing the scent of the fresh sunrise dew on wishes coated in sparkling splendor and footprints beyond the gate ~Nectarine blessings~ Sweet on my lips beneath an orchard arbor I hold you close of my morning and taste the bounty of your love

25

so sweet and so dark so dark, the flesh of hers so sweet as dark and deep as the roots of the tree which bear the nectarine eyes that may possess Lucifer and her demons to come out and dance 'round the campfire to the rhythms of her fiery Soul's burning caress yet so ****** her beauty is to those who yearn as she does not tempt those who love to burn only stand there, before them and simply say hello from the depths below where her infinite fires bellow where she wields a boundless yell in her eternal conquering of Hell her beauty could never be expressed by me and anyone who dared would die, surely within the attempt itself, in a waste of breath vain they are, misplacing their pride in her beauty- 'til death shadows of her dancing through the woods run through my dreams and compell me to die I can feel her aching within me as I fall in love with the way she moves as she dances, oh I'd die oh I'd die- as she dances as if there is no one around as if, she aches for anyones presence as if she'd only seen their faces, act as masks hiding their souls from this Earths greatest distances and so- she is a ghost and so- I die, if only to fly flip a coin pull a rose pedal ***** my finger give birth to metal rise up from the ground and raise Hell just to have a great story to tell so she may sleep a little softer in the breath of Soul I have to offer so, you see she is too beautiful for me the beat of the drum will never cease to come it will drum it will come it will drum it will come oh I will drum and she will come so you see she is too beautiful for me for someone needs to beat on that drum someone needs to beat on that God ****** drum and this rhythm, may as well be my own heartbeat for I would die to continue watching her dancing feet

0

Jul 29, 2013

Jul 29, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC

lupo-de-inimicus

dance of Lucifer

so sweet and so dark so dark, the flesh of hers so sweet as dark and deep as the roots of the tree which bear the nectarine eyes that may possess Lucifer and her demons to come out and dance 'round the campfire to the rhythms of her fiery Soul's burning caress yet so ****** her beauty is to those who yearn as she does not tempt those who love to burn only stand there, before them and simply say hello from the depths below where her infinite fires bellow where she wields a boundless yell in her eternal conquering of Hell her beauty could never be expressed by me and anyone who dared would die, surely within the attempt itself, in a waste of breath vain they are, misplacing their pride in her beauty- 'til death shadows of her dancing through the woods run through my dreams and compell me to die I can feel her aching within me as I fall in love with the way she moves as she dances, oh I'd die oh I'd die- as she dances as if there is no one around as if, she aches for anyones presence as if she'd only seen their faces, act as masks hiding their souls from this Earths greatest distances and so- she is a ghost and so- I die, if only to fly flip a coin pull a rose pedal ***** my finger give birth to metal rise up from the ground and raise Hell just to have a great story to tell so she may sleep a little softer in the breath of Soul I have to offer so, you see she is too beautiful for me the beat of the drum will never cease to come it will drum it will come it will drum it will come oh I will drum and she will come so you see she is too beautiful for me for someone needs to beat on that drum someone needs to beat on that God ****** drum and this rhythm, may as well be my own heartbeat for I would die to continue watching her dancing feet

64

HEY! Who wants to know a secret? Like, a really good secret Juicier than a ripe nectarine Heavier than a one-thousand pound weight Scarier than your stepdad on Easter Sunday Funnier than Kevin Hart in Madison Square Garden Who wants to know a secret? Deeper than the ******* Pacific Ocean? Softer than your nephew's skin Lovelier than your lover's touch? Wetter than your 3 am tears? I have a secret. It's better than the best chocolate you've ever tasted Slower than the traffic in Manhattan Sadder than summertime Sexier than the girl of your dreams. Let me tell you a secret. -zaba

0

Jul 5, 2014

Jul 5, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC

naomi-zabasajja

Be Quiet

HEY! Who wants to know a secret? Like, a really good secret Juicier than a ripe nectarine Heavier than a one-thousand pound weight Scarier than your stepdad on Easter Sunday Funnier than Kevin Hart in Madison Square Garden Who wants to know a secret? Deeper than the ******* Pacific Ocean? Softer than your nephew's skin Lovelier than your lover's touch? Wetter than your 3 am tears? I have a secret. It's better than the best chocolate you've ever tasted Slower than the traffic in Manhattan Sadder than summertime Sexier than the girl of your dreams. Let me tell you a secret. -zaba

19

The last time we met it was raining and the stampede of raindrops on the roof must have made it hard for you to hear. I had wanted to tell you about my mother how I wasn’t yet five feet tall when she was six feet under. Lover, listen. Incurable illnesses cannot recognize the plumpness of an over ripe nectarine from the plumpness of a woman’s breast. And the last time we met I don’t think you heard me say that my name is Amelia because you kept moaning Sarah. Now, lover. I understand the impossibility of moving on but I’ve run out of excuses to make. There’s no Lauren or Patrice just me in these sheets. Lover, please. Pick me.

