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Cece Feb 15
I don’t know why
I love peaches like I do,
perhaps because they're sweet
and remind me of you.
Maybe because they’re messy
and their juice gets my hands sticky,
so I don’t forget the lingering taste.
It could be because the smell
brings me back to past summers
spent with friends just peaceful,
eating peaches and spilling tea.
Peach tea, I guess.
I don’t know why
I love peaches so readily,
Perhaps because they're tender,
and bruise just as easily as me.
i love peaches
Bella Oct 2017
I keep finding peaches
Peaches
I don't think it's possible to not smile when you say the word
they turn my cheeks the same color as their skin
it makes me grin and laugh to see them sunbathing on the banister
lining the window sills like shining trophies
on my porch like children climbing to Set upon the tallest object They can find
beaming as children do

Maybe it's cuz I grew up in the south
Knowing you have to set them out And wait for them to be soft to
     the touch
let them ripen in the Sun so you can then pick your fruit that up
     until now has been forbidden
it's like a little fuzzy ball of gold Sunshine warming your face and
     your mouth
I love the word peaches

maybe it's the memory,
the name,
Peaches
“chin up, peaches”
it carrie's such an innocence such a light-hearted, free-spirited
     happiness.
something warm and welcoming and something I could only find at home

maybe it's the breakfast
peaches and cream
three ingredients
so happy, so creamy, so sweet, smooth, summary, comforting
it's what my grandma would give me
so sugary, yet so filling
it reminds me of her
it tastes how she act
it is her hyperbole
peaches and cream is a grandmother
it's as sweet as her voice
as comforting as her touch
as filling as her hug
and as smooth as her skin.

maybe it's all three
either way
this time of Peach field windowsills will come again next year
and the year after that
and the year after that
until I am the grandmother they represent
and every year, I will smile.
I wrote this in peach seasoned, if you couldn't tell and as silly and stupid as it sounds peaches bring back beautiful memories for me. I tried to convey some of those memories in this poem, such as they're embodiment of my grandmother (who  makes me that dish to this day).
agrios Jun 6
you are the one, maybe.
i've had many lovers, but
none as sweet and caring.
none were as loving, nor
as confiding. maybe you
are the one, but how am i
to know? i've thought such
of two others before our
time together, and i hope
my thoughts are right, but
peaches, i'm not sure if it
is to be for long. for all of my
others have left me, mostly
through closed doors, and
lies of a false cupid. but.
maybe it is so, and if it is,
peaches, i hope to know you
more than i have known the
others.
King Panda Feb 2016
the clay patio was baking
just hot
enough for the dough to rise and crisp
and for you to spread your blanket
in the sun
perfect for a picnic with the kids
and observing the man on that really tall bicycle

it’s times like these when you think
why doesn’t everyone just shut off
and bake in the sun
with a glass of peach tea and a pair
of well behaved kids
who share life like it was their job to love
each other
their mother
dad
and especially
the old dog

even the young lovers get jealous
as their gaze from the park to
your front patio
witnessing that there is something more to love
than just body heat
chocolate-dipped strawberries
and jazz clubs
that children grow like spinach flowers
in mellow
medallion
heat
until the training wheels come off
and they feel earth’s balance for the first time

and the peaches!
they shackle the branches
like juicy bombs
and you decide that
mothers are like fruit
unbruised
unwashed
and perfect
something that God
herself
keeps in her finest
crystal bowl and replants
in the summer

mother
sister
friend
shoot me some of that peach tea
you’re drinking
that sun you are soaking
that air you are breathing
the world needs more of you
and you deserve the last taste
of its summer light
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.

Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.

Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.

Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water –--
deep gulps, infinite sips.

Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.

Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.

Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.

Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.

Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat your thoughts.

Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
      shelf
to the end of time.

Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
      how to make
grandma's sauce.

Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
I do not know what I am
But she does-
Just as she envisions me,
I am intertwined with her fearfulness
Drowned out by a glass of wine

She is nervous
She thinks with the more I see
I will trade in everything that has made me
Sell it for some false narrative
One night where I feel I fit in
Or maybe, a man who does not see me
For everything she has made me

She thinks I don’t enjoy it
She thinks
She thinks
She thinks
She never says what she is thinking

She feels just like my father,
Sneaking in the dark
The difference being it is what she is
Swallowed whole by
And that of which he feeds

I guess-
They do not know what they are, either
They do not know what each other, is
Or who, exactly, they married
And I do not know what I am

I am intertwined in his nervousness
Tightly embraced for what feels like a strangle
Because it is wrong
In the form of another woman

He is scared
He thinks with the more I see
I will forget to see myself, and then
I will be lost in my own absence
Give it all up for
One night, with a man who does not fit
And all I will be is weak

He thinks I will fall weak
He thinks
He thinks
He thinks
He never says what he is thinking

He feels just like my mother,
Who is always on edge about him
As he is always on edge about me
Together, they are always on edge about me

I guess-
They do not know what I am, either
And I do not know what I am
But I recognize I am both; swallowed whole
By the dark and it is absolutely what I feed off of

I guess-
I am like my mother
And like my father

And we are all like each other.
zebra Dec 2018
come here with the jackknife and see what I'm made of
i'm **** candy she said
taffy and blood
a steaming deli
doomed chicken of the sea
doll parts, splayed pomegranates
femurs left in a ******; wish bones
eviscerations to admire
peaches and cream sprinkles
skin like cold grey soap
barbed wire ******'s spas
like a toilet flushing
spirographic squiggles
at the museum of modern art

video girl
video girl
video girl
like
butter flies flutter bye

dead movie star dancing
a matinee cyclops
everybody wants a glitter ****
incandescent candy store
a piece of her to take home in little bite size chunks
in a heart shaped pink box leaking red meat
enshrined crucifix; kosher
an **** of heretics like me
and maybe like you

god is whatever is in your heart

i pray to modernism
to be saved
by *** death and resurrection
and a bigger ****
impregnation ghoul
like a solar ******* hero
*** heroine
a Bedouin and a Jew ******* each other off
in a New York City
Holiday Inn
while the Kabbalah and Koran read each other

I packed the suit case
with a yellow mucous colored rubber tube, a razor and stockings
I don't know what ill do with it, but ill think of something

God spins death
so why cant you; or are you to good for that
albeit a narrow construction
to carve my fate in such short order

ill get into my short short funeral skirt and girly bobbles
ill go up and down on you like a yoyo
sea Venus foaming *******
til you flip me over
a deli sandwich
and cut me in two
splattered ketchup
on the blue plate special; extra mayo
while a huddled sabbath of *******, extra ******
groan like Pisgah turned to mulch
indigo shards suicide note
ending in
i don't mind
and precise instructions
please chew slowly while I **** on your teeth
stuck rot
while still kissing you
better bring a napkin and floss

you know I would get hot,
seeing my one way ticket next to your return one

wish we could
**** candy
pastel chew
blood bubblegum
melts in my mouth like quicksand
hissing fruity drops looping
you go down like squid
clawing your way back up half chewed with that hurt look
making wet mud holes blink
dark vapors tear my eyes

you wont need a head stone
your feet will look good sticking out of the ground
with anklets
a fashionista
except upside down
your funeral; a foot kissing ritual
religion; follow dead feet, to paradise

head down *** up
you know; the position of power

your the new aeon
grave stone arches with toe ring twinkles
rectitude striving
hot head buried in dirt
antagonizing worms
because your to hot to chew
like molten core
a zombie ******
velvet tabernacle
smooth leg art
and pretty pointy toes
ascending
where glitter lights shine
pickle brine
green
in a
Promethean ******* ballet
phantasmagorias dark embrace

this is no ordinary love
dialog of paraphilias
surreal horror subversive
a poem about the non-rational sacred
untethered poetry
song of a shattered world


