"unripe" poems
I’m a child and not a bride, but
Last month you made me marry you.
You know it wasn’t love that made me say yes
But the fear of what shape my death could take
If I were to turn you down. Of course
I had no voice. I could only muse to myself
In the dark closet and imagine myself
A mother at thirteen: would it be awesome?
Would it be dreadful? Would it…? I died of anxiety.
Last month you made me marry you.
I had no time to discover me for myself:
Who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be;
I had no time to think before I had to say yes.
But it pains my bones to the marrow.
I am an unripe fruit for the eating.
I am a piece for the show-glass.
Last month you made me marry you.
I spent nights upon nights weeping over how you’ve
Broken me; how you’ve set my life ablaze
Like a forest in a wildfire;
And now the once-upon-a-time sweet sounding music
Of my soul is burnt into silence.
I have forgotten the dialect of my soul.
I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush.
You have beaten silence into me,
And now I have to prepare to moan and wail
Beneath your weight, while I watch you helplessly
As you bite into my innocence,
As you suckle the un-ripeness out of me,
As you dig into my childhood and pleasure yourself
In the childhood screams you hear from me.
But it isn’t the fun that makes me scream.
It is the bitter pain of knowing, of remembering
That my life ended at thirteen:
Broken like a fallen calabash
In the hands of a fifty-five year old man.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
Anger, is the steaming red on her face
refusal creates in an instance;
jealousy is foaming green
profusion of colors in motion
takes this dance for them to upward
and downward turns,
or a sudden dissolution---
an intense ****** in unison.
Even in darkness he can see the
spasmodic ebbing waves
sleep is the banana plantation
where night wears translucent green
"nobody would see us here"
she whispers in his ears,
as if they are thieving sex,eyeing
the yellow banana she likes, to play with
Purple is the psychedelic color
smeared on horizon when
dreams repeatedly fly down
like night bats and happen
the way mind designs
we don't want to leave the scene
of the dream even when we know well
that the show for us is now over
we just want to hang around
like the dog, in the place
it got a juicy bone.
Yellow is the banana song
that's heard as wave after wave,
by the blind bat squadron
that roams with raw aggression,
for raids above the plantations
Unripe bananas show green fingers
to say "NO! we aren't ripe"
like coy underage virgins.
Then, they ripen, go yellow
some even bright red, inviting
who is blue here is the sky
and those bats who got
the bananas still raw green
Night decents on the banana land
as the white umbrella of sun
is snatched by the dark maiden.
Black is the bat's wing extending
and folding like lust, umbrella and the like.
He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent,
on the banana trunk slithering down,
as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky
and she slithering over him.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
Granny.took a switch to me.
But I insisted on raiding the big mango tree.
The big rainbow ones hung kinda low.
The sweet yelllow ones were close to the limb.
They would sometimes come down In a huge carribean gust.
And splatter.
The young unripe green ones. Were my favorite. Treat.
With crushed habaneros mixed in with some salt.
Or mango. Sweet mango ice cream.
Oh. Yeah let me dream.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
The sunlight winks from behind the umbrella of leaves and mangoes overhead. It tickles your cheekbones like the first, second, thirtieth good morning kiss. Your sandals are worn. A woven basket rests heavy on your hip, in your hands.
Your fingers, slender and worn by the earth, trace the contours of my face the way they search for meaning in a dictionary. Gravity. We inch closer. Have you always had a widow’s peak? Your hand finds it rightful place over my heart. I kiss you for the thirty-first time today. You taste of plantains and milk. You smell of sweat and the sun. My hand relishes in the traces of heat on your cheek.
One mango drops from your possession. Unripe, but soon to be opened up and worshipped as it is meant to be. Your fingers grasp the yellowing heart and press it against my lips. I rest against the trunk and sink my teeth into it. Liquid sunrise trickles down your wrist onto my blouse. The leaves create shadow puppets on the ground, the story of two young fools swaying in the shade of a tree.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 6:32 AM UTC
1. Fallow brown, like he's poured his whole soul out through the gold sieve and lies in wait to be replenished.
2. The color of the ocean. Blue, I guess, but that’s not even the half of it. All the ruggedness of the waves—forming up, breaking, and forming again like life is only the motions. Her eyes are blue, but you could hardly tell.