0

Sep 3, 2015

Sep 3, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC

krissa-jean-boman

Love, Amelia

The last time we met it was raining and the stampede of raindrops on the roof must have made it hard for you to hear. I had wanted to tell you about my mother how I wasn’t yet five feet tall when she was six feet under. Lover, listen. Incurable illnesses cannot recognize the plumpness of an over ripe nectarine from the plumpness of a woman’s breast. And the last time we met I don’t think you heard me say that my name is Amelia because you kept moaning Sarah. Now, lover. I understand the impossibility of moving on but I’ve run out of excuses to make. There’s no Lauren or Patrice just me in these sheets. Lover, please. Pick me.

20

promise to fill in the blanks and the stains on your teeth - that reckless kind of make-believe. We'd eat each other if we had to frame that ***** ****** or shove it in an arbitrary pocket. We'd eat each other if we had to wear vital organs on the outside or choose between burning witches and the books we hate. We'd eat each other if we had to dream more words to describe states of mind and the juice of a nectarine running down your chin. We'd eat them if we had to. The love of being is not enough to keep you in my bed. The love of beings is not enough to buy a ticket to Turkmenistan.

0

Jun 24, 2012

Jun 24, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC

mandy-anne-vandermey

You and I(bomb)

promise to fill in the blanks and the stains on your teeth - that reckless kind of make-believe. We'd eat each other if we had to frame that ***** ****** or shove it in an arbitrary pocket. We'd eat each other if we had to wear vital organs on the outside or choose between burning witches and the books we hate. We'd eat each other if we had to dream more words to describe states of mind and the juice of a nectarine running down your chin. We'd eat them if we had to. The love of being is not enough to keep you in my bed. The love of beings is not enough to buy a ticket to Turkmenistan.

18

To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine after waking from a dream. To find things in the morning left exactly as they'd been. The fruit still sweet, the tea hot. None gone to rot until forgot. The fruit made ripe by what is not. The taste of tea? or just a thought? To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine after waking from a dream. To find things in the morning left exactly as they'd been. All is as it seems.

0

Aug 12, 2013

Aug 12, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC

zen

Pu-erh and Nectarine

To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine after waking from a dream. To find things in the morning left exactly as they'd been. The fruit still sweet, the tea hot. None gone to rot until forgot. The fruit made ripe by what is not. The taste of tea? or just a thought? To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine after waking from a dream. To find things in the morning left exactly as they'd been. All is as it seems.

18

~Marmalade skies~ one spoon at a time they feed the morning horizon Soft offerings of color picked ripe from the vine ~Cantaloupe dreams~ a small slice of moon the dawn’s crescent smiles on me with a Cheshire grin cocked slightly to the side ~Plum pudding blankets~ suspended above life, moving slowly but coming of the day as alarms break the solitude nestled in down pillows ~Raspberry whispers~ singing the scent of the fresh sunrise dew on wishes coated in sparkling splendor and footprints beyond the gate ~Nectarine blessings~ sweet on my lips beneath an orchard arbor I hold you close of my morning and taste the bounty of your love

0

Jul 13, 2013

Jul 13, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC

jack-3

Marmalade Skies

~Marmalade skies~ one spoon at a time they feed the morning horizon Soft offerings of color picked ripe from the vine ~Cantaloupe dreams~ a small slice of moon the dawn’s crescent smiles on me with a Cheshire grin cocked slightly to the side ~Plum pudding blankets~ suspended above life, moving slowly but coming of the day as alarms break the solitude nestled in down pillows ~Raspberry whispers~ singing the scent of the fresh sunrise dew on wishes coated in sparkling splendor and footprints beyond the gate ~Nectarine blessings~ sweet on my lips beneath an orchard arbor I hold you close of my morning and taste the bounty of your love

25

her lies taste like sweet nectarine, those discreet kisses on my neckerchief, make up on the pillows, tears inside the handkerchief, folded over and over to compress our fears into make believe, in origami, the patterns left, embedded in my chest, alieness to something, but so close to where you used to be.

0

Apr 22, 2016

Apr 22, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC

gotguanxi

her lies

her lies taste like sweet nectarine, those discreet kisses on my neckerchief, make up on the pillows, tears inside the handkerchief, folded over and over to compress our fears into make believe, in origami, the patterns left, embedded in my chest, alieness to something, but so close to where you used to be.

10

The ones who breathe below the wave have tales of how I should behave, but should I sing, or comb my hair when sleeping deeply in my grave? There, deep within the murky green I dreamed a man I've never seen with trousers rolled and fading hair. I offered him a nectarine. Oh, does he take it? Will he eat? I long to weep upon his feet and wipe them with my golden hair. He fades, and we shall never meet.

0

Apr 9, 2011

Apr 9, 2011 at 6:40 AM UTC

thomas-thurman

A love song

The ones who breathe below the wave have tales of how I should behave, but should I sing, or comb my hair when sleeping deeply in my grave? There, deep within the murky green I dreamed a man I've never seen with trousers rolled and fading hair. I offered him a nectarine. Oh, does he take it? Will he eat? I long to weep upon his feet and wipe them with my golden hair. He fades, and we shall never meet.

12

i'm sorry but i found your reply rather vague; i wasn't at all sure whether your 'yes' meant yes or if perhaps it meant no so i stood there tearing an orange apart with my fingernails scattering bits of skin, bright against the pale grey of the ground, thinking maybe it didn't really matter after all

0

Oct 7, 2011

Oct 7, 2011 at 7:07 PM UTC

orange-zest

the nectarine

i'm sorry but i found your reply rather vague; i wasn't at all sure whether your 'yes' meant yes or if perhaps it meant no so i stood there tearing an orange apart with my fingernails scattering bits of skin, bright against the pale grey of the ground, thinking maybe it didn't really matter after all

7

i'd like to get drunk off of sweet nectarine and make love to the sound of pattering rooftop rain reciting declarations written on cafe napkins, bits of dreams birthed from hazy afternoons sunlight the kind that sends you into a tantalizing dance, fleetwood mac humming from the phono graph a scratch along the window screen from the neighborhood tabby naked beneath your sweater collecting lint to be plucked, absentmindedly away as kisses collect scorching the hands that dared to pull the crust of the earth

0

Jan 24, 2015

Jan 24, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC

cadence-musick

champagne o'clock

i'd like to get drunk off of sweet nectarine and make love to the sound of pattering rooftop rain reciting declarations written on cafe napkins, bits of dreams birthed from hazy afternoons sunlight the kind that sends you into a tantalizing dance, fleetwood mac humming from the phono graph a scratch along the window screen from the neighborhood tabby naked beneath your sweater collecting lint to be plucked, absentmindedly away as kisses collect scorching the hands that dared to pull the crust of the earth

20

(work in progress) The first love of my life never saw me naked. There was always a parent coming home in half an hour, Always a little brother in the next room. Always too much body and not enough time for me to show it. Instead, I gave him my shoulder, my elbow, the bend of my knee. I lent him my corners, my edges, the parts of me I could afford to offer, The parts I had long since given up trying to hide. He never asked for more. He gave me back his eyelashes, the back of his neck, his palms. We held each piece we were given like it was a nectarine that could bruise if we weren't careful. We collected them like we were trying to build an orchard inspo// w.i.p :-)

0

Sep 7, 2017

Sep 7, 2017 at 12:55 AM UTC

ridapee

the first love of my life never saw me naked

(work in progress) The first love of my life never saw me naked. There was always a parent coming home in half an hour, Always a little brother in the next room. Always too much body and not enough time for me to show it. Instead, I gave him my shoulder, my elbow, the bend of my knee. I lent him my corners, my edges, the parts of me I could afford to offer, The parts I had long since given up trying to hide. He never asked for more. He gave me back his eyelashes, the back of his neck, his palms. We held each piece we were given like it was a nectarine that could bruise if we weren't careful. We collected them like we were trying to build an orchard inspo// w.i.p :-)

13

you were too much like a nectarine in early summer. All poreless and bright and insinuating sweetness. Filled me up with your secret eruption then shut me down with your sleek silver tongue. Lava barricaded my eardrums, enhancing my blood, fire in your eyes. I was a plum, stealing forth in the wake of your Augustine heat. My tender skin gave way to your deft touch. But then I bit down, tasted the flesh beneath your glossy sheen and oh how it betrays you! So yellow and unripe, so taut with newness, still clinging to the brightness of dawn, spring-frozen with fear of the darkness of my nectar. Today I woke up with a magnet in my pitted stomach. Echoes of cold metal scour my throat. That love- -less twang in the aortal penumbras--hope, a refuge swallowed by the ephemeral night. I always knew you were too much like a nectarine in early summer.

0

Jan 4, 2019

Jan 4, 2019 at 8:56 AM UTC

aseh

I always knew

you were too much like a nectarine in early summer. All poreless and bright and insinuating sweetness. Filled me up with your secret eruption then shut me down with your sleek silver tongue. Lava barricaded my eardrums, enhancing my blood, fire in your eyes. I was a plum, stealing forth in the wake of your Augustine heat. My tender skin gave way to your deft touch. But then I bit down, tasted the flesh beneath your glossy sheen and oh how it betrays you! So yellow and unripe, so taut with newness, still clinging to the brightness of dawn, spring-frozen with fear of the darkness of my nectar. Today I woke up with a magnet in my pitted stomach. Echoes of cold metal scour my throat. That love- -less twang in the aortal penumbras--hope, a refuge swallowed by the ephemeral night. I always knew you were too much like a nectarine in early summer.

24