Across the spectrum of religious experiences—from the archaic and chthonic experience of sacred power to organized religion—surrealism arises in that elusive threshold between the sacred and the profane, between the illuminations and of everyday life and the more formal expressions of the sacred. The mysterious, contradictory nature of this liminal zone is embodied in surrealist literature and art: matter becomes metaphor; the ordinary object becomes extraordinary; and images evoke emotional disturbance and ambiguity rather than specific ideas. The ambivalent force of the surreal resists conventional rational categories of intellectual discourse. Behind its elusive potency of mood and charged associations lie the fundamental ambivalence and non rational power of the sacred.
—Celia Rabinovitch, Surrealism and the Sacred
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")**


I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.

I am a summer-man.

On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of mussels and horseshoe *****.
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.

I am a summer-man.

Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the  summer alphabet-soup of my multiple tongues.

I am a summer-man.

Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone, with proper aging,
getting  hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints, super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
that-who-wud-be-me,
chills outer.^^

I am a summer-man.

When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his  
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash

I am a summer-man.

Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.

I would add April,
but the IRS is already ****** at me.^^^

Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.

Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.

This summer, beloved,
and love of summer, deep-rooted.

Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.

A love,  incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling pops.
^ See "The Summer Alphabet of Woman (I Speak Woman)"
August 23 2013

^^ See "Made the bed backwards"
August 24 2013

^^^  See "Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians"
August 22 2013

^^^^ See "* Acorns in August (Sonata for Summer Cello and Fall Piano, No. 3)" August 19 2013



* Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again

June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old
Tufayl Myburgh Sep 2018
You are my pink skies with candy floss clouds

My open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms

and green feathered sparrows singing tunes of your favourite songs that sound kinda-something-sorta like your voice,

The walls in my castle populated perfectly with portraits of you

and you already know portraits are my favourite.

Somehow my imagination bound beautifully with my reality such that I could tell no difference.

You are my Utopia.

But utopia is subject to interpretation.

You like candy floss occasionally, pink is not your favourite colour and I do not even know what your favourite flower is

Without forgetting to mention, you prefer beaches.

You like puns, peaches, foxes and fairies but my world has none of that, I want to accept those but you will not have it any other way.

I want our worlds to collide but in a more subtle way, but when that kinda thing happens it is almost always apocalyptic

So, what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.

My utopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.




*Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 2!
IDK
n-khrennikov Nov 2018
The bare hand
hugging thoughts.
reminiscing the sigh
Heart broken, eyes broken.
Peaches of mandarin and orange
Rise, burn, smell of the other day.
In the silence of the small room
  I hear everything,
and darkness lies
in the castle
of the ego.
~ NK
Maha Feb 5
I've left some soft peaches on the table.
Sticky sweet, flesh soft and yellow
Blue red, pink hues
and whispers of golden praises
The summer heat pressing ghostly kisses on my eyelids
I want to get lost in you.
No map will lead to this treasure
But I've left some peaches on the table.
To Them.
goodtea Sep 2018
he
disregards me
says it's funny when i'm mad

he says he
likes the idea of me
"i wanna *******" and
"i don't think you know
how much you turn me on"
he likes the physical

his drunk texts are angry
the next day is always peaches

i can always trust him to lie

he says he thinks about me all the time
but he wont let me spend time with his friends

i told him stop and no and
i thought i was healing but i-
i thought i was overreacting but i

screamed, "DON’T TOUCH ME" the
next time someone hugged me and
told myself it wasn't a big deal

started lying for him and
told myself he cared and
maybe he didn't realize

i

disregarded myself

so now that i've left
he can be mad
and maybe i’ll laugh
whomp whomp


sorry i disappeared
Jim Musics Jul 2018
We unfurled the Spring cloth above the table
Letting it float down with gentle guidance
Its patterns and colors so like the blossoms out back

Colors will fade over years and hours
Memories of tastes and scents last as long

I was stung near that tree last year  
I'm still mindful of the discomfort and sleeplessness that it brought

This year, we will inspect each branch for hornets' nests
Finding none will lessen my unease, but not all

When peaches are ripe
And we taste the flesh
Mix slices with white wine and ice
I will strive to be sanguine and unfettered
Fully immersed

You will bring me all the way there
about two weeks from now
Tommy Randell Jun 2017
Used to think the world was an Orange in a black bowl -
It was a time of innocence and creativity.
Time added more fruit to my metaphor, a pomegranate, a pear -
My best friend's funeral was an Aubergine.
“That's not a fruit,” I said. Not fair. I was wrong.

My family and friends came to feed me again and again -
Peaches, Nectarines, and Strawberry goodness. Figs of wisdom.
But time ran its seasons, and innocence changed its eyes.
The world became a single blue Marble-berry in a black night – Lonely.
“Nostalgia is the taste of Childhood in a thirsty Man.”

Fruits are masquerading as Vegetables everywhere
And again and again the Bananas just sit there, ripening.
I won't. I'd rather die. Yellow is a colour that lies behind the eyes.
Google feeds me now - monochrome smoothies of knowledge.
“I pass the Turing Test every day using only a brain-pan of porridge.”

Fruit is dead of terrorism and anarchy. The more we know
The more we see sweetness and colour for what it is -
That Child in me back then he didn't understand
How just eating the Apple is a one way path down a narrowing road.
“The future presses in on every side and you cannot go forward … “

“There is all this fruit, everywhere, and no-one to tell you what to do.”

Tommy Randell 04th June 2017
I'm adding this Postscript after being asked what this 'Poem about Fruit' is really about. Well, of course it's a Poem so it doesn't have to be about anything. I would hope you find your own responses. If you want it to be about something 'clever' then of course I can give you a 'clever' answer: It is about Politics, especially here in the UK this summer 2017!
blood trickles
down my leg
like dripping juice
from rotten peaches

Black & blue thighs
Heavy  sighs
I didn't make a sound
Silent in the sunrise
No man
Is an
Island
.
.
.
Nor is
Is any
Woman
.
.
.
Nor child
Alive
Or dead
.
.
.
Evolv-
Ing in
No time
.
.
.
From the
Apes of
Futures
.
.
.
And chimps
Of Past
We All
.
.
.
String with
Anoth-
Er One
.
.
.
Anim-
Als Hu-
Mans Fun
.
.
.
Gi Plants
Miner
Al too
.
.
.
Kingdom
Comes to
All life
.
.
.
Planet
Earth and
Other
.
.
.
Ali-
En and
Human
.
.
.
Artif-
IAL in-
telli
.
.
.
Gentx and
Ladies
And non
.
.
.
Binar-
E Bus
Ter
.
.
.
Big Blue
Lucille
Banan
.
.
.
A Rest
Ed Dev
Elope
.
.
.
Job came
Out the
Whale a
.
.
.
Prophet
Not A
Cheap Queen
.
.
.
Peaches
Princess
es Too
.
.
.
We all
Come from
The same
.
.
.
Sticky
Threads that
Bind us
.
.
.
No Matt
Er what
We Bee
.
.
.
Live we
Connect
And can
.
.
.
Feel our
Queen if
We list
.
.
.
To Her
To Be
Happy
.
.
.
It hurts
To know
You are
.
.
.
One with
Them Cry
Miner
.
.
.
Als Them
Others
The Mo
.
.
.
Stars have
Pointed
North All
.
.
.
Ways lead
Home to
Mommy
.
.
.
Step in
Line or
Fall back
.
.
.
Cause this
Pig can
Talk and
.
.
.
We all
Connect
Ed now
Oink
Oink
....
The
Wasatch
Wasps
Are
Waving
Could you smell my perfume
As you stood beside me
With him on my arm
I was hurting so badly
That was the last time we spoke
You only said "hey"
I responded with a smile
As my heart beated away
The months have flown by
This has gone on too long
I can't control my feelings
I've done nothing else wrong
Why can't I end this
I need to let go
I fell in love with a man
That I don't even know
07/19/2018
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