"persimmons" poems
I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.
As he flits and flips and fluts between the daffodil-darlings,
flirting with the puckered tulip's twins,
dancing and dipping and diving between
the outstretched limbs of the persimmons.
I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.
Anticipating that moment when I am to be envied,
Patiently waiting to be loved at my turn,
before he is gone and on to another,
leaving me alone and hoping for his return.
I am the flower that loves the bumblebee.
Hopelessly devoted to a free-flying spirit,
whilst helplessly grounded amongst many
perhaps prettier,
perhaps,
but equally doomed to share him for eternity.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 10:30 AM UTC
My father and I
lie down together.
He is dead.
We look up at the stars,
the steady sound
of the wind turning
the night like a ceiling fan.
This is our home.
I remember the work in him
like bitterness in persimmons
before the first frost,
and I imagine the way he feared
the pain, the ground turning
dark in the rain.
Now he gets up
and I dream he looks down
into my brown eyes
that may as well been his.
He weeps and says goodbye,
my son, I don't want to
go yet, but I can't wait
around to watch you die.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Biscuit and sorghum syrup happy faces with Georgia peach butter and blackberry muffins , childhood favorites that tickle the palette !
For a bag of Fall persimmons , a handful of roasted pecans I would gladly cross the Alcovy River naked as a jaybird !
Rutabagas , turnips and cracklin cornbread would be my staple of choice if marooned on an island , a Frosty Root beer and mothers egg custard !
Peach ice cream and scuppernong jelly , fig preserves and tomato gravy !
Columbus grits and Claxton fruitcake , Vidalia onion rings , Elijay apples !
In my next life I relish the very thought of becoming a Cardinal , turned loose in a muscadine arbor ! The most heart stopping , meanest scarecrow ever made would be no match for a wise old crow in a watermelon patch ! Mockingbird busy in a old plum tree , a honeybee in a clover field as far as the eye can see !
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
I am tired of chasing straw haired boys,
Who smell like earth and stability and everything that should be good for me.
I hurl myself like a meteor at them,
crash headfirst and they insist I am more fire rocket than girl.
He picks a girl who looks like him,
And I insist it is not because I am not straw haired.
But it eats at me, persimmons drip just like strawberries.
Why did you pick me if you could never even love me?
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 12:27 AM UTC
There was a time
when I blocked my face
with two palms,
only to avoid seeing the world.
But the two palms can only block
the world in my eyes,
not the world in my heart.
The world in my heart
is always too big
to be blocked by the palms.
Especially when there is you in it.
You...
smiling and offering the love
that reminds me
to the most delicious
Korean persimmons
in Autumn season.
(Now I start to feel that without you,
Seoul is nothing but an empty city,
and the world is nothing but an empty place).
-Kanya Puspokusumo-
http://doeniadevi.wordpress.com
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
night falls again and
i’m racing against the clock and
for some reason, i’m losing.
quiet murmurs escape your lips and
the taste of persimmons and
strawberry lip balm linger.
dissipating slowly, your skin and
your voice and
your face.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
We fall hunting for laurels,
shredding
our purple bruises
into rose hips.
Our silversmith rings lose their fingers,
cracked irreparable.
Our lives of lavish luxury
lives as lapis lazuli.
The banks of the Ipswich
call out:
silhouettes behind birch bark.
Remember
how we used to swim
her waters;
tread her auric ebb?
We aim at deer, at ripening
persimmons. They chew
the fruit pretty.
We aim at killdeer.
Kiss a wasp.
We were dead fireworks
under Laniakea eyes.
As midnight, we are
films noir:
we imagine *******
Lauren Bacall from behind,
speaking and kissing in tongues,
her mouth tasting
of unfiltered smoke,
breathing the snow
melting
down her rose hips.
We stuff the stuff of nightmares
into a cardboard box.
We howl at solar winds and polar vortexes.
We are a vesica; both/and.
We fall hunting for laurels,
adolescent pulsars with persimmon eyes.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
a wisp of smoke rises
from the ash and embers
and curls into
the cold morning air
a group of scrub jays
hop from stone-to-stone
around the fire ring
enjoying the lingering warmth
and satisfying their curiosity
about the noisy intruders
I lift my coffee mug
to my lips
and they disappear
into the junipers
and wild persimmons
their raspy calls
reminding me
that I am on their turf
Tom Spencer © 2018
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
Our home is burning.
Moths and lilies are breaking the woodwork.
They are fluttering closer to our fumbling feet.
Your grandmother’s wallpaper has never looked so beautiful.
I used to spend my nights in the silence between the sofa cushions,
Trying to organize the history of anarchism,
Wondering why the persimmons had been bitter to us,
And why you could not distinguish stones from bread.
On the day God decided to forsake virgins,
I went off to the market, closing the door behind me softly.
Our foundation disappeared behind me.
Somewhere, I believe, you are still dancing.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 5:22 PM UTC
Doppelgänger
by Michael R. Burch
Here the only anguish
is the bedraggled vetch lying strangled in weeds,
the customary sorrows of the wild persimmons,
the whispered complaints of the stately willow trees
disentangling their fine lank hair,
and what is past.
I find you here, one of many things lost,
that, if we do not recover, will undoubtedly vanish forever ...
now only this unfortunate stone,
this pale, disintegrate mass,
this destiny, this unexpected shiver,
this name we share.
Keywords/Tags: doppelganger, namesake, twin, lookalike, grave, tomb, headstone, inscription, weeds, shiver, recognition, destiny, fate
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 5:47 AM UTC
The persimmons hung gorgeously orange
And red off bare limbs
Nature’s ornaments in December-
They dropped, divine and ripe
Juicy one by one
On to the soft leaf litter
Out of loving arms and all naked
grey skies.
This was my daily treat
Landscapes of color and
That tree at the creek corner road
Stunning in fog
As I obeyed the stop sign at least once
Or twice every day
In the darkest time-brightest joy
Illuminating the fumy and spirituous,
wet northern
California days..
If I might bite that luscious fruit
Stolen from someones tree
Rest in the cool bay rain
Slumber me
Rock me In that sweet,
Fresh petricor that bewitches
Your mind before it washes your ripe skin.
I was the wild mustard then.
Everywhere at once in winter
Corrupting ****** soaking earth
Thunderous yellow
Rising for an all too brief season
Mistaking you for the sun
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
_“Consider me
As one who loved poetry
And persimmons”
–Shiki_
As one who loved
Poetry and persimmons
Pomegranates and prose
Who visited
Keats’ nightingale tree
And Freud’s couch
Who stayed
Long after winter storms
Struck spirit with lightning
Who traveled
Beyond starry dusted night
To speak with spirits
Who survived
The ***** and peril
Of the provokers pike
Who rose
Not from clichéd ash
But from papery embers
Who wrote
Down every word
On lined parchment
Who seduced
Your very soul to squander
Its sentiment on one
Who gave
Of himself
Everything
[Note: This poem was originally published by _Cadence Collective_: https://cadencecollective.net/2015/10/27/consider-me/]
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 7:23 PM UTC
Contrails, like brushstrokes
made with measured and elegant
exactitude
wash over the halo of white light
worn by mother moon-
the persimmons of night cut through
the vaporous blanket of winter,
swaddling the earth below in mellow
reflected light,
saying "carry on, my sons
and my daughters,
the night shall pass,
but until then I give what comfort
I can."
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
You let yourself unravel every word of each piece of your composition, willingly, beggingly. He raps his fingers down each crescent fall of your vertebra, and every time you look at him, hes a different expression of what you imagined loving, when you were little and brave. His eyes are the color that you saw one time, on acid, when you were fifteen, that you always told your friends about but even you didn't believe after a while. He can pierce you, with anything. With small kisses that float under your eye lids, with a handful of seaweed stuck between his teeth, with the sound of nothing leaving his porcelain lungs. You feel him in this world, you felt him before you knew him. You felt him in your city, you felt him at your door, you felt his electricity shut your mouth and slide down your throat and make love to all the stupid things you were going to say.
You beckoned him, a long time ago. While other lovers taught you what to hate. When you wished into your stuffed bears, into the leaves in the gutter, into tiny shirt, into bags of wine, into the abyss of a muddy lagoon. In your prayers of becoming a witch, into your prayers of not dying today.
When he first took your hand, did it almost fall off. Did you forget all the things you hated. Did you watch yourself run into a fairy colored sunset leveraged by all you've let go of. As you begin to tangle your bodies, you begin to remember him. From along time ago, in the snow or in the desert. One time when you and him were kings and queens of a time and a place no body cared no body cared about...
He asks to speak to the young lady that breaks in you, he braids her hair in round plaited knots. He asks to speak to the child that cries in you, he washes her feet with mud and feeds her handfuls of persimmons.
His mouth shapes around the curve of your tiny shoulders. He tastes the salt of the ocean from behind your ears. He mixes his hair with your until you imagine what your babies eyes will look like, He smells like the earth under a sweat lodge, like the mud soaked in a mans fight for freedom, fight for love..
You hold his hand, as he holds you, and you begin to sway slowly, drunkenly into a tender cave that
cast shadows of the reckless before, a floor covered in peddles of the most beautiful flowers that have ever been.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Wearing nothing but a blanket,
wrapped loosely 'round my hips,
There's a swelter and a swagger,
when I sweep the floor with it,
As I wander through the kitchen,
to the window facing east.
Where the last of wilting jasmine,
tries desperately to cling.
To the cool and most reviving shade,
of the persimmons tree.
I watch after your mother.
between dizzy-spells and cups of tea,
I read to her the latest styles,
from fashion magazines.
Her mind is a riddle,
and ridden with dementia
She asks, "What's in the box?",
though there doesn't seem to be one.
I suspect she means the tissue,
and I tell her that it is.
Then she gives me a great smile,
just like a little kid.
I spent the day in idleness,
I could think of nothing better,
Than to do exactly what I'm doing,
Waning in this shelter.
