"olives" poems
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
Full moon, black pony,
olives against my saddle.
Though I know all the roadways
i'll never get to Córdoba.
Through the breezes, through the valley,
red moon, black pony.
Death is looking at me
from the towers of Córdoba.
Ay, how long the road is!
Ay, my brave pony!
Ay, death is waiting for me,
before I get to Córdoba.
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
16.4k
Cordova, far and lonely.
Black pony, full moon,
And olives in my pocket:
Although I know the roads,
I'll never reach Cordova.
For the plain, for the wind,
Black pony, red moon,
And death is watching for me
Beside Cordova's towers.
Alas! the long, long highway,
Alas! my valient pony,
Alas, that death is waiting
Before I reach Cordova.
Cordova, far and lonely.
15.2k
I have never met my future self, but
I bet she still has dreams. I bet she won't
hold them in a plastic bag or treat them like some
concealed weapon.
My future self-wont be a childless human since
I have already birth galaxies of my own.
She will probably never be a vegan but will think that cantaloupe and olives will go great together.
(She will have a sense of humor.)
I don't know my future self, but I do
know she will still be half human and half
star and her DNA will still be all angelic.
She will most likely still be her own bandwagon.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, wars and loves and all that’s tragic.
A Father’s lust, an Uncle’s hate, a puzzling labyrinth, through the gate,
A Cretan born, another covered, a starry symbol, placed in the cupboard,
Special place, where heroes meet him, mindless creature, murderous ******
South in winter, man below with a bull above, placed in the heavens by two father's love,
A strangeness here, the seat of trade, in forbidden tryst, a beast was made,
Man of blood, tortured soul, stalks the maze, that stalks the pole,
"Stranger still, this wild pattern, revolving Seventh, Circle of Saturn?"
Unholy corridors made of granites, trace out the movements of the planets!
Life of horror, a soul of pain, terrorizing, with no refrain,
Smells their fear, scents of sin, raging actions, threshing men;
“They call me Moloch! They call me Baal! Tear your body, festoon my hall!”
In trepidation, to gatekeeper sent, a ****** start, for your punishment;
“I collect the hearts, I eat the eyes, I eat the liver, before he dies!”
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, life and death and all that’s tragic.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Welcome the new day
As night lifted her screen
The sun had brought its palette
Boasting of colours never before I've seen
Rays like paintbrushes
As they dove into the water
Light explosively burst into emeralds
Ripple and eddies would sparkle and shimmer
Bolts from the orange orb
Speared the tops of trees and sprawling ground
Tinting their leaves with green of olives
And grass with freshness abound
Its wand touched the tip of the distant lighthouse
Turning it the brightest green
It brought life back to my surrounding
Layered my eyes with the greenest of sheens
Such beauty laid bare
The difference was literally night and day
But my heart is also green
To readily accept what my mind has to say
As if a child
Or yet still a greenhorn
I should ignore the stains of yellow
And enjoy this new day that had just been born
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
Thinking about pizza as I'm here
it's warm with the ovens going
the order has been placed
i sit and wait
and wait
and wait
no time erased, only 1 minute elapsed
I feel like I'm swimming laps
in a tomato sauce pool
with black olives for floaties
the sauce is well past my knees
so hungry
and desperate
just to get a slice
of this great American pizza pie
it makes my heart swell
my eyes not dry
i'm gonna get eat pizza until i die
and if there comes a day
when they say no more pizza no way
your stomach can't handle it
your intestines will flare
i'll say i don't care
pull the trigger in my underwear
crime scene investigates
saw it on the news
a man covered in pizza
and bottles of *****
they couldn't get in the door was unlocked
a wall full of pizza boxes had the entry fully blocked
but deeper inside was a man no one knew
cheese oozing under the doorway cracks like glue
i'm still here waiting for pizza
no more imaginary trap
i look at my watch
the tenth minute elapsed
the lifeguard gets out
he's done with his swim
his whistle blows
everybody back in
the pizza is ready
time to dive in
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
(To Sarah Bernhardt)
How vain and dull this common world must seem
To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked
At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
Through the cool olives of the Academe:
Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream
For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played
With the white girls in that Phaeacian glade
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.
Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.
8k
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.
All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.
Greece sees, unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.
6.4k
The perfect night,
Full of light, not flight--
With dreams of olives!
(And feta in our sights!)
The drinks,
The dancing,
Rock n' Roll--
Naked Munchkin fantasy
Stole my soul!
I miss you my sweets,
It's been too long a week.
I'm pining for Cookout,
Divergent, and Wednesdays wearing Pink.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
Come friend,
I have an old story to tell you-
Listen.
Sit down beside me and listen.
My face is red with sorrow
and my ******* are made of straw.
I sit in the ladder-back chair
in a corner of the polished stage.
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying.
A new one comes on with the same lines,
like large white growths, in his mouth.
The dancers come on from the wings,
perfectly mated.
I look up. The ceiling is pearly.
My thighs press, knotting in their treasure.
Upstage the bride falls in satin to the floor.
Beside her the tall hero in a red wool robe
stirs the fire with his ivory cane.
The string quartet plays for itself,
gently, gently, sleeves and waxy bows.
The legs of the dancers leap and catch.
I myself have little stiff legs,
my back is as straight as a book
and how I came to this place-
the little feverish roses,
the islands of olives and radishes,
the blissful pastimes of the parlor-
I'll never know.
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This Heart-Based Beauty I dearly comply
Is the Seventh Great Angel in her Trump
From here I bow in Confidence rely
Glowing on purpose for Kindness come
And what shall I owe for this Charity
If even those Letters won't make me read?
You took one Page and recited them to me
Now my Demon's Tongue wooled a Lamb-at-Heed
So now the Pomegranate starts to Ripe
Though it actually shows signs of decay
You took some Olives and combined your bite
Thus the Sweetness assumed its Form to stay.
He loves Sweets, you know. I knew you'd offer
That Halo as your tray would sate him better.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Lunch for two,
At Metropolitan,
Two ***** Martini’s,
Cheese stuffed olives,
‘Level One’ *****
Lunch side by side,
Your birthday celebration.
‘Cherries Jubilee’,
Finished,
Our day being ‘us’.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
I remember you told me that the first thing about me that you fell in love with were my eyes
You said it was because at first you couldn't tell what color they were
Maybe the color of coffee with too much milk
Or the shade of a dozen olives sitting in a mason jar
You couldn't help but notice the splashes of blue
That twinkled like a handful of icy diamonds sewn into an emerald dress
Mystery eyes
Mystery girl
Is what you said
And from that moment on you let me call you late at night
And kiss you on the cheek
And leave notes in the pockets of your sweatshirts
And when you told me for the first time that you loved me
There was not a trace of doubt in me as I looked into your own curious eyes
Pooling like maple syrup
As amber as a drop of sap
I always was a sucker for brown eyed boys
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
Life can be painless
Provided there is sufficient
Peacefulness
For a dozen or so rituals
To be repeated simply
Endlessly
Your genius does not fail you
It allows you to understand the
Truth of the situation;
Which makes you--at times--
more tragic than ever
And your genius,
like all geniuses
Suffers periodic fits
of monumental
naïveté
Hi-ho
Listen:
Where is Grace
When milk and blood
Are about to be added
To the composition of the
Stinking ping-pong
***** being manufactured
In Grand Rapids?
Schizophrenia
The sound and appearance
Of the word fascinates
It sounds and looks to me
Like a human being
Sneezing in a blizzard of
Soapflakes
This much we know:
You made yourself hideously
Uncomfortable by not narrowing
Your attention to details
Of life that were immediately
Important
And by refusing to believe what
Your neighbors believed
Hi-ho
Let your imagination continue
To be the flywheel on the
Ramshackle machinery of the truth.
But not the ‘awful’ truth
The ‘beauty’ in truth
Because we are a part
Of a system that is very
Restless,
With people tearing around
All the time
Every so often,
somebody stops to put up
A monument
Ours is a country where
Everybody is expected to
Pay his own bills for
Everything,
And one of the most
Expensive things a person
Can do is get sick
Grace:
Because if we stay here
We’ll do one of two things
(or both!)
