"tartness" poems
I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise
the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest
shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face
on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle
the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation
you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Firm, ripe, temptation red,
the pale green-yellow flesh
floods my mouth
with Sweet juice and the sting of tartness
like a gift from a serpent
I know I should be ashamed
but I have been bitten.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Raspberry pip boy lingered and hung around,
He was sweet, but with a tartness that juiced up your mouth,
He flowered in Spring, and swelled my heart up through Summer,
And I plucked him, and I ate him, and I begged for another,
But as I chewed up, my heart slid down my back,
As I was gulping down raspberries my tooth had cracked,
The raspberry pips had sunk deep and rooted
In between my poor teeth, how I hollered and hooted
"RASPBERRY PIP BOY ISN'T AS SWEET AS YOU THINK,
HE STAYS FAR TOO LONG, I'M STAINED BY HIS INK.
I CAN'T WASH HIM OUT, BELIEVE ME I'VE TRIED,
THAT RASPBERRY PIP BOY HAS JUST RUINED MY LIFE!!"
A former tooth model, my contract was lost,
To that Raspberry Pip Boy, his seeds, and tooth rot.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
three ripe figs: maiden-mother-crone
fresh and green, not fully grown
gravid, blushing, ripe allure
nut-brown, wrinkled, sun-matured.
which of these the sweetest be?
high upon this old fig tree
maiden tartness bright and young
full womanhood upon the tongue.
drooping breast and brown age-spots
spurned by youthful hungry thoughts.
adolescent, first one picked
complex taste is not quite fixed.
plump and ready, sun-touched mother
ripe fig flavor like no other
ignored by most, her dried-up skin
sags dessicated on the limb.
with sweetest nectar deep inside.
never plucked and never tried.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
!LEPRECHAUNS' *****
(for the glorious M.F.F.)
Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden
all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.
We never able to make up
our minds whether we
liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.
Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating
the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is
the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."
But despite being armed
with this knowledge I
pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...
lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.
Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when
summer hath no ending
and everything was only
a beginning
and there was such a thing as
leprechauns' *****
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
I look down at some sour
Fruit candies for an hour
But I must say to most
It tasted awful.
Not any tartness taste.
But at least it was novel.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
He said he liked her hair long:
messy and unruly against
upturned cheeks and winks.
Braided secrets running
between lilac
blooms and plaits.
He tasted of *** and berries
Short. Sweet. Sin.
He is a wisp of an
inferno eating
all the words playing
tip toe
on her bitten lips.
Winter came as a painter’s
brush dipped in blue and grey.
Secrets that taste of sleep
syrup and honey f r o z e
Drunk bees dance in
pale and grey roses.
A careless mistake came
in bruises, a stain of
an indigo sunset.
Rusty kitchen scissors snip,
snip, snipped away all
the bad, sugary tartness
eating a toothache.
Spring crept up on a
bare nape and shoulders
Her sun-baked eyes burned,
softened like butter,
maple syrup and something
harder than life.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
**An alien fruit
on a low hanging branch,
she swings invitingly
flaunting her color,
that pulled me near
what an adornment
you would be to my
meager fruit basket,
inebriating scent emanating
overpowers my senses.
Your design, I certainly smell
I hear the whisper,
the disclaimer to entice me
to your side, "I don't like him,
the keeper of my orchard,
he pretends he owns it
but does he know the truth?
it's different, fruits aren't
his passion, just a hoarder
he doesn't enjoy the ripe fruits,
and I am a **** fruit,
I see yearnings play hide and seek
in your eyes, aren't you the kind of guy,
I've been waiting to come this way,
take me, soon I'll forget him,
throw away your qualms
like fruit peels to the dumps"
I can't now discern,
what I now think,
no, I am no purist
who detests tartness,
I like the taste of vinegar,
this fruit offers so much,
this is a taste I relish,
but I am not game for this,
like to chase and hunt,
fruits from higher branches,
"wouldn't touch a carcass,
even if it promises much"**
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
Bits of tar rolling down my throat
and into my lungs
used to make me feel alive
His lips tasted of metal
and his of cinnamon
and hers of freshly picked strawberries
I would bring food to my mouth
and ingest
hoping one day to feel full
To bite into something
that would not leave me
wanting for something
Drops of burning liquid
would numb my wet lips
and then my heart
the tartness of meals
led to an aftertaste of
bitterness
until I brought my lips to yours
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 4:39 PM UTC
Talent show
Whimsy is our art
Our taste in methods and sights of owe
Welcome us to your town, a hay day with time to smarten
Catch a rising star
The pout of energy realized, remaining in view
Is our call to excellency, a closely required more
To the stir of when passion, has the sense to live for who
Carry me to the stage
The show is about to start, a seeming melodrama
That when served, is the callous voice we saw rage:
The tartness of life today, is tomorrow ours for a better dilemma?
Which in wolves eyes, the taste of complexity is ours
For a knock, a door, a calling hour; to achieve a known
Place of redoubt, that has no ear for wishes, beyond powers
That claim the world for a note, of courage come too soon?
A heated conversation, now is a readied mouth
With courage to take the lead, in round paces of what went
With the moment we know, the coping stare of another, proud
And silent, until a shadow of doubt, has become meant...
Through the longing, the strength of a need so refined
Wealth of a thought, is our reward
To tell a tale of composure, that has seen the times
And given the cue of adroitness, has become a life to guard...
Audacity
So simple an argument, for a watching eave
Tell-tale heed, to groom itself in lights, worth nativity
And with austerity to care, the faces of destiny in love, never leave
Apr 4, 2023
Apr 4, 2023 at 9:06 PM UTC
Desire the sound or hope,
deluding minds in darkness.
Daunting through its scope,
deluged no more in tartness.
Elope into the morrow,
envelop me with reason.
Enclose me now in sorrow,
easing against the legion.
Longs for succulent remonstration,
laying waste to ardent night.
Lopsided in spurn demonstration,
languid with delight.
Only now will I protest,
owning nothing less.
Opening now I detest,
one more time to bless.
©Michael P. Smith
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
!LEPRECHAUNS' *****
(for the glorious M.F.F.)
Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden
all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.
We never able to make up
our minds whether we
liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.
Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating
the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is
the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."
But despite being armed
with this knowledge I
pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...
lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.
Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when
summer hath no ending
and everything was only
a beginning
and there was such a thing as
leprechauns' *****
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
LUST is a juicy fruit
the seeds of impurity cover it like a blanket
once it is bitten into, the taste of desire overwhelms the senses
enveloping them, a euphoric cloud of fantasies
which are played on repeat in the head
press play for a demonstration of frustration and regret
as one remembers the taste of sweet strawberries
the lingering tartness of pleasure
the tangible bitterness of self-interest
the juice is dripping from the chin
of those who indulge in this enticing sin
ensnared in the fury of so-called passion
two lovers, caught between silk bedding
fighting for the covers, bare skin breathing through fibers
whispers dangling in the room's stale air
a clock ticks the tempo of passion
the lovers feign an argument about something trivial
laughing, they resolve and go into fits of happiness
outside, the leaves on the trees rustle in the wind
somewhere, a school bus blares its horn
the world is waking up
but our lovers are still in bed, dreaming lazy
she wakes up in a delirious haze
he coos at her and she purrs in delight
finally she stirs and rises to make breakfast
whole wheat banana pancakes
Jack Johnson variations
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
Speak to me in your honey suckle voice,
Eyes bright like blue lavender laid out to dry;
I want to be drenched in the stickiness of love.
Sticky like a fly trapped in a spider’s web
But unwilling to try to escape.
Croon to me in your apple cider voice,
Lips puckering at the tartness;
I want to be warmed up in the heat of love.
Hot like an egg frying on the pavement
Ready to be eaten with salt and pepper.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
What Can A Muslim Woman Be?
Bobbing
On the misogynistic sea
Of inhumanity
Muffled by
Mandatory muteness
Veiled in artless darkness
Horrified by heartlessness
And tasting
A terrible tartness
A gauntlet of confetti stones awaits
The rule breakers
And mistake makers
Equivocation
Or twisted motivation
Can cause a horrid hail
To happen
At any moment
I wonder
What can a Muslim woman be
Sean Hunt Windermere 2016 May
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
One bite of the freshest crunch
Crisp kiss, stolen touch
One glance at the lip. One look in the eyes
Was it sweet, honey?
Or was it sour?
Heavy was the weight
Fallen down, comes clarity
Tartness of the bite
Forbidden, yes it was
Have it in your palm
Eve got her bite, will you get yours?
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 12:35 AM UTC
I am the moon.
I contain no light, only darkness
I have no pull and am dark like a deep lagoon
I have been tasted, and contain tartness
No one would return
I am jealous of the sun and it’s brightness
I reflect its light in hopes of recognition
I wish to be righteous.
I have been in this darkness for so long I have night vision
The light is too bright; it comes out too fast
I am alone, with no one but the stars to keep me company
But they are too perfect and miles away
They laugh and joke in a manner that is so unattainably bubbly
This perception of beauty I was so unaware
So I slipped on my dress of sunlight and stay hidden among the bright.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
Under the moon, near the groves,
grows the summer's bitter fruit,
plumping for harvest.
We are bound to them,
thirsty for their tartness.
I know nothing of farming
these lands or caring for
elderly children, lost
inside their own minds.
I am only an observer
in these fields, destined
to carry my share home.
When I left my wife I felt
the angst, but underneath it
was the overwhelming
relief that I didn't have to
pretend anymore that
two halves could ever equal one.
I watch the bitter fields,
under this moon,
only an observer,
adding up these fruits,
counting these bushels,
knowing that we've all
our own fields to tend,
serfs that we are.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
!LEPRECHAUNS' *****
(for the glorious M.F.F.)
Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden
all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.
We never able to make up
our minds whether we
liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.
Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating
the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is
the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."
But despite being armed
with this knowledge I
pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...
lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.
Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when
summer hath no ending
and everything was only
a beginning
and there was such a thing as
leprechauns' *****
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 12:38 PM UTC
When I close my eyes and listen to
The thlunk of the fridge door,
The burble of water boiled,
The clink of a cup stirred,
The rasp of knife on toast,
The crispness of bacon frying,
The sweetness of butter melting,
The tartness of orange squeezed,
The closeness of breakfast for two,
The rustle of night-time silk,
I am where I love to be,
Close to you.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:58 AM UTC
cherry pits held in my cheek
blackberry juice stains on my teeth
sticky heat and the tartness of love
the golden honey glow of your peach fuzz
the taste of summer lingers on the tip of my tongue
august sun fills me up and i come undone
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
*Behind her veil'd facade
she writes her memoirs
enticing nectar'd touches of a woman
pickled with tartness & zest of a wanton need
closes her eyes when she takes her quill
upon her honey'd *******
scripts love letters of a past sinful lust,
seasoned times she can reminisce
in her foolish head she had a dream,
blinded by desire, was never meant to be,
in her rush to be discreet
her scarlet letters smear'd
emboss'd her mark upon raised braille
despair'd should anyone find her
true heart's intentions,
one final evanescent indulgence
of a poison pen'd sleeping beauty*
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
None of clothes are right and so I am not human. Only cold winds and crazed neon. I sometimes shine a flashlight under my fingers to remind myself of my bones. But they're as breathlike and photonic as the plastic tears I will never be given the right to have.
*We know that **** ain't real.*
How brittle a (we) can be. What sound is my voice allowed to have other than the violent dance of glass on concrete? My happiness always hangs from the end of a baseball bat.
And that's the way things are.
Of course, my mantras are just idolatry or faggotry. Systems of oppressive heat and chemical equations either pat me on the back or slap me across the face and I can never quite seem to catch my breath or feel an embrace, not really.
My forehead burned, but I closed my eyes.
How heavy must my skin and eyelashes and all the things that encase me, engender me, hang about me before I can finally count myself beloved? The question is as impossible as my own humanity, and my existence is not so self-evident that kiwis taste like queer fruits. So until smiles lose their tartness and I can breathe at last, **** you.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
What of the stories,what of you,what of the words or what of my dew
Lies and lies
Strangled the fliers
Witnessed it, he has admirers
Sweetness and tartness ignored
Mulberry swallowed but in the heart it sored
What would the 'dead lips' pen
When it had not the truth,son
Curses though slip off
Feelings be never any drawf
For to hate
Once there should have been love's bait tight
How dangling and dwindling
No shore was he ever kindling
Hours and hours
It takes no par
Touch not that knight
He has swords defending with might
How barren is he and
Knows not any scabbard
Those wands of enigma
That suits not the noble hands off stigma
Suitors of temper
Shooters of blood towels much damper
Is it your blood ?
Shut-up for god's sake
Let's arrange him a slumber
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
You left your cup on the kitchen sink.
It was still filled with your sustenance.
There it stood, staring at me so plainly
that I finally lifted it to my mouth
and rested my kiss on the rim.
I tasted you again.
Nothing wakes me up in the morning
quite like a glass of you.
It was like a burst of molten sun--
an explosion of tartness
spreading itself sweetly across my palette.
I swear, the rim of your cup is sacred.
So after I sipped from your morning brew,
I left it alone in the basin.
It's waiting for you to lift your flavor
from its Holy surface.
I'll sip again of your sweet mouth tomorrow.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 10:25 AM UTC