JC Patterson Jan 2015

Where I’m from we swallow the seeds
so that a pomegranate has the chance to become
a pomegranate tree,
                                    and all the way down
you feel new life stretching your oesophagus
like a zygote embedded in a uterine wall.

By then you'd count every leaf as the seed
gave way to cotyledon, cotyledon to plumule
and plumule to stalk,
                                       that stretches forth into
a trunk bursting from the torso with pomegranates,
and new seeds waiting to be swallowed again.

Alexandra Oct 2010

A pomegranate
is unlike your whorish apple.
Regal, divine,
Only a diligent suitor feasts.

Shileigh22 Oct 2015

Juicy and sweet,
pale rubies set in a pale body.
They burst in your mouth with every crunch.
The red stains your hands,
like blood covering your skin.

eden halo Feb 2014

my sister is picking fruit, tummy aching
with the weight of a second basket;

my mind three steps to the left
of my skull,
i ask for pomegranates

(the sun is dead that watched me
last time i ate.)

my sister says:
"there are no strawberries"

my sister says:
"there are too many raspberries"

i need something
the size of
my fist, bursting
with red cells and life
to swell my chest, ground me
here

like a phonebox, my heart
can barely hold one person
before we start to bruise each other,
peach soft, blushing
dark and aching,
as each mistake rots through
to the pit of my stomach

juice runs down her
fingers like old blood

plasma gilded, scabbed
and spilled, please
give me thicker skin,
cake me in rind and membrane
to hold the magma in.

Chloe Jackson Sep 2016

What is love?

Sweet nectar on poisoned lips;
Or ripened fruit on curious tongues.

Is love sealed with a righteous kiss;
Or is love selfish and stealing,
Hidden away for all to miss.

Does love see no bounds or limitations?
In awe of you; of your beauty.
Is love a relentless invasion?
On a four horsed chariot poisoned with cruelty.

Will love die for you; with you,
Take your last embrace.
Or will love trick you; take you,
To end the long, lonely chase.

When all is said and all is done;
pomegranate and poison are both written in fame;
Sweet and bitter,
But love all the same.

I feel the connections are fairly obvious but incase you dont know this poem is referencing to Romeo and Juliet and the mythology of Hades and Persephone.

Go, little book,
To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,
Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:
And bid him look
Into thy pages:  it may hap that he
May find that golden maidens dance through thee.

Elaenor Aisling Jan 2014

She dreamed of pomegranates among lilies,
red orbs glowing among the white,
water beneath, black as soot and death,
while life drifted just above the surface.

She thought of Catherine of Aragon,
forlorn loves, starved dreams,
desolate, but beautiful, on the surface of death.
The most lovely thing about life,
is that it ends.

moonlight Mar 8

Pomegranates, a fruit
Originally from Iran
Mediterranean delight
Even enjoyed by gods
Goddesses all night
Really, they enjoyed
And friends shared
Now pomegranates
Are cultivated today
Throughout the world
Enjoyed by mortals
So there you have it!


Pomegranates

Luca Molnar Oct 2011

I planted all the seeds of all your pomegranates,
I watered them with my tears,
My love was the sunshine on them.

They grew above me, they reached the clouds,
They grew higher, then reached the stars,
They grew for you, they grew fruit for you.

Now come, harvest our trees.

Ady Apr 2014

Life is my current lover.
I swig her ephemeral taste from my cupped hands
worried as the golden, shimmering liquid rushes through
creases and cracks in my jaded hands.
Her mood varies through my stages;
at times she is of doting temper and roseate kisses
but when love evades her, most often than not,
her calloused hands damage the pearly flesh in tender
places,
and discontent paints a surly mood as she digs her crimson
brush against the canvas of my self.
Life is my inconsistent lover,
sometimes doting but most often than not abusive.
So I vowed my eternal devotion to Death.
We escape under the dark canopy of starless wings;
a tryst.
I eat of the forbidden feasts in the Kingdom of Hades,
grains of scarlet pomegranates staining my chapped lips.
Death has promised me perpetuity.
But until Life decides to release me from her capricious temper,
I shall long for the wintry, rainy comfort of my drowsy affair.

Luca Molnar Oct 2011

I want to promise you that I'll cover you with petals and take you to the garden of pomegranates and give you honey and keep you warm with my love forever.
But I cannot promise that.
All I can promise is that I will try.

CZ Nov 2013

The grocery store doesn't sell pomegranates anymore.

I go looking through the strawberries and the blueberries,

touch the blackberries to see if they really do stain but find

nothing. No pomegranates, not even the seeds.  I wonder

if they know about the breakfast you set out two days ago

that no one touched and the time you bit into a rotten pear

just to put your mouth where someone else's had been.

I wonder if they know that you still call your new wife by all

of my mom's old nicknames, and I wonder if you know that

you and I are really both just star particles, scattered across

time and space, and reconfigured into some semblance of

order. Humans like order, daddy, I'm sure you know that. Fruit,

vegetables, meat, herbivore, omnivore, carnivore, they no

longer sell pomegranates at the grocery store. When

archeologists have recovered all of the bones from a site,

they leave it. Even the dead must eventually go silent.

Remember during the summer, when we'd sit on the deck

and crack open pomegranates like fractured skulls, just to see

if they really did bleed. You'd only stain your two front teeth,

but I always had the magenta juice rouged across my mouth

and smudged into my cheeks. What I'm trying to say, is that

the grocery store no longer sells pomegranates, but I've still

got the burgundy stains under my fingernails, and even the

small part of my heart that still wields a pick ax is getting

tired of all of the repetitive motion. Daddy, herbivore, omnivore,

carnivore, they no longer sell pomegranates at the grocery store.

If I were a color I would be red.
Not a pointless, dull, fierce red.
But a loving, passionate, triumphant red.

I would show my color through sweet strawberries,
juicy pomegranates and fresh cherries.

I would de the color of love that could demolish hearts
and kill the soul.
Or revive the spirit and have a romantic time.

I would be an indispensable color.
Without it, life would be boring.
I am red, and proud of it.

My first poem ever. Written back in April '09
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