Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dominique Jul 2018
I pop a pomegranate seed.
It bleeds,
Delicate fuchsia delight,
Citrus scented, warm, bright,
Full of nectar and promise
(now wasted)

I pop another one,
In a soft cove on my arm-
A slight dip between two veins -
And watch the blushing drop
Edge closer to my elbow. Stop.

A third time,
With the fury of fear
Tiptoeing listlessly in my mind,
Like raindrops on a rooftop.  
It is sweet, and ******,
A waste of time but an act of god
Nonetheless.

I crave the sound and texture of it,
So a fourth time comes around.
By now, the citrus is overpowering
But I keep going,
For the sake of purity,
For the sake of the shock of vibrance
On deathly pale skin.
  
When my arm is covered in juice,
I give up.
There's no sense in envying the wasted.

Scarlet sticks.
Arianna Oct 2018
The pomegranate
Bleeds poems across my palm,
Seeds scatt'ring daydreams.
A haiku for a beautiful literary/artistic symbol of prosperity, fertility, and (for the Greeks) death.

In Art:

- Lorenzo Lippi: "Woman Holding a Mask, or The Allegory of Simulation" (1650)

- Dante Gabriel Rossetti: "Proserpine" (1874)

- William-Adolphe Bouguereau: "Girl with a Pomegranate" (1875)
stopdoopy Oct 2018
A woman once
                                        Wished on star
                                        From lands afar

                              "Please oh please
                              Bright twinkling light
                              Give me a child tonight"

                    And the woman prayed
                    Every night for years
                    Her plea fell on deaf ears

          Until a goddess
          Who made me swoon
          Heard her tune;
          The Moon

Begging she had heard
The mother of Earth
The call answered
With a "birth"

          Transcending her planet
          Coming to ours
          In a pomegranate

                    Inside the botanic
                    Did she travel
                    Until cloth unravel

                              Child Delivered
                              To dainty hands
                              Such divine plans

                                        Celestial now infant
                                        Baby and parent
                                        Woman loves ancient
For Houkyou, the title is what my friend calls their daughter and the whole poem is based off of it.
avalon Aug 2017
one more time, she whispers,
she whispers violently, tremulously, like an addict whispers
to the fingernail marks in her skin, like persephone whispers to pomegranate seeds, like sin, and her whispers collect on dollar bills in the wind, and the money flies home but she's still sitting in that bin,

wondering if Hades ever regretted his win
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.
#daleysangels #alicewright_4
Arianna Oct 2018
"... I am old now, as the poets have warned.

The courtyard smiles still as in my youth,
Immune to the ravages of Time:

                     Pomegranate trees swaying
                     In perpetual motion,
                     Lush, and beautiful like flute girls
                     Unfettered by "the weight of years"*;

                     It laughs in garlands of ivy
,
                     And now, as then,
                     Sweetens my tears with roses."
* = "the weight of years", a term I have encountered several times in translations of Euripides' work; the phrase resonates. :)
This Morning
The Golden Sun Rose
With a Midas touch
Smiled at the Skies

In Scintillating Colours
Bedewed the Atmosphere
In a Lush Orange Squash
A Rush of Pomegranate Reds
A Spread of Fiery hot Saffron Threads

Far Away
Billowed
The Feathery White
Pristine Kashmir Clouds

The Mirthful birds
On the wire , Chirped
A Mesmerised me ,
Revelled
In the Early Morning Bliss

Nature Imbues
Taking away the Sky's Blues
Sunrise experience on 21/12/2017
zebra Apr 2017
"Claim me,"
she whispers in a plea
"claim my soul as I wilt"
Crimson lips parted,
head thrown back
in ecstatic ache
jugular bared
she needs to feel
that sharp -edged love,
skin and barriers broken
as she melts into
the underworld
of a new grace
a magenta cry into
the inky sky
sacred silence penetrated
as only gasps are heard
milky ******* decorated
with red liquid ribbon,
his nourishment,
her demise
******* pierced with
beads of her sunset life flow
as he ***** and bites...
and howling
into heaven's delicious gate,
she writhes
Her soul dissolving
into his night
and as his spirit
absorbs her vermilion soul
their power rises,
black as coal
…………….
your lips
stick black  
sanguine smile
tremulous murmurs
oh happy blood blossom of deaths surrender
sacrificial lamb
cats sparrow entranced
thighs on fire
sobbing from a thousand needled kisses
******* tearing blood
each wound a weeping mouth licking
milky white alter of cold stone
saturated alizarin rust
legs wide
feet and ******* trussed
in chains and drenched rags
for cruelties arrow
o crimson queen,
pomegranate half eaten
mouth smudge black
agape
snake tongue dancing
through cherry lips twisted
darkened eyes of fire and blood
a wash in devils incense
beloved veiled
in evils cradle
bind not the demons kiss
then face down my love upon the crypt of mist
black heavens gate
pupa
vampires bate
a blood moon shaking
a scourge you are now
goddess of pleasures wretched
in the Tuileries of the abyss
consort
your every piercing fang
duck tail ****
a boiling cauldron
desire
spills out

