"nectarines" poems
When I grew up my mom would cut coupons and scrounge for change in the sofa to buy me a chicken nugget happy meal McDonalds. She would cut coupons and would only buy nectarines if they were on sale. I grew up eating bologna sandwiches with kraft cheese slices and potato chips.
I think your mom had different priorities.
The man at Starbucks, told me that opposites attract and I think that is why were together. He told me a Intuitive Innovative Feeler. Does that mean that you are oblivious and emotionless *** I don't think so?
Lately I have been whining a lot. Whining about where we live, what we do, what we don't do, how you act, how you don't act, about how your mom wants us to water the brussels sprouts that no one likes and clean the toilets no one uses.
Sometimes I say things to hurt your feelings. Sometimes I mean it. I word them so that they are as hurtful as can be and you never react. Is it bad to want to make you cry? You test my sanity everyday, you break me every day, and here I am still trying to chip away at the facade, the make up you cover up with.
I think living in the mountains has taught me about all the things that I don't want to be. I don't want to be cut off, I don't want to be nice, I don't want to be liberal, I don't want to be conservative, I don't want to see the same people everyday, and I definitely don't want to spend eleven dollars on heirloom tomatoes.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Nana thinks the magazine is the devil.
“THE PEOPLE WHO DREW THE BLESSED ****** MOTHER OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR JESUS CHRIST IN A BIKINI ARE GOING TO HELL.”
Whatever you say, Nana.
When we left my Nana made us tacos and tamales. She gathered all the food in the house to send us off and took all the cash she had and stuffed it in my pocket. She purged the cupboard of all the bananas, plums, nectarines, and apricots and placed them in a bag with two bottled waters a coke, a diet coke and sprite.
She told me that she loved me and that she hated to see me go. That, “I had just gotten there” and that she would “miss me so much.”
Before we left she sent me with a card that was “very important”. It was a picture and a coin embossed with my guardian angel that she bought at the church gift shop.
My nana loves me more than anything else in the world.
My nana still calls you my friend.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
Eureka
My thanks to the man who tasted
cyanide and voiced his last Eureka.
“Almonds”
To the man who saw dragons
to be slayed with pen and sword
in windmills.
To the Danish Prince who said
“What a piece of work is man.”
Well, man’s a piece of work alright.
Did you ever think about how
men wear their ovaries on the outside?
Or how you can always win arguments with yourself
in the shower?
My boyfriend traces the edge
of my chewed nails as he asks
me what I am thinking about.
I’m thinking about the consistency of jellyfish
and how it compares to human brains
and the taste of nectarines, overripened
drawing fruitflies to picnic tables.
Maybe I see colors differently
and will never know that my blues
are only a midnight shadow of what they
could be and if I’ve never truly seen the color red.
And how after nineteen years
I still can’t tell if I’m a good person
or just faking really well.
And if that Chinese Emperor
who strapped rockets to his thrown
to find dragons
ever found any.
Did the chicken getting crushed while crossing
the road get him to the other side.
If I died young, could I motivate people
to be nicer to each other?
When did my grandmother die
and when can I ask my mother without her
crying? There was a little girls skeleton
found next to her donkey in the ancient ruins
of an earthquake. There were several
different species of human alive at the same time
and my favorite color isn’t really blue
And I’m really glad I couldn’t ****
myself when I was 13 because I tasted
my first plum last week. AND FOR THE LOVE
OF GOD
WHAT
AM
I DOING
WITH
MY
LIFE.
My happy moments will always outweigh the bad
And are my ***** uneven because
when I look down—
What are you thinking about?
Almonds. They
taste like cyanide.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
.
Tending to my fruit stand,
another lonely day
Hoping for a customer
to happen ‘long the way
When then I saw approaching
a funny colored van
It pulled off on the shoulder,
I wondered of its plan
The back doors slowly opened
and there before my eyes
Stood a gorgeous woman
beneath these sunny skies
Her eyes were soft and sable
with hair a darker hue
She smiled and said hello to me
I said, “How do you do?”
