"unripened" poems
My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.
Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon.
While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and ****
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean, unripened heart.
41.2k
As long as there are teenagers extant,
Anomie and alienation of
an unripened generation
Shall spill upon this site in cliched cries,
Dabbling with threats of pills and lies,
The endless pain felt gives one fright.
To this old soul who wonders silently,
Will these thousands of pained children
Make it through to their next incarnation
So much angst, so much anger,
I wonder if God created poetry
To salve their wounds
Their unknown futures loom,
But all I read is hurt and doom.
You shall survive, children.
Awful poetry, some good,
you will write.
But write and write
till your heart be calmed
For even ancient kings felt the anguish of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.
This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.
For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, quiet like, praying,
Hallelujah, spoken in the original,
The tongue of his ancestors
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
No such beauty
longer dwells
under the guise
of flesh and bones,
in the garden
of a sullied heart
fallow heart
barren and longing .
time built walls
an unfillable void
burdens tall,
beggared of light
befallen within
a devolving moment
so many flowers wither
left in a broken
heart of gold
a gardener knows
sweetest soils
of love and light,
without sunshine
sour
as unripened fruit
memories fading
as if florae
never blossomed
perpetuating
wholly starving,
unweedable roots
too deep,
rupture when pulled
a **** let be
beauty
unfertile seeds sown
where nothing
longer grows
in an uninhabited
silence
raging unseen within
the fires of the ages
still smoldering inside,
mingled with hope
left for dead
hidden in the shadows
an engulfing stone cold,
handwriting on the wall
of silence growing taller
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
The blustery east wind
gathers the fragrant
Warm Springs
high desert
mountain sage,
cascading
downhill
through
Dry Creek pass
surging downward
from above
the Hood River valley,
with breath of sky's bouquet
of billowing
aromatic avalanche,
gushing
of heaven's zephyr
The poignant
sudden starkness
of fiery autumn leaves
letting go
whirling ― falling
helter skelter,
pushed urgently
flying westbound,
beckoned franticly
by
distant whispered
ocean bellows
blowin' in the winds
of change ―
Adrift across
Parkdale
mountain meadows,
Coyote bent,
paw trodden
ripe sweet grasses,
pungent with
waft of mountain sage
and fermenting apples fallen ―
the waxing silence
of the marvelous moon
echoes just beyond
the Lost Lake of the Woods,
its golden orange crescent
dances on clear lake ripples,
high perched
sky reflection lapping
the moon kissed shoreline
― alone ―
The Sliver of the Moon,
skinny lithe
unripened youth
arching
as unsated
summer love ―
sage memories
waxing and waning,
whiffs of honeyed Jasmine
writhing witherings,
coalescent
time drifts onward ―
unstoppable changes
never turning around
looking back
to see
their fading reflection
recurring ―
august rivers 2017
*note to self:
September 15, 16 east wind
Breathing Waft of lingering Mountain Sage
another Autumn soon comes*
... and I'm getting older too
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
too young for Her touch
too young for Her need
she took from me power
at the foot of Her greed
though lovely Her lines were
she passed over bounds
submission desire
was all that i found
a score and half later
only now do i ask
what set Her in motion
this unsavory task
i yearn to know peacefuls
i ache to know sane
though Her unripened taking
is my heart's fruitful bane
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 10:27 PM UTC
the wine
the words
the screaming torrents
all
groove cutters
some sharp
unripened, immature,
but drag marks made
because they,
rain rutted, sun baked
features permanent,
landscape of and on
parent child
the one
the same
some seasoned
accident chanced to breathe,
some ingenuous clever,
fully formed,
immature only
in the
youthfulness of the pain
for a lifetime
always on the tip of tongue
lingering
the child struck the parent
seventeen stitches on the head
the parent struck the child,
pleading mocking begging
his life to take
charge
neither pressed
charges
for
the wine
the words
the screaming torrents
all
grooves cut
had charged them
both
had changed them
both
thirty years plus
of immaturity,
testimony,
their sentences
are being served concurrently
nothing has changed
only the depth of the grooves
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Huddled within boundaries highlighted by the craftier. Stubbornly, yet unwillingly willing, escorted to the connoisseurs of morality. Structured, consistent, but reembodied into randomness, the more the merrier.
Spoiled, unripened, famished and fat.
Pleasant, fresh, fit, chubby and… adolescent.
In the name of manipulation, and its ***** messengers, we honour the catalogued pious. To Venus; the untrue, the shameful, the blasphemous. We serve peace and love, abandon the lies of Gods, join your cherished sisters below.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
The Blueberry tried
to escape from my lips
but instead
it ended in my hand
and back to my lips again.