3. A hand-painted bowl of fresh chocolate frosting from which the most immature hands soonest get a mouthful.
4. Beautiful. Like, drop dead gorgeous. I’d dig my own grave and stick to rolling in it if she ever looked at me some type of way. Their color? I don’t know. But most of all, I dare to wonder about the bludgeoned scar between them.
5. Sturdy cobalt. Far more indicative of her steady heart than gold could ever hope to be. Still susceptible to tear, but not so easily warped by heat or stress.
6. Simply brown. No, red? It’s always been hard to tell through the fog. Truthful like the rawest earth, I’ll call her mahogany.
7. Faded blue spray paint over a slate gray wall. Forcibly muted after her years of blasting music, but there’s still that rogue twinkle to them that I pray slips through the cracks.
8. Coffee, with all the vim and vigor to make you click your heels and fall in love.
9. Unripe lime seen lazing in the shade. Not fit for a margarita just yet, but straining at the bit nonetheless.
10. Hazel, although I still don’t know what the **** that actually is. Whatever. It looks nice on her resume.
11. Green. Or were they blue? The memories of her were too wonderful, too important, that I had to let the littlest details fade away first.
12. The crystallized seafoam that made me realize I deserved to feel alive, too.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 3:09 AM UTC
"Applebee" was your name for me, the old one
gone away with the old me.
She stood there, waving to all new lovers.
Never belonged with the times, so unlike a standing tree.
She had no story to tell and was spinning .
An unripe apple, green and hard,
forever to stay hidden under 100 years.
With the appearance of seasoned hands, I
softened; you'd always be there.
You'd say, "Applebee"
I'd say "Willow, willow, willow..."
to reply, to show how I knew I'd slip into a game I'd lose.
Don't hear me, because I feel that we are prehistoric, waiting for our Mother to take us back.
I know we'll never stop, there will be more times like ours.
But I also know we are done whenever we begin.
Gods are forgotten in another hundred years,
but you alone , are different.
You
were just an immortal, neither holy, nor sinner
creature for a angel,
Oak and green pine for a willow,
An elder for a lover,
A beautiful and miserable secret kept between a generational pair
like us.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
People are like apples picked from a tree,
The beautiful ones with no imperfections are picked first,
but that makes them bitter and unripe.
The bruised and dented are picked last,
but that makes them sweet and delicious.
But beauty is just a perception.
The second you bite into the sweet but imperfect apple,
you realize it is more beautiful than all other apples combined.
Beauty
is
just a
perception.
So don't hide your dents and perfect imperfections.
If you do, you may become bitter inside.
Beautiful is not a definition of you,
but you are the definition of beautiful.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
I've been to Heaven
and the Earth was right
Heaven is a broken lie
All things must wither and die
Fog and dew on grass
Stew left to boil
And night water mixed
With my homeland soil
His white flowing beard
And slight twinkle in eyes
Tanned arms and firm hands
And a deep, reaching voice
The faintest glow
Somewhat aquiline nose
His weather beaten face
And the strongest of brows
But I've been to heaven
And the Earth was right
Heaven is a broken lie
All things must wither and die
Choked morning with skies bent
With smoke and a sickly stench
And my grandfather's door
Which I didn't open anymore
I couldn't see him wilting
And catch his frame in decay
His cocoa eyes still beaming
As cancer took him away
And wouldn't it be biased
If I say it was untimely
And for such a pure soul
God and nature acted unkindly?
So what had to happen
Has happened and no change
Can be brought forth now
In God's ways so strange
And in the ashes beyond
The trees have taken root
On the windiest of days
Beside unripe fallen fruit
I've been to Heaven
and the Earth is right
Heaven is broken
All things must wither and die
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home.
I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through.
I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches.
When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness.
Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper.
I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see.
This story, too, is a prayer.
A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
Your touch gentle as a petal in the wind
Kisses soft as the morning sun rise
Slowly rising from the dust undisciplined
Bringing a comforting warmth to my thighs
Your smell familiar as a dream once dreamt
A sweet taste on lips kissing
Hands on my body gracefully you tempt
Long lasting moments of caressing
A love so kind, as a flowers tender touch
Leaves tumble outside tap tap tap as one
Tightly to you I clutch
Skin now hot like the risen sun
Burning the day in sweet harmony
Hips playing a perfect symphony
A scenic view of warmth and motion
A breeze swaying wild and free
Like a curling wave in the ocean
Holding on as an unripe fruit to a tree
A sunset slowly falling down
Releasing the day with a wink of light
Night settles on the ground
Your beauty is all I have in sight
Together we breathe in coexistence
Your touch more tender than anyone
Resting now with peace and silence
Calm night, for the day is done
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:00 PM UTC
The picture frame is slanted
Because every time I tried to make it straight again
I remember the moment
In the photograph
When it was
You and I
Suddenly
I remember all the things
You weren't
In all the things
That were
And I see the start of my
Misery
The clothes are hanging out
In the sun
And i watched as the same light that dried them
Resembled
The spark we once had
But that wasnt the only spot
In the house
The house of flaw and misunderstandings
The house that still echoed "i love you"'s
That you didn't mean
That wasnt the only spot
That reminded me of where it all went wrong
Because upstairs
My blanket is messy
I spent
Night after night
Thinking of when it would cover the both of us again
In the living room
I have gifts left unopened
Because I spent the entire Christmas morning
Thinking
Of what I could give back to you
And even the narrowest corner
In the abandoned attic
My guitar seemed only to have five strings
And I wondered
How
Could something incomplete
Still
Sound so beautiful
But our love
Wasn't like that
I had to remind myself time in
And time out
That bluberries don't start out ripe
There was a time your porcelain teeth
Bit into the plump berry
And it didnt quite taste right
But you kept chewing even with your face
Splattered with the unripe juice
This
Is what it was like
This
Is what we were like
Because our love was a lot like the time
I ran out of acrylic paint
But the watercolors I replaced them with
Made every other picture
Blurry
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
A yank around the branch for an unripe banana tree
makes for peels at the tears; an aggrandized detainee.
In three proper pieces, breathing spiff in the fog,
split flat on the soil, in an envelope of slog,
it doesn't really matter because
nobody knows but you.
It only really matters when
the answer is ubiquitous.
A pupil to imbue
labradoritic hues
will disagree to acquiesce
and suffuse bleeding happiness.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 12:00 PM UTC
i smell your scent,
like mangoes
i tasted them,
unripe & sour.
But I like it.
Sep 29, 2024
Sep 29, 2024 at 5:24 AM UTC
Today
I savored my own killing
I could've done so
at the twilight of my days
while I dose off
on a creaking rocking chair
my old lean limbs entangling down
my crooked joints melded to the arm rests
my heavy head resting on my collarbone
oblivious as I
mercifully approach from the back
gently stepping on the tube
leading oxygen to my dying body
watching as my breath become heavy
as my blocked throat wheeze in exhaustion
as my stressed lungs finally collapse
as I quietly yield to sleep.
I could've done so
sometime tomorrow or yesterday
As I lay asleep on my back
snoring as usual
in an instant I'll roll over
and be on top of myself
clasping at my mouth and nose
pressing my full body weight
as I jolt awake, panicked and confused
my arm randomly flailing around
torn prayer flags swooped by a hurricane
my fingers digging into the flesh of my arms
attempting to pull me apart
until finally
my stubborn grip overcomes
and defeated I dim onto stillness
save for a twitch here or there.
I chose to do so
in my youth
as the texture of a heavy rope
grazes and bruises the skin on my neck
while I send a chilling smile at myself
from across the room
pulling a handle
that drops the floor beneath my feet
accelerating for the first time
relishing the hissing air
the absence of gravity
catching with my eyes my penetrating gaze
older than I am
full of grief, fatigue, and divination
cut by the cracking rope
torn like my snapped neck
with a hallow sound
much less revolting than I thought
watch me dangling like
a ragged pendulum
a grotesque puppet
an unripe miscarriage
feeling but a slight pinch of regret
for never knowing
this moment
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
I’m sorry I shut you out and blamed you for my own undoing,
You see I have this cloud that hangs above my head and I had begun
To call it home.
