"passionfruit" poems - Hello Poetry

#*Morning falls from a budding cherry tree; the colour of nightsong’s waning blossom comes to be an echo only heard by the wind Soundless remnants of an intimate twilight odyssey tarry thickly, drifting lightly through the landscape of dawn The hushed echo wields the silent reverie of the night, gently rippling the rivers that run through the heart The poignant taste of passionfruit lingers in the sensory traces of a warm passing breeze; penetrating the lonely chill of a naked night's work of art ~ Jesse*#

0

Mar 14, 2018

Mar 14, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC

jesse-stillwater

A poignant taste of passionfruit

#*Morning falls from a budding cherry tree; the colour of nightsong’s waning blossom comes to be an echo only heard by the wind Soundless remnants of an intimate twilight odyssey tarry thickly, drifting lightly through the landscape of dawn The hushed echo wields the silent reverie of the night, gently rippling the rivers that run through the heart The poignant taste of passionfruit lingers in the sensory traces of a warm passing breeze; penetrating the lonely chill of a naked night's work of art ~ Jesse*#

35

In Ohio I order a pizza. The menu says one of the items I can put on it is Mango. That's curious. I buy a Hawaiian mango at the new Supercenter Grocery Store, and the check-out girl asks what's this? and I say it's a mango. She says, no it's not, that's a mango, and points to the green pepper. In Hawaii, I work at a farm, and pick some Lilikoi. A customer asks my co-worker if we have any passionfruit, and she says no. They ask me if lilikoi is like passionfruit and I say its dakine, but she's a visitor and doesn't understand, so I say, it's the same thing. There's a Hawaiian family with a fruit stand; I like to trade the extra lilikoi for their really good mangos they grow, but the Hawaiian word is Manako. Since they know I always want manako, I ask dakine? They were out, so instead he asked you want some Apples? I thought he meant those little red pears they call Mountain Apples and looked perplexed when I couldn't see any, so he picked up a clump of miniature bananas. Oh, yes I love Apple-bananas.

0

Jan 17, 2013

Jan 17, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC

life-nomadic

Yes, we have no mangos

In Ohio I order a pizza. The menu says one of the items I can put on it is Mango. That's curious. I buy a Hawaiian mango at the new Supercenter Grocery Store, and the check-out girl asks what's this? and I say it's a mango. She says, no it's not, that's a mango, and points to the green pepper. In Hawaii, I work at a farm, and pick some Lilikoi. A customer asks my co-worker if we have any passionfruit, and she says no. They ask me if lilikoi is like passionfruit and I say its dakine, but she's a visitor and doesn't understand, so I say, it's the same thing. There's a Hawaiian family with a fruit stand; I like to trade the extra lilikoi for their really good mangos they grow, but the Hawaiian word is Manako. Since they know I always want manako, I ask dakine? They were out, so instead he asked you want some Apples? I thought he meant those little red pears they call Mountain Apples and looked perplexed when I couldn't see any, so he picked up a clump of miniature bananas. Oh, yes I love Apple-bananas.

5

Scraggly curl hair bounces in the air wagging with whisky eyes breezy pleasing the eclectic electric hectic now mind like finding a papaya inside an oyster battery powered like a pomegranate passionfruit flower growing and glowing around my trinity heart with the noise of a sphere's galactic ****** Crystal Citrine Mountains provide water fountains of sunlight as so tye-dye t-shirt hip-cat hippos smokin' coconut shisha bathe in barrels of bourbon. Lion snakes spit words of worlds hurling nebulous timeline's spiraling and crashing and splashing baptism ripples together painting Pollack Splatters with the aroma of Byrd Jazz Jam on rye-whisky bread. Fractal Berries served by the Far Out Faerrie Ferryman Skeletan with bejeweled emerald eyes winks while I read in the reeds panting in pan-flutes while water rabbits scamper into clay enclaves to bathe in pinecone designed sand-tubs. The hieroglyphic phoenix twists and skip-scats neon green vinyl turning the wind inside out to x-ray flames of fireworks.

0

Dec 6, 2013

Dec 6, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC

brycical

Untitled Realm # 4-Triangle.7u

Scraggly curl hair bounces in the air wagging with whisky eyes breezy pleasing the eclectic electric hectic now mind like finding a papaya inside an oyster battery powered like a pomegranate passionfruit flower growing and glowing around my trinity heart with the noise of a sphere's galactic ****** Crystal Citrine Mountains provide water fountains of sunlight as so tye-dye t-shirt hip-cat hippos smokin' coconut shisha bathe in barrels of bourbon. Lion snakes spit words of worlds hurling nebulous timeline's spiraling and crashing and splashing baptism ripples together painting Pollack Splatters with the aroma of Byrd Jazz Jam on rye-whisky bread. Fractal Berries served by the Far Out Faerrie Ferryman Skeletan with bejeweled emerald eyes winks while I read in the reeds panting in pan-flutes while water rabbits scamper into clay enclaves to bathe in pinecone designed sand-tubs. The hieroglyphic phoenix twists and skip-scats neon green vinyl turning the wind inside out to x-ray flames of fireworks.