I lay in bed on the side
where you sleep facing me.
I smelled your smell,
to decipher it.
Masculine yet sweet.
I'm feeling like a treasure chest,
I don't have a use.
Until you want to open me,
to steal my gold doubloons.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Shining garland with engraved golden bells .. Blue , red and silver packages wrapped with great care ..
Shimmering pine cones and toy drums , green , white and yellow ornaments , glowing stars and tinsel accouterments ...
A white snowy blanket at her base , round and square presents with beautiful bows and delicate lace ..
Persimmons and oranges , a bowl of assorted nuts , hot apple cider , candy canes and egg nog ...
Christmas music and shimmering lights , the sound of mourning doves outside our window on this special night ....
A glowing testament to love stands tall
May the joy of the holiday season follow you all year long !!
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
Friday evenings
Pizza and chicken wings
Or other conveniences
Cooking would be silly
Persimmons—
This week's special
Beer or red wine, occasionally
Perhaps
Only reading has never
being changed on the menu
No matter what I've chosen
I think a book is still the best food
For a weekend's picking
Unless I'm starving
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
Hear the chimes ringing,
this sleepy Sunday singing.
Monday will bring persimmons,
and Tuesday a touch of snow.
Eyelids grow heavy,
the evening siestas are winning.
The trees shade are giving
and sweet scents are brimming
among these lovely Sunday trimmings.
Oh, what a fine Spring day.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
ROBIN REDBREAST
It was the dingiest bird
you ever saw, all the color
washed from him, as if
he had been standing in the rain,
friendless and stiff and cold,
since Eden went wrong.
In the house marked FOR SALE,
where nobody made a sound,
in the room where I lived
with an empty page, I had heard
the squawking of the jays
under the wild persimmons
tormenting him.
So I scooped him up
after they knocked him down,
in league with that ounce of heart
pounding in my palm,
that dumb beak gaping.
Poor thing! Poor foolish life!
without sense enough to stop
running in desperate circles,
needing my lucky help
to toss him back into his element.
But when I held him high,
fear clutched my hand,
for through the hole in his head,
cut whistle-clean . .
through the old dried wound
where the hunter's brand
had tunneled out his wits
I caught the cold flash of the blue
Unappeasable sky.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
The smell of the apple's body...
🍎🌼
The sun... ☀️
Dry smell of unripe persimmons
🍅🍁 🍅🍁☘
Among the buttons of my dress...
Folding the sun... ☀️
On the clothesline...
Like The whiteness of the Childhood hands...
🌼🌼🌼
A cloud, ☁️
At the top of the mountain...
⛰ ☁️🎈☁️☁️🎈
I'm the length of
the spike wheat... 🌾
And your eyes...
The time of harvesting...
🌾🌾🌾
spring equinox, ☘🌸
half the blossoms
already fallen...
I'm in love with a man
From May... ☘☘☀️☘
The sky was bluer than ever...
آسِمآن آبي تر از هَمیشه بُود...
And I remember all the peach blossoms...
و مَن تَمآمِ شِکُوفِه هآيِ هُلو را به خآطِر دآرَم...
That golden glitter in your eyes...
آن بَرقِ رُوشَنِ چَشم هآیَت...
" You smell like the dust
and all blue jasmines...! "
And I always want spring...
وَ مَن دُوست دآرَم هَمیشه بَهآر بآشَد...
When the bud blooms...
زَمآني کِه شِکُوفِه گُل مي دَهَد...
Blue slickers,
Children growing
In the rain...
💧💧💧
After seeing the red carnations ....
The dream of the
White breaths of a lily flower
In the old days of a man...
Being by your side,
Still carrying
The aroma of
Cherry blossoms...
🌸🍒 🌸🍒☘
Your forehead, All the fig trees...
🍑🌳🌳🍑🌳 🌳🌳🌳 ☘🍑
My hand, dropping you
Into the sky... 🎈
Will we get to the summer?
And I don't ask anymore...
Why does my cancerous mother lose her hair?
Why am I not pregnant?
Not feeling the fetus kicking in my womb...
My dress is not blue...?!
After Saadat Abad Street...
At that time,
When my mother's lily petals,
Falling down
On the iranian carpet...
You have been...!
بُودِه اي...!
Nov 22, 2021
Nov 22, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC
*A white oak crowned in gold
Fragments of blue , tuscany sun and
woodland coal
The chill of October searching for exposed skin
Wind whispered nightfall , a shower of
young stars and hickory mannequins , crackling
leaves , wind racked tin and tinkling chimes ,
the creak of the 'vane', owls in flight
Burning leaves , moonlight captivation ,
the taste of dead ripe persimmons , ghostly- antebellum mansions
A bustling Family Dollar , a corner gas station ,
a stray along the tracks , a Ford F-150 with a double
gun rack
Bud Lite for rednecks and Slim-Fast for **** heads
Soco for alkies , wine coolers for purebreds
An empty park , a swing without a rider ,
a waitress takes a break in front of her empty diner* ...
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC