En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Tropics in New York

Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,

Set in the window, bringing memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.

My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

poem by Claude McKay
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Green Bananas

Does anyone eat green bananas?
then why have them in the stores?
By the time you think of eating one ripe!
they're full of fruit flies, in the hundreds or maybe more!

My husband loves green bananas
he says, cause they're solid and much more flavorful.
I think they taste kind of green and bitter
with every green and bitter mouthful!

I wonder if monkeys eat them green?
Or do they also wait until they're ripe?
Just peeling them when they're green
leaves those long stringy things of white!

I've taken to freezing mine now
in plastic bags, for my daily protien shakes!
Now I don't have to worry about the ones that turn black!
From the green ones that I wouldn't take!

poem by Linda Winchell
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To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stainèd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
`The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

`The spirits of the air live on the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

poem by William Blake
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Fruit flies

Fruit flies made me realize the eyes I gazed into
The genes I wanted to fill made be blind and blond.
So then I sang a goofy song,
Perhaps one so full of the info
That it was the prostate of life that I did get into.
So..are they blue, green or dark brown.
Love those eyes that smiles and naught frowns.
Fruit of our life, a banana in the sun
Gives us a reason to break out those microscopes.
So please heed the class of 69...
Fruit flies ate our bananas
But we knew the the designer jeans they wore.

poem by John Shea
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In the Fruit and Veg

Knocking you listen
to the sound
that a watermelon makes
to test if it is ripe

and I wipe the smile form my face,
trying to look sincere
and the whole of Fruit and Veg is filled
with shoppers, adoring ripe fruit and vegetables
crowding around some places with special offers
like a great vast congregation
gathered in the temple of a god

and tonight you will again
make your great fruit salad
with chopped and sliced mangoes,
papaw, sweet melon, some squeezed orange juice
and grapes
and maybe this afternoon
we will eat the watermelon
in the shade next to the swimming pool.

poem by Gert Strydom
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With The Quandongs

IF you happen to visit the Western Plains
When the summer is young and green,
You can see the green of the quandong leaves
With the quandong fruit between.
The fruit is the size of a plum, perhaps,
And red as your own blood's hue;
And it falls to the ground at the touch of the wind
Like a drop of crimson dew.
The wide plains lie with half-shut eyes
At peace in a golden swoon,
And the lizards drink their full of rest
Abask in the drowsy noon.
There is only the whir of a wing, perchance,
To startle the sleeping lands;
But the quandong trees, all green and red,
Are a-twinkle with little hands.
Oh, many a tress has turned to grey,
And many a song grown mute
Since Rita and Meg and Trixie and I
Went gathering quandong fruit.
And there we were on the plains alone
In the hush of a drowsy air —
Rita and Meg with roguish eyes
And Trixie with wayward hair.
A far mirage of mingled sun and dream
Was born of the noontide sleep,
And the rifled fruit of the quandongs lay
At our feet in a ruddy heap.
I know that the quandong's burning fruit
Still reddens the drowsy air;
That Trixie is grown and sometime wed,
And Rita is grave and fair.
I know that Meg of the roguish eyes,
Though ten long years be sped,
Still plucks the fruit of the quandong trees
When the quandong fruit is red.
I know — and I know to my loss, alas! —
That I stand where the winds blow cold,
And search, with others, another tree
For its scanty fruit of gold.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is a fruit for the crow to pluck
For the rain to wither, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fruit On A Higher Branch

One afternoon, along a river bank,
As I rested near a fruit laden tree,
I felt the urge to climb, feeding my glee,
Or perhaps, 'twas the wildness that I drank,
Or the child in me, that yearned to be free;

A fruit dared me, but can't be reached by hand,
It hanged so far out, on a tender branch,
Seems it paled, from my eyeing, it could blanch,
Thought, I'll climb next day, with a stick or wand,
But that dusk, I bowed, as I head for ranch;