16

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.

0

Aug 8, 2014

Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC

betterdays

e-scentually good

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.

35

My breath dances a foxtrot across her island flavored skin-- coconut and passionfruit scents grapevine together, as our joyful heartbeats intertwine like a hummingbird's wings in air. Her peppermint lips embrace my nordic, hipster bear fuzz skin-- her feline eyes sing into my soul, our flesh folds together like a hungry flame devours wood, we burn into crystal ash.

0

Feb 9, 2015

Feb 9, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC

brycical

Scatter Us Where You So Desire

My breath dances a foxtrot across her island flavored skin-- coconut and passionfruit scents grapevine together, as our joyful heartbeats intertwine like a hummingbird's wings in air. Her peppermint lips embrace my nordic, hipster bear fuzz skin-- her feline eyes sing into my soul, our flesh folds together like a hungry flame devours wood, we burn into crystal ash.

12

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.

0

May 24, 2018

May 24, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC

jovialpup

Passionfruit

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.

35

I wear a love-proof vest, swallowing bullets with my face— all my scars know their taste. My hopes are all on diet to fit today’s problems; spray-painted days, worries tagged across the night— each thought a vandalism I can’t scrub away. Fruitful passions, I can’t stomach passionfruit in my punch. Life loves to punch back harder— each sip a reminder that sweetness still bruises. Young & depressed: insecurities overdressed, confidence underdressed, thoughts pressed into stress. Life asks you for a ruler, to lay it down smoother, measuring the depth of your love. But... it doesn’t apply so well to me, when I bunked a few lessons as a day-schooler. Always trying to fit in by being cooler, amongst a circle of friends, but really, we were just squares— boxed in by our insecurities; angles sharper than the bonds we bent. And I try to pray long— but sometimes, I digress. Sorry… what were we saying? So much emptiness, schemes plotted against me, reality never stretching as far as dreams. Illuding the fact, illusions often feel more real. Interluding between horizons: am I ahead, or beneath the dark where even stars are too shy to come out? Hope still comes as a guest. Still wishing for superpowers: invisible to pain, invincible to scars, shapeshifting to belong. Force fields to block their touch. Time manipulation— just to keep up with the times. X-ray vision to see through their false intentions. Superspeed to outrun the pain. Healing to undo my shame. But in the end, I have no cape, no mask, no trick of the pen— I'm only human. And I’ll be human to the end, recalling the feeling of being young & depressed.

0

Sep 30, 2025

Sep 30, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Young & depressed:

I wear a love-proof vest, swallowing bullets with my face— all my scars know their taste. My hopes are all on diet to fit today’s problems; spray-painted days, worries tagged across the night— each thought a vandalism I can’t scrub away. Fruitful passions, I can’t stomach passionfruit in my punch. Life loves to punch back harder— each sip a reminder that sweetness still bruises. Young & depressed: insecurities overdressed, confidence underdressed, thoughts pressed into stress. Life asks you for a ruler, to lay it down smoother, measuring the depth of your love. But... it doesn’t apply so well to me, when I bunked a few lessons as a day-schooler. Always trying to fit in by being cooler, amongst a circle of friends, but really, we were just squares— boxed in by our insecurities; angles sharper than the bonds we bent. And I try to pray long— but sometimes, I digress. Sorry… what were we saying? So much emptiness, schemes plotted against me, reality never stretching as far as dreams. Illuding the fact, illusions often feel more real. Interluding between horizons: am I ahead, or beneath the dark where even stars are too shy to come out? Hope still comes as a guest. Still wishing for superpowers: invisible to pain, invincible to scars, shapeshifting to belong. Force fields to block their touch. Time manipulation— just to keep up with the times. X-ray vision to see through their false intentions. Superspeed to outrun the pain. Healing to undo my shame. But in the end, I have no cape, no mask, no trick of the pen— I'm only human. And I’ll be human to the end, recalling the feeling of being young & depressed.

29

Pumping emotion to circulate words, that's where the passion flies like birds, grow abundant and fresh, like an exotic fruit, the flow of magic that settled root, I set no time to blow no mind, just write my name, for someone to find, I plan no art, i'm not looking to be seen, but if I am seen, consider me, a passionfruit. Some find me sweet, some find me **** some think of me like I am art, I'm just a thing grown from this world, passionate as a passionfruit. I hold no aim to be the best, I'm not looking for some hard test, I just want to be valued cause, I am just a passionfruit.

0

Jun 2, 2019

Jun 2, 2019 at 4:04 PM UTC

TheSilentScream

Passionfruit

Pumping emotion to circulate words, that's where the passion flies like birds, grow abundant and fresh, like an exotic fruit, the flow of magic that settled root, I set no time to blow no mind, just write my name, for someone to find, I plan no art, i'm not looking to be seen, but if I am seen, consider me, a passionfruit. Some find me sweet, some find me **** some think of me like I am art, I'm just a thing grown from this world, passionate as a passionfruit. I hold no aim to be the best, I'm not looking for some hard test, I just want to be valued cause, I am just a passionfruit.

18

You find yourself in another city Feeling inspired with a friend A pretty bird with a smile You find a bar Where typewriters are on the wall And pages from books make up the wallpaper Gin and mezcal Passionfruit and cherries The Pet Shop is open Filled with the opposite *** Everyone wants to get to know you Get in your head like the words in a book Making plans for road trips And future apartments Iceland and Nashville Go before it's too late.

0

Apr 24, 2017

Apr 24, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC

emilyjennie

Typewriter

You find yourself in another city Feeling inspired with a friend A pretty bird with a smile You find a bar Where typewriters are on the wall And pages from books make up the wallpaper Gin and mezcal Passionfruit and cherries The Pet Shop is open Filled with the opposite *** Everyone wants to get to know you Get in your head like the words in a book Making plans for road trips And future apartments Iceland and Nashville Go before it's too late.

16

every time you touch me the skin blanketing me screams, a babe newly out the womb. only air - no sound escapes - in breaths breaths panting breaths! just fingertips grazing now they climb, venturing to unexplored curves. every time you touch me you leave invisible singes glow; a masochistic craving for more. wanton wanting, eager to please in exchange for pleasure. your flavour dribbles spiralling pirouettes across our tongues. now, not now, and now. ! l i v e i n t h e m o m e n t ! for you know this moment will soon be mere memory, replayed, looping a single track. the scene that plays behind your eyelids as the curtains fall before slumber. enjoy and savour his touch; every time you touch me vines intertwine between my toes flames burn the nape of my neck. curl, curl, curl, writhe, a gurgle of a moan. a rarity of intimacy, the time of now comes not. it's back to the waiting room, doodling in a notepad, solving sudoku problems in the back of my mind. procrastinate the longing, begging is desperation. sickly, the wait invigorates, a catalyst of passionfruit!

0

Oct 7, 2018

Oct 7, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC

cherchan

passionfruit

every time you touch me the skin blanketing me screams, a babe newly out the womb. only air - no sound escapes - in breaths breaths panting breaths! just fingertips grazing now they climb, venturing to unexplored curves. every time you touch me you leave invisible singes glow; a masochistic craving for more. wanton wanting, eager to please in exchange for pleasure. your flavour dribbles spiralling pirouettes across our tongues. now, not now, and now. ! l i v e i n t h e m o m e n t ! for you know this moment will soon be mere memory, replayed, looping a single track. the scene that plays behind your eyelids as the curtains fall before slumber. enjoy and savour his touch; every time you touch me vines intertwine between my toes flames burn the nape of my neck. curl, curl, curl, writhe, a gurgle of a moan. a rarity of intimacy, the time of now comes not. it's back to the waiting room, doodling in a notepad, solving sudoku problems in the back of my mind. procrastinate the longing, begging is desperation. sickly, the wait invigorates, a catalyst of passionfruit!

44

Idling in a wedding gown, white on white skin reflecting in its paleness the filth of what has been and what is to be. Slips of fabric tease hard lines of shoulder, a wispy, hyaline veil cascades in reverence about honeyed curls and through the curtain, his lashes flutter a boyish acquiesce. Fruit trees sprout on the petticoats of the billabong: desert figs and passionfruit and currants thick with black flesh who peel themselves back to tumble into his wide-open mouth. Tulle and silk bunch around his knees soaking in juices from the feast. Eyelids lower over two blissed out messy half-moons, while drool or puke or juice drivel down his chin in uneven, marbled strings.

0

Jul 23, 2023

Jul 23, 2023 at 11:15 PM UTC

shayla-v-1

Bride

Idling in a wedding gown, white on white skin reflecting in its paleness the filth of what has been and what is to be. Slips of fabric tease hard lines of shoulder, a wispy, hyaline veil cascades in reverence about honeyed curls and through the curtain, his lashes flutter a boyish acquiesce. Fruit trees sprout on the petticoats of the billabong: desert figs and passionfruit and currants thick with black flesh who peel themselves back to tumble into his wide-open mouth. Tulle and silk bunch around his knees soaking in juices from the feast. Eyelids lower over two blissed out messy half-moons, while drool or puke or juice drivel down his chin in uneven, marbled strings.

21