Build a Commune
Or do like Collin Heise did:
Make the main thing that we
do be this:
Move seventy-eight
Thousand pounds of olives
To Tulsa, Oklahoma
Even if we can’t
Improve the quality of our surroundings
We’ll do our best to make our
Insides beautiful instead
Piebald Roadtrip-writing, baby
Hi-ho
You are the turtle
able to live anywhere
even under water for short periods
With your home on your back
A particular comfort in
Realizing that it so often feels
There is no order in the
World around us
That we must adapt ourselves to
The requirements of
Chaos instead
Remember:
We are healthy
Only to the extent that
Our ideas are
Humane
To you
To me
To ourselves
To We
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
I've had my breakfast,
Still I'm so much hungry,
Only 'cause of her, I guess!
I've not talked to her,
She's the only hunger I've,
Both in my days & my nights.
I've liked her flavour,
Flavoured it is like olives,
Her voice is my final dessert.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
The making of a ***** martini is truly an art,
***** and vermouth are merely a start,
But follow my advice and you can depend,
On achieving perfection in the end.
First the martini glasses should be filled,
With a little ice to ensure they're chilled,
Your next step as the martini maker,
Is to put some ice in the shaker.
Next pour in the ***** a premium kind,
For the perfect martini, use the best you can find,
Just a dash of vermouth is all it should take,
For the best martini you can make.
For a drink that's smooth and never rough,
The next step I just can't stress enough,
Grab the olive juice and begin to pour,
And if you think it's plenty, pour some more.
Put the lid on the shaker and give a few shakes,
Just a few seconds is really all it takes,
Now take the glasses and dump the ice,
And add a couple olives, plump and nice.
Then over those olives you can begin to pour,
And then start to savor what's in store,
For if you follow this little rhyme,
You'll have the perfect martini every time.
11-08-10b.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
Being weird is important to me. I find it's a gift because it means that you are different than everyone else. I know I am weird because not very many 9th girls have my hairstyle. I say weird things. Instead of saying, what's up, I say "wasabi". I tell corny jokes. I'm weird because I like hugs and not very many teenagers like hugs. I'm weird because I eat olives and sunflower seeds, for snack. I'm weird because I believe in fairy tales characters like mermaids, fairies and unicorns though people tell me that they're not real. I'm weird because I'd rather read a good book than watch T.V. I'm weird because I have at least 20 nerd glasses and 5 snap backs. There are so many ways to be weird. I'm the weirdest person I know so I'll use myself as an example.
I know I'm weird because not very many girls have dreads at 14 years old. I also say weird things. Instead of "what's up? "I saying "wasabi". I also tell corny jokes that I know aren't funny like, what did the penguin say when his friend asked "why did you slap me? ! " He said, ¨I didn't slap you, I high fived your face." It's not all that funny is it ….Thats why its weird to say it.
I'm weird because I like to give hugs to show someone I care, but others only do that with boyfriends and girlfriends. A ****** like me might have a fairytale land of their own, where fairies, mermaids and unicorns live. I have a fairytale land of my own, full of candy canes and gumdrops, fairies, mermaids and unicorns. I have a black unicorn with a green and neon yellow horn, green tail, and a neon yellow mane. His name is Lucky. His favorite snack is Skittles and, his favorite food is graham crackers. His favorite drink is strawberry milk. We have dinner under my tree full of hearts. I'm weird because all that I just said is childish, but I don't care.
A ****** like me might rather read a good book than watch television. A ****** like me might have twenty pair of nerd glasses and five snapbacks. A ****** like me might not wear dresses, skirts, or shorts. A ****** like me might write books and poems.A ****** like me might fall on purpose to make someone laugh. A ****** like me might like school. A ****** like me might stare into space without noticing. I do this five times a week for at least two minutes; weird right. A ****** like me may dance, sing, or look up at the sky randomly without knowing. I'm me and you're you. I'm not you and you're not me. So, please don't judge weirdo's for being who they are because they're gonna be them and you're gonna be you because that's how its suppose to be. So how weird are you? I bet it is not weirder than me.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
There's spring and there's summer, there's all that's in between
no listless skies of anodyne; now nature flaunts and preens
What beauty fills the hungry eye 'neath a sky of blue, serene
verdant vales soaked in sun, awash in palettes of green
There are pastels that awaken and deep shades that passion brews
created hues that trickle...sprinkled with 'chartreuse'
There's the green of 'asparagus' and that of 'artichokes'
Of 'forest', 'ferns' , of 'moss', a brush of different strokes
Fragrant plants of 'mint', then 'myrtle' and 'green tea'
'Emerald', 'jade' or 'harlequin' and 'malachites' that be
Off creamy shells, just 'pistachio', 'green apples', then of 'pines'
It lies too in 'sap' and 'teal', in 'avocados' and tangy 'lime'
There's green of the 'mantis', in 'jungle', 'hunters' and 'shamrock'
The lithe 'parakeet' fluttering and the lazy sanguine 'croc'
In blessed 'basil', ' pickle', in 'pear', 'olives' in 'bottle green'
'Gourds' and 'peas' that farmers grow in cultivars pristine
'Tis there in 'aqua' and 'seaweed', in the ripple of 'sea green' waves
In 'turtles', 'sea foam', 'anemone' and a 'tropical glistening lake'
From 'laurel green' to an 'army green' , in 'sage' ( a shade of grey )
The color of 'grass' , the murky 'swamp' , hues in array
There's 'neon' and an 'Indian green', a 'Persian' one to mystify
A 'midnight green' to bright 'fluorescent', oh, for green rainbows in the eye
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.
On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.
I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.
At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.
Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.
But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.
Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.
Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.
3.6k
All olive trees are pretty ,great,and Wonderful anywhere and everywhere ... We get green or black olives from that That blessed tree anytime ... That long-lived tree symbolizes peace And love ... Deep-rooted olive-tree describes itself By itself to us ... Any olive-tree holds tightly in the ground Just to be only ....
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
hospice is the admission
they bring morphine
the good stuff
it’s six months or less
a one way flight
of hosts and guests
now numb from the blast
there’s no turning back
it’s inside out
and your hardwiring
is resiliently engaged
to move you forward
into this final encounter
day after day
drinking red tea
with spoons and cups
of Bonanno and Kubler-Ross
their ghosts slurp
with you -
in your prepped room
your James Dean role
now flickers with light
on the ceiling
and you dream
a third stage bargain
that your son had been hit
instead of you
with this wicked sickness
then coolly counseled
by your wife
that it was no dream
just your mind
regulating - processing
you slump there
dying there
in front of a familiar wall
where you once taped
painted olives green
and sipped scotch
with your books
at night.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
When you joke you sound so serious
And I never seem to get it until it’s too late
You like order and tradition
I listen to Christmas songs in July.
Our moods never seem to match
You seem to thinks that that’s just fine.
But I don’t understand.
I’m always worried, it seems,
That I’ll somehow let you down
And in doing so, I’ve succeeded.
I always do the best that I can
to look good for you
you complain, “it isn’t needed.”
You’re family only likes the ‘Normal’
Whatever that is
But I stick out like a sore thumb.
From my hair and it’s ever-changing colors,
To my jeans with their pictures and quotes,
...That are drawn on with sharpies...
and the paint stains that cover them from time to time!
Because of all of this, I worry.
Am I too weird?
Is my rainbow-like hair too odd?
Are my drawn on jeans ,
My crazy belly dancing skirts,
And pentagram necklaces,
Simply too strange?
What of my love of olives?
And how I ***** up my face when I think?
Do you not like how I spend hours on my computer,
Working on one picture (trying to make it just right)?
Or how, when I choose to color my art by hand,
I walk away with paint all over me (Even on my cheeks),
And an oddly proud grin plastered on my face?
I worry, and pace,
For days on end, at times,
Wondering if you really love me.
And when you finally see me,
The weird, colorful, oddball that I am
You smile, and kiss me,
saying "i've missed you so much!"
And I know that I worried for nothing,
That you are different from your parents,
That our beliefs live together in harmony,
That you actually like the odd faces I make when I'm thinking
and the weird colors I dye my hair,
And that you really, truly love me—
Paint stains and all.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC