"pomegrante" poems
The artichoke
With a tender heart
Dressed up like a warrior,
Standing at attention, it built
A small helmet
Under its scales
It remained
Unshakeable,
By its side
The crazy vegetables
Uncurled
Their tendrills and leaf-crowns,
Throbbing bulbs,
In the sub-soil
The carrot
With its red mustaches
Was sleeping,
The grapevine
Hung out to dry its branches
Through which the wine will rise,
The cabbage
Dedicated itself
To trying on skirts,
The oregano
To perfuming the world,
And the sweet
Artichoke
There in the garden,
Dressed like a warrior,
Burnished
Like a proud
Pomegrante.
And one day
Side by side
In big wicker baskets
Walking through the market
To realize their dream
The artichoke army
In formation.
Never was it so military
Like on parade.
The men
In their white shirts
Among the vegetables
Were
The Marshals
Of the artichokes
Lines in close order
Command voices,
And the bang
Of a falling box.
But
Then
Maria
Comes
With her basket
She chooses
An artichoke,
She's not afraid of it.
She examines it, she observes it
Up against the light like it was an egg,
She buys it,
She mixes it up
In her handbag
With a pair of shoes
With a cabbage head and a
Bottle
Of vinegar
Until
She enters the kitchen
And submerges it in a ***
Thus ends
In peace
This career
Of the armed vegetable
Which is called an artichoke,
Then
Scale by scale,
We strip off
The delicacy
And eat
The peaceful mush
Of its green heart.
7.2k
Pomegranate lips
He shook my hips
Bite his mouth
And he went south
A little amused
Submissive, abused
His taste was ****
But he had my heart
Ripped my clothes-
To the panties,with bows
Then molded to him
To whisper every whim
Pinned me to the bed
I quite lost my head
Ran a finger over my thigh
Wait.pause.breath.then sigh
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 4:13 PM UTC
I. Eventually we forgot your myth because I saw
nothing in it. An epic’s just opinion, and I couldn’t
find the rhythm, so I abandonned it. We all have
our own heroes, and it’s for you to write your own
ballads. You can’t count on me, I have so few
words for you.
II. You have a knack for the epic: everything
that comes out of your mouth is pure legend.
I jump right into your river Styx and know I’m
believing fairy tales again. What finally surprises
me is how far in I really am, neck deep and still
kicking. I have all this enthusiasm, only for
getting twisted up with you and your myth.
III. Tragedies are told for the tears at the
end, and I sing your song with guilt because
it doesn’t hurt enough. And when it does,
will I be satisfied? Take back your horses;
go tell Charon that Pluto and my pomegrante
are waiting.
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
My sense of taste has turned liquid
and melted away like soft butter.
I need it to savor the summer days
of my inner orchard. I need it to
open like a pomegrante blossom.
I need a bite of the powered sugar moon.
I want to savor amber pears falling
from laden boughs, the plasy juice
of ripe peaches.
I crave the smooth velvet richness
of a mouthful of langage,
heaping spoonfuls of words
sweetened by liquid light,
the flavor of mellow memories.
I need poetry full of pastry –
« sugar pyramids of confectionery . »
Taste, where have you gone ? Have you
fled from the wineglass weary of holding wine ?
Must I create a feast of literary edibles
to get you back ?
Feb 16, 2021
Feb 16, 2021 at 4:57 AM UTC