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"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
0
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Orange Drops
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
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42
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.
0
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Forbidden Fruit
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.
0
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Raspberry Boy
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.
0
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
figs
!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' *****
0
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
!LEPRECHAUNS' ***** (for the glorious M.F.F.)
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.
0
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
In a sweet shop
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.
0
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
pixie cut
**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"**
0
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
An alien fruit
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
0
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 4:39 PM UTC
Taste
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
0
Apr 4, 2023
Apr 4, 2023 at 9:06 PM UTC
Patience's Politics Taken For A Future?
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
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Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Flustered Blessings (Trolaan)
!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' *****
0
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
!LEPRECHAUNS' ***** (for the glorious M.F.F.)
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
0
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
of a robust strawberry
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.
0
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
Honey Suckle
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
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Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
What Can A Muslim Woman Be?
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?
0
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 12:35 AM UTC
Apple of My Eyes
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.
0
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
Hidden
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.
0
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
The Ploughsharer
!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' *****
0
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 12:38 PM UTC
!LEPRECHAUNS' ***** (for the glorious M.F.F.)
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.
0
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:58 AM UTC
Eyes Wide Shut
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
0
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
taste of summer
*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*
0
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
~ Poison'd Beauty
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.
0
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
0
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
Dissembled
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.
0
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 10:25 AM UTC
Flavors of You