The fall, for it, must have felt a lifetime
after dodging death once
but
like all things
something found it
a gentle touch turned crushing
snuck up from under it
bringing to the brink and past again
I feel its little soul
squeeze out on my tongue
bitter
sweet
almost overripe, but cooked in brown sugar sauce
it whirled from death so many times
that when I finally came
I found it in its best suit
and I robbed it even of that
Or perhaps, the suit of old age
of ripening,
isn't quite its best
maybe
when it was unripened
and pale
on the bush
perhaps that would have been more fitting
for me to rob him
of his style
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
Soon I'll be going on a journey
I've some rough ideas where to go
And what to do.
I'll get my bag of subject to pack
The required substance in
And I think I'm ready
To travel the desolate road
Of writers and poets before me
Mystic prose fragrance as a rose
Invogerating enticed me
Quickens my steps
To go further and further
Into the seeming enchanted woods
Of words hanging like apples
And picking the juicy ones
And leaving the unripened
Ones for another day
And leads me into a journey
I shall be grateful or I shall sigh
But I know I shall be going
Taking them again by and by
Till my life journey ends
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
Summers ago when he was ten
his first blush was born from her glance
on his yard fell the first rain
he had but met her only once.
Most precious gift gave her tiny hand
one that he kept in a matchbox
no ring it was a red rubber band
long lost still at his heart knocks.
How can stop time by a girl's whim
stales never a moment of closeness
when love was an unripened dream
lust was an unknown address.
The boy soon grew to become a man
the girl went to some faraway land
they come but once in one lifespan
his first blush her hand's rubber band.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
That day I did happen upon
A mountain that I thought to there climb.
This mount was tall, greatly peaked
And crowned, as the wise splendor, with snow.
Daunting, the task calls me forth
Eyes agleam with fierce joy, I test my worth.
Young and brash, so did I run,
Zeal yet unripened on wisdom's vine,
Until strengths end I had reached
And then my foolishness I did know.
As I sat to catch my breath
Shame now would surely bring about my death.
Yet as I sat, risen, the Sun
With gentle beams, lit a path now mine.
Slow steps I take; Caution I heed.
Steadily now to that peak I go,
Each step holds its own great cause
I stride onward, forward, no more to pause.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
*Lust moves easy mind roams crazy
What you like you want to own
Past turns of years when limbs lazy
Only then find love full grown.
Unripened age when turns new page
Lovelorn young minds be must
It’s only when the seasons age
You find in love true trust.
It’s made that way we have no say
Though love is summer born
It strongly holds till winter stays
Breaks not when trouble torn.
Can’t define how made like this
It takes years to own
The richest wine and the perfect bliss
Of love with time full grown!*
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
*Originally posted to this site on May 23, 2014
a backwards trek, to learn where to step next...*
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland
As long as there are teenagers extant,
Anomie and alienation of an unripened generation
Shall spill upon this site in cliched cries,
Dabbling with threats of pills and lies,
The endless pain felt gives one fright.
To this old soul who wonders silently,
Will these thousands of pained children
Make it through to their next incarnation
So much angst, so much anger,
I wonder if God created poetry
To salve their wounds.
Their unknown futures loom,
But all I read is hurt and doom.
You shall survive, children.
Awful poetry, some good, you will write.
But write and write till your heart be calmed,
For even ancient kings felt the anguish of the soul,
For we profit even today by King David's psalms.
This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.
For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, hallelujah!
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
I'm not old.
I'm immature.
Senseless and careless.
Full of faults that I constantly trip over.
And devoid of cracks that aren't hairline fractures.
I'm young.
Afraid to live.
And afraid to die without growing out of the youth I now own.
I am young and old.
Fragile with uncertainty.
Yet strong with determination.
Or not really.
Maybe foolish with hope and too doe eyed to see it.
Maybe too young to understand that life isn't a game actually meant to be won
but one which is endured.
Like tomatoes ripened in the sun.
Maybe I'm not old enough to be bottled and sold.
Maybe I'm fresh fruit.
Picked from a vine and placed in a barrel.
Aged slowly and sweetly.
Future red wine.
But for now.
Young grapes.
In a process.
Unripened.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
A puzzle with just one missing piece, though incomplete can still be fine.
And a sky with one less star tonight, makes brighter those that shine.
Just one or two unripened grapes, surely won't spoil the wine.
So, why is it, that "one drop shy," can't fill this soul of mine?