dark cupid witch
legs tied to throat
devil ***** twitch
******* in a mote
ive got the itch
feet scorched in rope
hot ******* *****
hells dark pope

vampiress *****
dark girl feeding
the sun is no more
loves the bleeding
****** horror
Maia Vasconez Jan 26
I keep thinking about the night
he sat across from me
ripping into a pomegranate
with his hands but
I couldn’t stop seeing it as
a bleeding heart.

He put his lips on
My lips but
It just felt like he was trying to eat me.
Cingyeng Vang Sep 2018
The pomegranate was broken in half by His hands
It bled
And the seeds of the pomegranate was handed out by Him
So all that He chose to give, had a piece of the pomegranate.

Isaiah 53:4‭-‬5
He The Father, The pomegranate The Son, The seed The Holy Spirit, they all work as one.
Arianna Dec 2018
Breathing deeply
Of the heat
Rising
In tidal rushes
From the velvet of
Your skin
Cascading
Over mine,
Entireties
Enveloping
Melting, us together,
Suspended in this
Pulsing plane
Of pleasure and pain,
As
The warmth of wine
Hits the blood
Wherein
La chaleur de nous-mêmes
Indistinguishable

HEART

Reunites
Inside-outside­
At once,
At one
In a carnal


SYMPOSIUM


Pomegranate cheeks
Pressed, rouge
Into wine,
Flowing
Ambrosia
Of sweat,
Honey,
And the Hunger
Of



TIME



Grapes bursting
Forth from vines
Of bordeaux kisses
Devoured,
Plucked ravenously
With tongues,
Flowing
In leaf-winged abundance
Over humming, desiring
Stomachs
Bursting with
Crimson cabernet
And the drunkenness of roses,
Blooming scarlet
And savage
Between thighs, and
Strewn back
Up the ripening
Raspberry vines
Now entwining,
All-compelling,
.
.
.
.
                                               T                                                       
                    R                                                  

A                         ­         I          
                              N                  M  ­  
N                                                
                     G.....         R
                    S                              ­                          
                     O
                                                     F                                                          ­  
               .
               .
               .
               .
Between skins,
Garlands
Of laurel caresses
Woven
‘Round necks,
Braided through shady
Willow tresses
By rose-stained
Fingertips
Hovering

D
O
W
N

To alight
Upon strawberry lips:
Inhaling
Hymns
From the depths beneath them:
Lush,
Flowing
Harmonies of


FEELING


Echoing,
As the tambourines
Chime louder
In breaths
Amidst the swaying
Of hips and

IMMOLATING

Free of form,
The dance



REVERBERATING



In the ardor
Of souls bared
Whole.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4qePY2Wdss
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!
Helen Raymond Jan 2018
Red
A dance with the devil, fiery grace
Her lips quivered as he offered the pomegranate & she delighted in the taste
The vampire or the victim?
Not as naive as she was written.
Hot breathless gasps of passion,
As the demon cries out blessings to his salvation
A queen is crowned in the hellish nation
lX0st Dec 2018
On nights like this
Tired eyes reminisce
Of a former life
Like French doors opening
To familiar gardens
Where prunes grow on fingers
And lavender blooms
In the iridescent luster
Of warm water droplets
Serenading shoulders
Where reason and chaos blend
Into peach white tea
Swallows carry songs
Through their wings
Stirring decadent incense
Of exhaling trees
Sunlight waltzes with
Saturated leaves
Their indelible patterns
Rhythmic marigold sleeves
Carefree meanders along
Luscious promenade, swathed
In pomegranate-stained poppies
Ripe for the picking
In them, a fragrant ecstasy
Alive inside this memory
E McNamara Jun 2018
My lips are fresh berries
And my heart, a creamy peach.
When I speak,
My mouth drips mango juice,
Delectable and raw.
My mind is plentiful dragon fruit.
My eyes are green melon,
Bright and dewy.
My fingertips, fragile blackberries,
Tender and rich.
My lungs are tangy lemon slices.
To match my lemon soul-
Consuming crisp air.
My tongue, pleasant as pomegranate
**** and joyful.
I am alive.
Can you smell the peaches?
blue mercury Oct 2018
i want to tell a story about the colors in the trees.

i want to tell you about the quaking in my hands.

i want you to know where the rain falls,
how the crashing voices
sound like waves in the night time,
tugged tides tied to the moon
like a leash to a dog.

i want to give you something to regret.

i want you to recall how i, in all of my
innocence and passion
fell over you
(in concentrated lust
but also romance)
on that day in late may,
how you held
my bare body against yours
how in that moment
i remembered nothing but skin and skin
and
skin, nothing
but firsts,
but blessings
but

i want you to wonder how the holy swallow their love.
(i have confirmed, they do it like one would pomegranate seeds- with their eyes shut, but you wouldn't know)

i want you to believe you lost a good thing.
there's love grown in my belly the way
i was told watermelon patches would when
i was young and didn't
know any better.

i want to say that i didn't know you would destroy me.
that the rips under my skin were a shock
the ice-pick to my heart was unexpected.

i want to say something
but all that comes out is
i'm sorry
not knowing what i'm sorry for.
my heart aches, but i'm living
ghazal Feb 19
i fell asleep on your lips once again
the taste of pomegranate and champagne
yet morning mimosas couldn't water down the pain
from sunrise
to sunset
your body wrapped around me
and i'm still waiting to feel alive
sin and yang
crooked charcoal paintings on pearl white walls hang
a mix of blue and violet
i sat in darkness hearing the teardrops fall
asleep in my arms
but your warmth wasn't enough to reach my freezing heart
mistake dropped down my lips
you wiped my sins with your soft fingertips

the thing is,
my past is an eclipse
and constantly looking back
gave me scars on my sterling skin
and made me blind
to nights of sin
THE SMELL OF TIME

my shadow
stick in hand
leads me through streets

as if flesh and
blood were unreal
the cobbles try to trip me

the sun
falls like rain
making golden the town

a squashed pomegranate
its seeds scattered
on a yellow patch of light

the smell of time
almost unbearable to the dead
and to the living

an escorted soap bubble
ventures across the street
bursts on a cat's whiskers

the cat black as black
lives in its own private time
independent of the world's

for a fleeting second as I
pass by and appear in
a reflection on a brass door ****

an old woman
drowning in a shadow
becomes a shadow

her violet eyes close
time winds backwards to
her first kiss

my shadow escapes
leaving me all alone
wondering who I am

a ghost's laughter
time is
nowhere to be seen
***

All the disconnected joined up in an emotional join-the-dots...what the mind in camera mode elects to notice...the happenstance of life...an emotional osmosis...culminating in the death of the lady with the "Elizabeth Taylor eyes." I had passed by her when she was alive and when I returned I heard people speak of her death...I didn't know her....but she was said to have been a great beauty in her youth and was much sought after and fought over. She had just eaten her rice congee with rousong and zha cai as she did everyday at the same time.
i.
you’ve got it all wrong, momma.
flaunting your grief,
striping that poor sycamore down to a ghost off tree.
we revel in skeletons,
and find the clean lines
that divide
what is right and what is wrong.

ii.
sensous and economical,
the dead sing us songs i am learning to answer.
you would never understand the appeal
of power.

iii.
am i a hypothetical to you?
bow to me, forgotten godesss.
broken girls find solace in persephone.

iv.
i’m learning new words like pomegranate,
a word you can **** on.
pom- thick, round, bittersweet bulge.
e- the one you slide over to get to gran,
a slow swelling, cancer or the rose.

v.
finally granate, stones stopping your heart cold.
pomegranate, a word you spit out, seeds sticking to your teeth,. don’t you see i never could have stayed?

vi.
you only want gods who water your crops, who let you bow beneath their thrones, if you do so quietly.
i want my own throne, and i want to be loud. i want to disscus the fulitlity of existence, the burden of immortality.
i want a life like my dearest pomegranates,
bittersweet and complex.

vii.
in short, i left for a reason.
i am not your daughter anymore.
hope
Next page