My thoughts and feelings got lost somewhere in the condensation phase,
And I trapped them there, only allowing occasional acknowledgment of the pain
I was in, doing as much as I could so as not to show if or how I had been affected by it,
For I am my own prisoner of sorts.
I let you in my cell to feed me water and gruel, but when you asked to spend the night
I immediately pushed you out and handcuffed myself to
The illusion of accomplishment, for lo and behold, I was there supposedly
Protecting myself, abandoning you before you could abandon me.
Over time, my pride turned to boredom which turned to anger which turned
To loneliness, and I had to place the blame upon someone’s shoulders.
There were no mirrors in my cell, so I chose to blame you
For I had forgotten that I even existed.
Your kindness cut into the unripe parts of me, the parts that were not ready
To be handled so gently, where breathing is slow,
Where each time you blink is like having a windshield wiper wash away the rain
From a car so clarity can enter your veins and visceral rearview mirrors.
I unraveled while you were away, I cried over my million losses while I counted
Your continual successes, I was envious of you,
Gradually falling silent to the truth of everything that had once surrounded me.
I was afraid you no longer loved me, for I no longer wished to be loved
Nor did I feel deserving of it.
That wish was strong and I fell down a long and narrow well
Where you were not waiting for me when I finally reached the bottom.
I stayed there awhile, beneath my cloud, locked in my cell,
With the murky water and unforgiving gruel.
You called down to me from the top, your voice
Your voice
Your voice
Oh but how could I possibly forget?
That voice.
It never left,
It never lied.
I can’t promise you I won’t fall down here again,
For my heart is stubborn and I still haven’t learned
The art of removing that which has been engraved
On this selfish mind.
But for now,
I wish to stay.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
Call me a 'misogynist'
For learning your tricks,
Your 'feminism'
Doesn't stick.
I'm sure women
Feel empowered
With you sleeping around
At the twilight hours,
With 'chauvinist pigs'
In your blankets.
'Mistreated' and 'stereotyped',
What you scream
When deemed unripe.
You blame them for
Not taking of refuse
And call them
'Trash'.
All your words should amount
To ash,
But somehow womanhood
Always makes you right,
Even when,
From end to end,
You
Were the only one fooling in the night.
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 12:14 PM UTC
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,
Of thee, from the hill-top looking down;
And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton tolling the bell at noon,
Dreams not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent:
All are needed by each one,
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home in his nest at even;—
He sings the song, but it pleases not now;
For I did not bring home the river and sky;
He sang to my ear; they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave;
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me;
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
And fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid
As 'mid the ****** train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white quire;
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage,—
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, "I covet Truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat,—
I leave it behind with the games of youth."
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Above me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;—
Beauty through my senses stole,
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
2.2k
you cannot finish need.
it fiends in wretched globes of dwarf
swelling to tremendous steam
a Bacchanal of vineyard borscht
a moonlit morsel of demolished dreams...
we serve at the pleasure of the absurd
gilding shadows with clay confetti
and the nictitating membranes of blue crocodiles.
and blank verse.
felling the Yggdrasil, by all means; you maraud the larder
in the night kitchen; nicking blackbird-pies and pinky-russet salamanders
[ the loose farthing ] and the hard liquor... all gone now
your potato sack, rakishly slung from the shoulders of an Atlas, entitled ' Promised Land; betrayed '.
a new map shrugging off old kings from dead valleys
revealing the hour of your worthless estate,
in-lieu of the boundaries of your lost holdings. unhappily -
you inherit the unripe peach
in a hound's mouth.
you slouch rough, slowly
to your beast
of a couch:
there, to remain unholy and due South.
there, to remain unknowing
by all account.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
Her figure, a fruit salad: little corks and knobs
jellyroll thighs and a smooth muffin top
unripe blueberries decorated here and there –
I would wrap my arms around her like a basket
protected from bruising or peaches robbed:
the perfect sphere unpeeled, pink honey bared.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Verbiage
Sagacious humans would concur
Salacious verbiage is trenchant
Verdant language withers a guileless soul
Hubristic linguists deem limpid oratory irksome
A Didactic, petulant, boorish, garrulous, nefarious, obtuse, and insolent
Overtone is not my intent
Puckish, risible, mannered, jocular, antic, and adroit
Reverberations I am manifesting
TRANSLATION
Words
Smart people would agree
Healthy words are sharp
Unripe words die naive spirits
Self-confident word users find simple language annoying
Moral instruction, rude, insensitivity, wordy, wicked, blunt, and contemptuous
Feelings are not my purpose
Impish (silly), laughable, artificial, playful, clownish, and clever
Reactions I'm hoping to create
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
Well let’s just jump right into it.
Everyone knows, the question right, “Which came first?” So let’s suppose, just for argument’s sake, in this specific case that is, that which came first was the egg. It’s also really the end of it in this case as well because there’s no chicken to follow. Just really it’s followed with the warm lettuce and the recooked bacon, the unripe tomato on a freshly baked bagel, which for argument’s sake is really the only part of the whole she-bang that’s actually any good.
But if that’s true then why even include the egg. Why abolish the chance for a chicken to exist? Why not just get a plain bagel? Well it’s about protein, you know. Does anyone really even like eggs or do we just eat them for protein? Does anyone like them, for argument’s sake let’s call it Tim Horton’s, does anyone really like them, eggs that is, when they’re cooked at Tim Horton’s? Are they even really eggs or just that powder, you know what I mean, that eggy powder like the powder milk that they have in the military? And if it is right, that eggy powder stuff, would anyone even care? Morally I mean, you have to assume people (which people I don’t know, some people I guess) stand behind eggy powder. But others right, you know the ones, who are disgusted by the idea of eggy powder. I’m one of those, not ashamed of it either and you know what, let’s just assume that it is eggy powder that they use at Tim Horton’s in their bagel BELTs. Would I have bought it if I thought it was eggy powder, probably not but here we are and I did and for argument’s sake let’s just say I already ate the whole thing. I mean morally I’ve just saved a chicken’s life but now I’m revolted by my having just consumed powdered eggs (right that’s what they’re called).
Let’s assume also that now I feel as though I’m figuratively standing on a moral high-ground but I’m also more or less disgusted by what I’ve just eaten even though I’m proud of myself for having eaten it, or rather not eaten a genuine egg. I’m ashamed of my disgust right and this has now proliferated into a casual nexus of disgust, shame and pride.
Q: Is it better to eat the powdered egg and simultaneously feel pride and revulsion or is it better to eat a real egg and **** a potential chicken?
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
A fig tree grows
in a back yard in West Seattle.
The splayed waxy leaves span the air.
A few green unripe figs are developing.
Hard to spot,
but there none the less
If we do have sun,
the fruit will ripen to a dark shoe polish brown.
Let's assume
birds do not pluck at the figs,
saving the crunchy seeds for us
to savor
and worry our tongue
some lazy afternoon.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
I took my heart in my hand
(O my love, O my love),
I said: Let me fall or stand,
Let me live or die,
But this once hear me speak
(O my love, O my love);
Yet a woman's words are weak:
You should speak, not I.
You took my heart in your hand
With a friendly smile,
With a critical eye you scanned,
Then set it down,
And said: It is still unripe,
Better wait awhile;
Wait while the skylarks pipe,
Till the corn grows brown.
As you set it down it broke,--
Broke, but I did not wince;
I smiled at the speech you spoke,
At your judgment that I heard:
But I have not often smiled
Since then, nor questioned since,
Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,
Nor sung with the singing bird.
I take my heart in my hand,
O my God, O my God,
My broken heart in my hand:
Thou hast seen, judge Thou.
My hope was written on sand,
O my God, O my God;
Now let Thy judgment stand,--
Yea, judge me now.
This contemned of a man,
This marred one heedless day,
This heart take Thou to scan
Both within and without:
Refine with fire its gold,
Purge Thou its dross away,--
Yea, hold it in Thy hold,
Whence none can pluck it out.
I take my heart in my hand,--
I shall not die, but live,--
Before Thy face I stand;
I, for Thou callest such:
All that I have I bring,
All that I am I give,
Smile Thou and I shall sing,
But shall not question much.
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