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 6:17 PM UTC
Pushing out the daughters of older woman words...
~
it's almost May Day,
and the only niece,
husband towed,
all to a springtime glorious
drop by, dinner come,
......and there is poetry in their expectant eyes
a pronouncement,
predecessor to an announcement,
spring blessings uttered over melting smoked mozzarella pasta,
sweet balsamic fruited salad dressings of
of the unripened fruit of newer life,
seeded, deeded and coming,
soon enough
we act not shocked,
shocking them
oh yeah,
we figured dropping in sudden,
needed a really good excuse,
and a good one,
a new life,
a **** good one
old man granddad and now sooner
to be dubbed grand uncle'd,
children bejeweled cherry garnet carbuncle'd,
decorating his
red cheeked face,
redden a happy heart,
duly recorded, his thoughts,
twine cord wrapped and delivered,
4am punctual
we toast with three wine glasses Spanish Malbec,
one just air-filled, sorry Charlie
we all review the rules,
garnered from our
personal histories,
lore and the gore and the endless more
of raising children,
stanzas that never rhyme quite the way you planned,
and blessed is that good enough is
plenty good enough
am I excited, they inquire?
long pause, no, not excited,
thoughts quiet, paused,
words needed,
and in time,
drafted, recruited
something different,
more pleased in a way,
that comes so rarefied,
a distancing sense from the normalcy of life,
the taste
when life's hard work.
is justified,
yes,
justified
~~~
may first four and twenty ante merry-diem
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
Would it cost you so dearly
To show me some kindness?
Perhaps, a little of your pride?
Cold truth cannot be denied.
Of the abundance you possess
Surely you have some to spare?
Although beauty is seldom kind,
Love of beauty is so often blind.
Perhaps I do persecute myself?
Naivety, my foolish companion.
Of perishable beauty, so unaware,
Its failure, a cruelty, above compare.
Unripened emotions bitter edges
Sharpening perceptions of reality.
Such contrast to inner sweetness,
Illusions devoid, of all redress.
Is this not truly tasting life?
Is this not choosing to live?
Suffering and savouring the pain,
Love is so arid, without any rain.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
Breathless,
Hands lay flush against my head,
their Fingers pale,
gripping tight on the small unripened fruit,
slowly Climbing up and down my skin
poking and caressing my lungs as it speaks
giving me burns of varying degrees,
you twist and they turn the colour of red, purple and blue
the only thing holding the blistering skin together
are stitches that haven't yet given,
my blood is forming slowly
it dribbles down like spittle
and as it clots you split
digging your fingers inside my flesh
and I am infatuated
head lolling
eyes shivering
bones sore
as if they are pleading for a way
for a way
a chance
to slip away in peace
with you by my lonely and lowly side.
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC
Just 'neath the frosty garb of a shimmering hoary dew, a
picturesque meadow lies swaying in the waning starlight
before the eyes of a sweet and fair maiden, a dervish
whirling and singing her diaphanous solo to the budding
flowers that sprout upon the verdant landscape, unripened
and impatient to soft petals thrusting outward and becoming
saturated in deep purple, blue, and yellow-gold at the suns
ascent. Up above, a tempera image now slowly appears from
behind the curtain of twilights intermission-it is the
reddening energized sky of a new day dawning -and the
morning rays of light glare, bathing her, the admirer
enclosed by the horizon, in the warmth and fineness of the
season.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
Her words hung to frost
in the Moon-White air.
There I fell,
steel-cold in their presence.
The allure of longing
a familiar solace
only February bring.
An empty tongue,
bent to hiss all the shapes of
unripened promise
that burden green on a winter tree;
behind torch eyes
that bleed memories
down to the wick.
I could lend ear
never tire of our solitude.
I yearn for that colourless sun,
where streets not blushed pink
from summers lick
but wind cuts brick grey
and windowpanes orange with laughter.
For in such black months
we birth anew,
flowers breathe colour
to dead roots
and the busy people
calm to a welcoming halt.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 6:26 AM UTC
If you had savored the venerable's vulnerability
You might not had detected the lion's
piquancy
The overstrain of exhilarated excellence
Grounds them in the abaddon of disaster and nuisance
The criticism's eyes stare wild at their wisdom
The unripened harvests of the press nurture
Extremes, ethics, etiquette
Their emeralds douse to Scarlets...
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC
I was so desperate to write a trendy poem
I got suffocated
And got all my creative juices squeezed out of me, unripened
I was so desperate to write a trendy poem
I forgot why I even started writing one,
I failed to remember I started writing to express
Not to impress.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC