A ripe pear is more likely to fall in the shit than onto the clean ground.
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The ripe pear
Quartering this ripe pear
- a knife-and-fork job; it gave little away
except a slight softness around the stalk,
yet seems to contain more juice than
any work of man could hold -
quartering this ripe pear,
I'm caught up in wonder:
this is almost too good for human beings -
it should have a religion built around its praise;
as if it wishes to tell us something
that we might have overlooked
about such mouth-worn phrases as
Nature's bounty and God's grace..
or as if, two thousand years ago,
it had leaned, heavy on its branch,
from the wall of Plato's leafy Academy,
saw him writing of ideals,
and smiled;
and now I've written that,
I can eat this pear,
tasting it and what I've written;
this pear, I swear,
now tastes even better;
as if I had submitted
on some altar, to be consumed by praise;
praise that tastes of pear; pear that tastes of praise.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Sound Of Children
it is their sound that makes
this world lovable still
under the mango tree
when the wind starts to blow
when the ripe mangoes fall
to the ground and the children
starts to scramble for their
share of the ripe ones.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Every Friday
Every Friday I look like a shit,
Every Friday I look like a shit,
Every Friday I look like a shit,
I loooooooook like a shit.
But every Monday I am like a horn,
But every Monday I am like a horn,
But every Monday I am like a horn,
I aaaaaaaaam like a hoooooooooorn.
I work in the office of intercom,
I work in the office of intercom,
I work in the office of intercom,
Of iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinter cooooooom.
But every Monday I am like a horn,
And every Tuesday I am like a horn,
On Wednesday and Tuesday I am a horn,
I aaaaaaaaaaaam like a hoooooooooooorn.
On every Friday I look like a shit,
My salary is more now a little bit.
But every Monday I am like a horn,
It looks as on Sunday I was born.
On Friday morning I am so glad
That by the evening I’ll look like a fad
Or may be like a dirty pig
Trying the ground to dig, dig, dig.
But…every Monday I am like a horn,
On certain Sunday I was born,
And every Friday I am like a shit.
My life is better........, a little bit.
More or less
It was my sincere confess.
Lol, lol, lol and loooooooool.
On every Friday there is no control.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
March 16th,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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That Something Which Went Wrong
there is a ripe papaya
too ripe for my hold and i climb it
too weak for my body
the tree swings to the other side
and then the papaya fruit falls to the
ground
crushed
something goes wrong somewhere
something that you are about to hold
and yet crushes to the ground
looks like a vomit &
you don't want to eat it
back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When a durian tree is already ripe and sweet, many of the durians will fall to the ground.
The Idea Of 'Pear Tree
for Robin Blaser
a pear tree forgets only itself as
an audacity
limbs recall themselves
appear to reach
one cannot see them
reaching
they may be silent but
we cannot know that toward
later sweetness they yearn
then seed a still dirt around
content to lie down
the idea of 'pear tree'
reduces to all sparks
yet
no illusion of darkness
hastens the pear
but O it tastes
poem by Warren Falcon
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Clean
Eat clean,
Live clean,
Sleep clean,
dress clean,
Walk clean,
Learn clean,
Play clean,
Think clean,
dance clean,
Talk clean,
Sing clean,
work clean,
Because the world around you is watching what you do;
You are the only one on this earth,
So live and let us live too.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I Just Can't Take This
I just can’t take this anymore
I just can’t take this shit any longer
You drive me insane
From all your fucked up stories
Why can’t you go away
And stop all my pain and misery
I just can’t take this anymore
I just can’t take anymore shit
From your sorry ass
You think your a bad ass
Just because all the girls like you
Get away from me
Leave me alone
Get away from me
I can’t take your shit any longer
Stop!
Keep all your sorry fucked up problems to yourself
And stop driving me insane
I just can’t take this shit
I just can’t take this shit any longer
Just get away from me
poem by Brandi Young
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Come Clean
Lets go back
Back to the beginning
Back t when the earth, the sun, the stars all aligned
'Cause perfect didn't feel so perfect
Trying to fit a square into a circle
Was no life
I defy
Let the rain fall down
And wake my dreams
Let it wash away
My sanity
'Cause I wanna feel the thunder
I wanna scream
Let the rain fall down
I'm coming clean, I'm coming clean
I'm sheeding
Sheeding evry color
Trying to find a pigment of truth
Beneth my skin
'Cause different
Doesn't feel so different
And going out is better
Than always staying in
Feel the wind
Let the rain fall down
And wake my dreams
Let it wash away
My sanity
'Cause I wanna feel the thunder
I wanna scream
Let the rain fall down
I'm coming clean, I'm coming clean
(let the rain fall)x3
I'm coming clean
Let the rain fall
Let the rain fall
I'm coming clean
Let the rain fall down
And wake my dreams
Let it wash away
My sanity
'Cause I wanna feel the thunder
I wanna scream
Let the rain fall down
I'm coming clean, I'm coming clean
Let's go back
Back to the beginning
song performed by by Hilary Duff
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Times is Hard
Please don't burn our shit-house down,
Mother has promised to pay.
Father's away on the ocean wave,
And sister's in the family way,
Brother dear has gonorrhea,
And times is fucking hard.
So please don't burn our shit-house down,
Or we'll all have to shit in the yard.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Tears From A Star
They fall as endless sheets
As they flow to the ground
Some shall think of them and weep
Some shall only smile
They fall over hills over mountains
Over the heads of those who have the time to feel
They fall over fountain
The fountain of life
They fall in our thoughts our dreams
As we see them yet do not hear them
For we do not have time for childish dreams
They fall on those who no longer care
They fall on the new born babe
They fall on the old and wise
The fall to the ground to forever lay
They fall for those who leave for those who shall stay
They fall in endless sheets
Fall from the sky
From the heavens they are sent to us to know, to love
For they are tears from a star
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Happiness In A Platter
fruits in a platter,
pineapple wearing a crown
apples, green and red in shining gloss
of their glory,
alligator pear
sleepy,
ripe mango,
your hands carrying them
your breasts
helping to put them all
in one platter
of flesh.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Did you ever give a shit?
Did you ever give a shit?
Did you ever care?
Did you ever give a shit.
You never gave it a second thought.
All you wanted was to hurt me.
You made me visit hell.
You told me not to tell.
Do you no how much I hate you.
You fucking vile piece of scum?
I absoultely dispise you.
I wish you dead.
Did you ever give a shit.
Did you care about what you did.
You raped me.
Then you turned and laughed.
I doubt you gave a shit.
I doubt you feel guilty.
And doubt you ebver will
Amy Kerswell
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Sweet and Ripe the Avocado
Ripeness is all. From which vantage
To view this curving orb
Tapered to a finely rounded waist?
Honey mustard, soy sauce
Combined and smeared on inner flesh
Yielding up its most exquisite taste.
The largest I have known
Are grown in Swaziland, each one a feast
An entree made of firm and fibrous fruit
Berries maturing on the tree
Fall hard and heavy to the hand
Potent pear of high and low repute
Avocado in my bowl
Provocative, the dark presence among
The oranges that brighten up the room
I wait for you to soften
A little more each day, becoming
Sweet and ripe and ready to consume.
poem by Frank Bana
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Lovers How They Come And Part
A Gyges ring they bear about them still,
To be, and not seen when and where they will;
They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,
They fall like dew, and make no noise at all:
So silently they one to th' other come,
As colours steal into the pear or plum,
And air-like, leave no pression to be seen
Where'er they met, or parting place has been.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Sunday Morning - VI
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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