She stood before my table,
I couldn’t help but stare
First she touched an apple,
then she touched a pear
Suddenly she shouted,
for now her hand did reach
Excitedly she questioned
“Please may I have a peach?”
All I could do was stutter,
as I could barely breathe
She took a bite and then exclaimed
“The sweetest I believe”
Then she grabbed a couple,
and walking to her van
Sat upon the rear end sill,
then patted with her hand
I stumbled there to join her,
she handed one to me
“I just adore your peaches”
“Yes ma’am, that I can see”
I sat there with her eating
and maybe I am dumb
But juice was dripping from her lip,
I brushed it with my thumb
This seemed to make her happy,
her beauty such a view
Then I could not believe my ears,
She asked, “Can I kiss you?”
Well, forget what I said earlier
the “dumb” part wasn’t right
I pressed my lips against hers
and held them there real tight
They were sweet and sticky,
delicious like the fruit
Then we separated,
she grinned and said, “You’re cute”
*“I really think I love you
and will forever true”*
I felt my heart just skip a beat,
“Yes ma’am, I love you too”
*“I just adore your peaches,
they’re the best in all the land”*
We kissed again, this time good bye,
she climbed into her van
I watched as she departed,
standing on the curb
Thinking of her kisses
and the last thing that I heard
Then felt kind of lousy
this pristine summer day
Not for what had happened,
but what I did not say
I didn’t have the heart to tell
this woman of my dreams
The fruits this day that she enjoyed
were really nectarines
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
I love to spread
my plum sauce
on your
**** nectarines,
mix it up,
sift
& fold,
then taste
the hot-combination
of our zesty ingredients.
Such bold
raw-flavors
never grow old.
I am sold on the menu
& crave your appetite,
you are a connoisseur,
demure,
soft & pretty.
Me & you
never fight the menu,
our culinary arts
are exquisite
& delicious,
so scrumptious,
they're sacred,
obviously
made in Heaven.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
*I don't speak Spanish in Rome.
I can't feel the flow of my tongue and lips like in Mexico I do.
I only feel in Italy,
my toes do not know ground anywhere else.
Nicaragua makes me blind, and I have no eyes:
I see nothing of what I hear them say.
And I forget again.
But here, here I can taste
there is something sweet about your voice
and it floats to me
in the scent of fresh nectarines,
which I always keep close to my lips
so that their juice can stick to my face and slide down my chin
when I bite in.
It takes a while to open your eyes,
but once you do
everything will have color and you will never shut them again
(not even to blink back tears).
I will always feel the wind on my face,
but now that I can see it
(low whistle)
(bird call)
(there is something about humans that is special)
The feeling of music when it is inside your body:
Latin is beans and rice, but with a bite
Classical is stepping up and dancing on a stage
the voice is in your heart
(it’s beating *** *** *** ***
the beat is coursing through your veins—
some find this sickening (*“Get it out!” *they scream)—
and then it is you.
My lips are immobile
I only feel when you are near and touching me
and that is sometimes enough
(without taste and sight and hearing or smell).*
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 7:30 PM UTC
blueberries
raspberries
blackberries
feed me cherries
I'm feeling daring
shut out of caring
music's blaring
strawberries
peaches
nectarines
you're in my dreams
morphing right in front of me
moonlight dusted, coarse,
untrusted.
tip tap toeing
tip tap
tipping over and drizzling,
sizzling steam
let me scream
because
no one is listening
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Fairies and fancies
and flippant romances
and all things bright and gay.
Cream cakes and choc flakes
and raspberry mistakes
rise up in a spiralling fray.
Blue skies and greenflies
and warm-sugared apple pies
and the scent of freshly cut hay.
Strawberries and Ice cream’s
and mouth-watering Nectarines
succumb to the heat of the day.
Golden-crust pastries
and honey –drenched fig leaves
made in the old-fashioned way.
Piping-hot dainties
with oak-coloured bases
that refuse to come out of the tray.
A gaze up above to a snowy white dove
sees the sky go from golden to grey.
From twilight to moonlight,
from moonlight to starlight
the end of a beautiful day.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
I have a persistent existence
there are echoes in his shadowed clouds
thunder and rain drops falling from the sky
he says he loves me
but I dare not ask why
I share my dreams
so detailed it seems
they're made up things
he has seen me lie
so I tell the truth
until it echoes
e c h o e s
like how my eyelids open
to the sound of thunder
to the sounds of my mistakes
he shakes the wake of my existence
holds no pride in his resistance
teaches me to be true
in all that I do
even when
staying up late nights
I explain to him what it is I write
regretting nothing
forgiving fights
the words mean more than nothing
because
the confusion of our illusions
that we can't believe in
drop like rain
they drop like rain
singing pain in the untold thoughts
that mean more
than the washed up shore
that had tidal waves
(untold graves)
seashells sea ringing
(the hells are singing)
so don't stop bringing
your music, your art
the love we have
not yet torn apart
keep playing
keep singing
love bringing
your heart
creates art
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
The first rule of the open door
is someone must walk through it.
Someone has to slide off that bench
and find a new seat, lean their head
against the cool glass and sleep
across time zones and hillsides,
rows of corn running alongside.
I dreamt of that place, I shouldn't
say again because I don't count myself
a liar. But the table was set, wine poured
and that dog wouldn't hunt.
The sidewalks ran with the moonlight
of one thousand doorknobs, teeth
of hungry doorways calling to be filled,
to be necessary. All the orange flowers
covered my grave that night. Branches
shuddered with the blackness of one
hundred crows, the moon just slivers
of leftover cheesecake crumbling down
into the spines of hotel bibels and ******
veins of the orchard's nectarines.
And the clouds beat their knuckles
against the coming night until their passion
bled out onto the bleached white sheets
on their chests, all purple and red and blue
and bruised.
A colossal stillness hushed its way
across the swaying seashore.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
~
Of broken branch and multi-colored stone façade
the pathway steals my outward glance
Winding through the cottage hills
like kite string freed by a strong wind, it spills
Patterns shadow in abstract array
through barbed wire and solid steel
barricades, creating menacing shapes,
criss-crossing narrow wheel ruts of long ago
“I tug my trousers in defiance and set my pace”
*Obstacles, of stead and stood,
branded in a wilting wood…
directions carved to empty me of all I know as good*
Within my chest sits a living compass,
beating my quest in a never ending melody,
sweet as creamed corn pie and pointing
towards the sun, which sits before me
two hills above the horizon on this new day
Temptation beckons over my right shoulder,
whistling in the breeze of delicious
offerings, and I do hunger…
“Still I stand firm of my journey back to your love”
*Take your glow of nectarines
Cool refreshing summer streams
For I shan’t waver, not an inch, her love calls in my dreams*
Midday, as the solar glow finds my shoulders red
and sweat clings like life in dampened conclusions,
blisters form bringing the pain of decisions made before…
and I would have it no other way…for this I deserve
Mountains faced of jagged stone break my crawl,
rubble sweeps my feet, as my knees bleed,
thirst speaks in the language of a long feared enemy…
yet I do not listen…
“No challenge shall be placed that will keep me from my return to you”
*State your case in hammered stone
Tear my skin of broken bone
No tethered vines of loneliness shall sway me from my home*
My shadow now waits before me, long and slender,
molded by dried weathered foot prints…my foot prints,
heading a direction opposite my heart
Many years old yet still their outline remains as a warning…
When I see it, the lilac arbor, scented in old desires and
new in life, encasing a glow, melodies of gold finch sing
as my eyes find your smile, an extended hand, a soft touch
I have found my way home…
“My sweet love, this heart begs forgiveness and longs you eternally”
*Mistakes I’ve made, my journey far
on borrowed steps of distant stars
my every waking dream desires to be right where you are*
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
In the evening
Demands of fluttering hearts
The swaying of
Leaves
Through the dusty breeze
A priest that preaches
about the fruits of life
I guess I'm just fond of
Nectarines
In a season
Of reasonably rose peaches
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 5:49 AM UTC
She smelled like vanilla in the winter.
Smelt like flowers in the spring.
Smelt like nectarines in the summer.
Smelled in the fall like wind.
You knew all this because you loved her through it all.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
.
Of broken branch and multi-colored stone façade
the pathway steals my outward glance
Winding through the cottage hills
like kite string freed by a strong wind, it spills
Patterns shadow in abstract array
through barbed wire and solid steel
barricades, creating menacing shapes,
criss-crossing narrow wheel ruts of long ago
*Obstacles, of stead and stood,
branded in a wilting wood
directions carved to empty me of all I know as good*
Within my chest sits a living compass,
beating my quest in a never ending melody,
sweet as caramel cream pie and pointing
towards the sun, which sits before me
two hills above the horizon on this new day
Temptation beckons over my right shoulder,
whistling in the breeze of delicious
offerings, and I do hunger
*Take your glow of nectarines
cool refreshing summer streams
for I shan’t waver, not an inch, her love calls in my dreams*
Midday, as the solar glow finds my shoulders red
and sweat clings like life in dampened conclusions,
blisters form bringing the pain of decisions made before
and I would have it no other way, for this I deserve
Mountains faced of fractured stone break my crawl,
rubble sweeps my feet, as my knees bleed,
thirst speaks in the language of a long feared enemy,
yet I do not listen…
*State your case in hammered stone
tear my skin of broken bone
no tethered vines of loneliness shall sway me from my home*
My shadow now waits before me, long and slender,
molded by dried weathered foot prints, my foot prints,
once heading a direction opposite my heart
Many years old yet still their outline remains as a warning,
When I see it, the lilac arbor, scented in old desires and
new in life, encasing a glow, melodies of gold finch song
as my eyes find your smile, an extended hand, a soft touch
I have found my way home, to you
*Decisions made along the way
mistaken steps of lost array
when found my every dream it longs within your arms to stay*
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
I’m a plumb in a Fruit Basket that’s out of control, Two Apples ones green because the Banana forgot that he smelt see he was so old.
The Grape would always sit on its own in the corner in the cold, The Orange could never peel it’s self so the story goes.
The Kiwis always got a twin he aint really in a rush to want to go, Mangos getting weaker as they feel the muscles grow.
Crunch getting over taken by the hour glass that never grows, Sand dunes created by the sweet taste of the Tangerines we all loved to know.
Fruit salad created by the imagination our taste buds have grown to know Pears trying to mingle in this fruit basket that’s getting out of control.
See the birds all sing to the sweet taste of the Nectarines that I’m missing just thought you should know.
This fruit basket is getting heavy i can’t carry it anymore; I’m a Plumb in a fruit basket that’s gone out of control.
JidosReality 7.5.11
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Let us go to that market on Broad Street, the one by Little Theater
where I got mad at you and refused to scale your wrist like it were a skyline –
I did not even knot your knuckle-hair with my sweat.
I was so angry, but I want to go by there again. We can search for some
nectarines and decide which share of our bodies they appear, feel most like.
One will have to be rotting, because your cheeks are an old peach,
black fuzz on the ends of something round, enflaming –
another can be as young-looking as I was when you first touched me.
Then, you will hold the door open while we prance into the House of Pizza,
find that corner bench where painted lighthouses dawn the walls:
I have kissed you here before, once when I was sad and another with a grin.
Sometimes, I wonder how many places I have loved you
but that would be as impossible as counting every way I have known you –
sometimes you are a moon off the axis, sometimes you are a plum
sometimes you are bobby pins in my curl, sometimes not
sometimes I rest on the bench where you licked frosting from my cheek
and sometimes just going to the grocery makes me miss you enough.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
going to lay in bed and think until I fall asleep.
I ate too much and I feel awful.
my house needs cleaned.
I need to pry myself away from the internet for a while tomorrow so I can do this.
I don’t even want to think.
I’m just gonna dream of a cooler life.
Mom always tells me “your day is what you make of it”
it ****** me off.
maybe I just want to be ******* unhappy.
your life gave you lemons and mine gave me rotting nectarines
fruit flies and all
yeah it ain’t that bad
but at least you got a man who loves you like you want him to
never mind, she doesn’t
i don’t know what i’m talking about anymore.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
a girl sits on the pavement,
lunch in hand
wondering what kind of times they were
-neither the best nor the worst of times,
but times spent at a coffee shop
watching the cars go by.
as the rain falls
-as it always falls at 2 am,
steady and calming
a world in limbo
despite all of the chaos that i so lovingly
call mine.
the birds aren’t out yet,
but the cars softly flash their lights
i shouldn’t be here
this desolate city,
mine,
this desolate life,
mine.
the plants sway softly,
ever their vibrant green and your cat meows
-the only thing along with your short hair
and scrolling habits
and off-feelings
you’ve been able to keep alive this winter.
lone figures in the winter,
at your desks -alone in class
smiling at a laptop,
the papers on your bedroom floor flutter around you
wind in my rooms,
slashes on the push floor.
slashes -also on the peaches
nectarines
fingertips (from falls)
coffee cups in empty cafes
and unthinkably
blueberries.
all of our photographs,
a poet said they would happen,
waiting to happen,
i think they’re right and
they’ll never happen
-it’s the kind of beauty arranged and taken down,
never enjoyed.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 6:20 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
Home made, completely all home made
I bet you cannot tell.
The label tells it all that I have designed
and looks good enough to sell.
I started tinkering around with ideas
what can I produce from my vine?
I can grow all sorts you know so I
will see what I can make into wine.
I have fruit in all colours and every shape
to the delicate little ruby cherry
to to most sophisticated shiny grape
and every possible home grown berry.
I have trees laden with the rich sweet
bouncy good old English plums
to the good old fashioned stone in the middle
dark red and sometimes purple damsons.
I can get my hands on nectarines, peaches
apricots galore, apricots and sweet peas
Of course Mother Nature is responsible not me
and of course the clever little bumble bees.
Well they all get mashed up
and placed in my home made vat
the aroma spreads for miles
led by next doors nosy cat.
The time you leave it matters a good deal
I like to leave the wine a good length of time
Then you know you have a decent brew
and produce quite a cheeky little wine.
Of course if you want the sparkle
it is not that much work or trouble
Want a fizz to blow the cork sky high
Make you see double with the bubble?
Add extra yeast or at least that's what I do
oh yes you are left with quite a fantastic beast
spread it on toast and float on the surface
looks disgusting and it will be a frothy yeast.
But whatever the weather whatever the tide
you are sure to have sometime to decant
Whether it will make the neighbours talk
you have produced something significant.
Pour them a drop of the old plonk
bottoms up, see you soon and good old cheers
Its fantastic this home made brewing idea
the best home made brew in years.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 11:10 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
These sounds of silence
Rumble and roar
I’m in a constant state of questioning
Asking what love is,
Filling in the gaps between all my questions
With the things we saved for March
Relishing in the idea of spring
And what it means to bloom
Peeling away at citrus,
Reaching for the plums and nectarines
In the icebox, scarfing down cooled melon
Picking at peonies and daffodils
Thinking about tea but hating its taste
I was never a morning person
But the sun these days is so new
But it’s when the winter creeps back
And I awake to a morning frost
Bits of past, pieces of December
Pine trees and heating cars
I remember the worth of remembering
And the reality of how time moves
And how all these questions
Sprinkle down with snow, rain,
sun rays, or leaves
never leaving, never eased
only knowing that I don’t know
and that seasons don’t return; they just pass
Mar 25, 2024
Mar 25, 2024 at 1:52 PM UTC
you're my tropical paradise,
my favourite way to lose control,
my most potent addiction and
the fluorescent spark inside my heart-
when i take a dive into your oceans,
your thoughts and words are coral reefs-
your touch is tender and your kiss
is as sweet as the nectarines you pluck.
i hear angels in your tangerine voice
remnants of you in every memory-
tokens of your pearly white incisors
biting down on my satin pillow skin.
i'll rearrange my insides to fit you-
carving space and toss the rotten flesh out
i treasure your bronzed, sinewy arms and
the way you give out smiles so easily.
your fresh-soil gaze cauterize me,
burning unsolicited marks on my soul
and i could spend the rest of the universe
kneading my hands into your sunflower silks.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:13 PM UTC