But the way that wills could, oftentimes, change,
Though my aim, next day, was to climb again,
Other trees, I passed, did my muse sustain,
And before that fruit tree came into range,
With ease, a basketful, I did obtain;

With wisdom to go on, seeming unwise,
I chose to head homeward, back where I came,
And then fancied building ships, make a name,
Anything, that myself, I might surprise,
When cards are laid, to fare well in life's game;

Today, many a time worn year had passed,
But nary a time, have I come back there,
And lo! That fruit may still be there, somewhere,
Waiting for souls, whose eagerness surpassed,
All hardships entailed, not going elsewhere.

poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Strange Fruit

Lewis allen
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem Written at Morning

A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
By metaphor you paint
A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,
A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,
To be served by men of ice.
The senses paint
By metaphor. The juice was fragranter
Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears
Dripping a morning sap.
The truth must be
That you do not see, you experience, you feel,
That the buxom eye brings merely its element
To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced
Upward.
Green were the curls upon that head.

poem by Wallace Stevens
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Sanctuary

'And on the banks, on both sides of the river, there will grow all kinds of trees for food. Their leaves will not wither nor their fruit fail, but they will bear fresh fruit every month, because the water
for them flows from the sanctuary. Their fruit will be for food, and their leaves for healing.' ~ Ezekiel 47: 12

sanctuary
dying trees
and fallen
leaves

dried river
hungry heart
and wounded liver
sanctuary

bones of dust
sanctuary
my head
know longer knows

poem by Jay Reynolds
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The Blessing

THE MASTER He was hungry:
‘Shall we not dine,’ said He,
‘On the good fruit amongst the leaves
Of this delightful tree?’
But oh! the fig-tree bore no fruit.
‘Wither,’ He bade it, ‘to the root,
For thus deceiving me.’

The Master He was hungry.
He plucked the grains so red
Of wheat that grew beside the way,
And He was bravely fed.
‘For this,’ He said, ‘I guerdon thee,
Through all the years, a type to be
Of Christ, the Living Bread.’

The Master He was thirsty.
He raised His hand on high,
And crushed the good red grapes that grew
The nearest to the sky.
‘And as thou gavest me drink of thine,
So must I pour my blood, O Vine,
When I for man shall die.’

The Master He was passing
From men He held so dear.
The feast with bread and wine was made;
The Friday Cross was near.
‘Droop not!’ He spoke, and blessed their food:
‘The broken Body and the Blood
Sustain you year by year.’
And corn and wine thenceforth have stood
His symbols everywhere.

poem by Mary Colborne-Veel
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For Those Who Grieve

no one
no one can really stop you
from eating the bark of the tree
the thick skin of the
fruit

no one can tell you what should have
been proper
or better

you like the skin and you throw away
the fruit that could have
satisfied your
thirst and hunger

the bark has poisoned you
the moon has warned you too well
the worm is wriggling
its frail and elongated
body

you have no ears
your sense of smell so badly damaged

and now you
are dying

no one tells you that life is as sweet
as the ripe fruit of the tree
that luscious flesh that flowing
juice

your gaze is sharp as a knife
stabbing even the
sun

and you are always right

what you have been searching
that can satisfy your hunger and thirst
is not found on the fruit
not even in the tree

it is in the poisonous bark
that useless skin
that silly coat

definitely it is not even here
where we are all grieving

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Life of a Grape

On the vine, the green fruit ripens,
Becoming fresh and well-rounded,
And such is the life of a grape.

In the sun, its sweet skin softens
On the branch where it's been bounded,
And such is the life of a grape.

The others grow fairly often.
Eventu'lly, it's surrounded,
And such is the life of a grape.

Then one day, away from the flocks,
It's plucked, dried, put into a box,
And such is the life of grape.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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I walk next to the tomato beds

I walk next to the tomato beds
in our garden and here and there
are a few fig trees
which are covered with green swelling fruit
right against the main branches.

At the back in the corner and between the tomatoes
are rows of prickly pears
and look as if they have lost their thorns
but if you look carefully
the rows of thorns are still there.

You that I see as the flower
among my flowers
who are tender and soft hearted,
are now piercing the most
as the going away cuts through me
and staying apart, stays a terrible thing
but seeing each other again,
remains a wonderful
and yet every day
I see the fruit of you selfless love.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Ripe Fruit

Through eyelet holes I watched the crowd
Rain of confetti fling;
Their joy is lush, their laughter loud,
For Carnival is King.
Behind his chariot I pace
To ean my petty pay;
They laugh to see my monster face:
"Ripe Fruit," I hear them say.

I do not laugh: my shoulders sag;
No heart have I for glee,
Because I hold aloft a hag
Who grins enough for me;
A hideous harridan who bears
In crapulous display,
Like two grub-eaten mouldy pears
Her bubbies on a tray.

Ripe Fruit! Oh, God! It's hell to think
How I have drifted down
Through vice and dice and dope and drink
To play the sordid clown;
That I who held the golden key
To operatic fame,
Should gnaw the crust of misery
And drain the dregs of shame.

What matter! I'll get soused to-night,
And happy I will be,
To sit within a tavern bright,
A trollop on my knee. . . .
So let the crazy pipers pipe,
And let the rapture ring:
Ripe fruit am I - yea, rotten ripe,
And Carnival is King.

poem by Robert William Service
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Of An Orchard

Good is an Orchard, the Saint saith,
To meditate on life and death,
With a cool well, a hive of bees,
A hermit's grot below the trees.

Good is an Orchard: very good,
Though one should wear no monkish hood.
Right good, when Spring awakes her flute,
And good in yellowing time of fruit.

Very good in the grass to lie
And see the network 'gainst the sky,
A living lace of blue and green,
And boughs that let the gold between.

The bees are types of souls that dwell
With honey in a quiet cell;
The ripe fruit figures goldenly
The soul's perfection in God's eye.

Prayer and praise in a country home,
Honey and fruit: a man might come,
Fed on such meats, to walk abroad,
And in his Orchard talk with God.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Tree And The Branch

the tree looks
upon a branch
where a ripe
fruit is hanging

the tree says
it is mine
the branch say
i am holding it

the tree says
the branch too
belongs to it

angry about the
tree's greed
the branch lets go off
the ripe fruit

a hungry child
picks it up
and goes home
with a happy heart

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rodin's Man

the serpents... hanging down from the branches..of the apple trees...I sat upon the skies..flew to heaven...washed me the seas...the falling rain...the singing birds...the green eyes of eve...waver in the horizons of the spring....And....all the blue of the green plains...felll on the whiteness of my dreams....And shattered the universe..from head to feet...and nails...AND...the water springs..showering...burst into pieces...I sat upon the highest rock of the universe...face in my hands...pondered...As the statue..RODİ N'S MAN...they call me ADAM...

poem by Metin Sahin
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Strange Fruit

(l.allen)
Originally performed by billie holiday. jeff performed it live on air at kcrws man in the moon, on january 1994.
Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

song performed by by Jeff Buckley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reservation For One

This is my tree, my tree, my tree,
My one lone tree, pear tree,
It grows, overflows, it grows it’s fruit,
Alone, only for me.

If I could go to a far-away place,
With just me and my tree, pear tree,
I’d pack my bags, my bags I’d pack,
I’d pick up my bags and flee.

There’s nothing at all, no nothing,
At all, that films me more with glee,
Than those globes, those globes,
Of precious fruit in my tree, pear tree.

I sit beneath, beneath I sit,
Its laden canopy, I polish it’s leafs then,
Set a table of fruits,
Of wine, and bread and brie.

This tree, my tree, could feed the world,
Find me a wife and camaraderie,
It’s powers, it’s powers are vast but I
Can’t pass on its secret sadly.

I’d tell the world, the world I’d tell,
If they weren’t all so hungry, you see.
But my fruit, my fruits, my laboured.
Fruits, I grew only for me, for me,
No none are as hungry as me.

poem by Suzanne Louise Bishop
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