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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Related quotes
Kiwi
Fruit without a stone, its shiny
pulp is clear green. Inside, tiny
black microdot seeds. Skin
the color of khakiImagine
a shaggy brown-green pelt
that feels like felt.
It's oval, full-rounded, kind
of egg-shaped. The rind
comes off in strips
when peeled with the lips.
If ripe, full of juice,
melon-sweet, yet tart as goose-
berry almost. A translucent ring
of seed dots looks something
like a coin-slice of banana. Grown
in the tropics, some stone
fruits, overlarge, are queerly
formed. A slablike pit nearly
fills the mango. I
scrape the fibrous pulp off with my
teeth. That slick round ball
in avocado (fruit without juice) we call
alligator pear:
Plant this seedpit with care
on three toothpicks over a glass
of water. It can come to pass
in time, that you'll see
an entire avocado tree.
Some fruits have stones, some seeds.
Papaya's loaded with slimy black beads.
Some seem seedlesslike quince
(that makes your tastebuds wince.)
Persimmon will
be sour, astringent 'until
dead ripe,' they say. Behind
pomegranate's leathery rind,
is a sackful of moist rubies. Pear,
cantaloupe, grapefruit, guava keep their
seeds hidden, as do raspberry, strawberry,
pineapple. Plum, peach and cherry
we know as fruits with big
seedstones. And fig?
Its graininess is seed. Hard to believe
is prickly durian. It's custard
sweetand smells nasty.
But there's no fruit as tasty,
as odd, or as funny
none
as fresh-off-the-vine New Zea-
land kiwi.
poem by May Swenson
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Aunty Anna's Orchard
it was the largest house
next to it an orchard
full of apple and plum trees
and one lonesome old pear tree
in the corner of the backyard
this was
where she spent several summers
most of her time
leaning against
the gnarled trunk
she could dream
she could hide
she could feel free
for a few minutes
or all day
she could watch
the growth of the leaves
creating a green roof
it was a shelter
if some rain fell
the glorious pear blossoms
and it's private perfume
filled her room
for a while
the blossom leaves disappear
with the wind
more than a few
stayed behind
for coloring a carpet
on the floor
sometimes
nothing happened
nothing changed
all though she was not being patient
about the growth of the pears
out of reach
high in her old tree
still standing on her toes
she needed to be tall
she stretched every day
and grew too
at last
picking that first pear
enjoying that view above
showing she would reap
very soon
so much more
she just had to wait
for the pears to fall
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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6th Nonsense
The room is dark, I die.
Like painting the wind, it's impossible.
If oranges were gray we might call them 'Grays'
That would be groovy.
The room is dark, I die.
The room is dark, I die.
If there's rain in Spain would it make it to Maine?
I don't think so.
Everything's Zen?
I don't think so.
The room is dark I die.
The room is dark, I die.
I want to drift through lavender fields like honey on a cotton ball.
Dig it.
But the high-talking motorcross bandits won't let me.
The sorrow.
The room is dark, I die.
The room is dark, I die.
But if I were in Punjab I never would have seen the quartet.
If only quartets had 7 people.
That's alright because bunsen burners don't cost much.
The room is dark, I die.
The room is dark, I die.
That's my favorite Bible verse.
I think it's in Lushiticus, or Nueteronomy.
The hail storms don't mean anything when you're a unicorn anyway.
The room is dark, I die.
poem by Sledge Hammer
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Help Us Continue Our Legacy
As I ripe I get dropped
From the tall tree
That was supporting me all through
I was a flower
Later blossomed
Got fertilized
Turned a unripe fruit
Kept hanging till the time I became a fruit
My thin skin becoming dark blue
My flesh over my big seed turning violet
I did not what happened to my mother tree
Unkind she proved as
She allowed me to fall her height
I suffered as my skin got ruptured
Exposing my violet inside
Staining the ground where I reached
As I looked around
I realized that I am not alone
As many of my brothers or sisters
Were also seen on the ground
After the fall I could not move
As the ousted flesh of mine
Made me stuck to the spot of my fall
My mother was just looking at me
With no attempt seen from her
To comfort me or to attend my wound
As our mother was a road side tree
We, fruits, were lying immobile on the road
Pedestrians, cyclists, two wheelers and cars
Ran over many of us
Coloring the path way violet
And also crushing our soft seed beyond recognition
I wonder whether we are born just to be
Smashed like that or we are born
To be consumed by others
For the purposes of propagation of our order
I have a request to people who walk over us
Kindly bend down pick us up
Blow air over the exposed flesh to remove adhered dust or sand
Put into your mouth
Enjoy the taste of a wonderful fruit
After ensuring you have eaten the entire flesh over the seed
Spit the same on soil
Where it will sprout and become a tree
Thus helping us continue our legacy
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Nearly Ripe
Nearly ripe, these green apples
hang heavy
from our bursting tree,
the warm evening sun
glinting through swaying branches.
They will be ready
in about a week.
Then I’ll slice them into sweet crescents
And their taste will dance upon your tongue
with all the secrets our tree has been keeping,
its living leaves,
its smooth, grey bark,
its very roots
grasping deep
into our dark soil,
and these glowing, green apples
I will make bare and white and moist,
a love offering like perfect wine for you,
and your taste will delight
in the sweet, green love
of the earth.
poem by Steven Federle
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Tapestry Trees
Oak.
I am the Roof-tree and the Keel;
I bridge the seas for woe and weal.
Fir.
High o’er the lordly oak I stand,
And drive him on from land to land.
Ash.
I heft my brother’s iron bane;
I shaft the spear, and build the wain.
Yew.
Dark down the windy dale I grow,
The father of the fateful Bow.
Poplar.
The war-shaft and the milking-bowl
I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.
Olive.
The King I bless; the lamps I trim;
In my warm wave do fishes swim.
Apple-tree.
I bowed my head to Adam’s will;
The cups of toiling men I fill.
Vine.
I draw the blood from out the earth;
I store the sun for winter mirth.
Orange-tree.
Amidst the greenness of my night,
My odorous lamps hang round and bright.
Fig-tree.
I who am little among trees
In honey-making mate the bees.
Mulberry —tree.
Love’s lack hath dyed my berries red:
For Love’s attire my leaves are shed.
Pear-tree.
High o’er the mead-flowers’ hidden feet
I bear aloft my burden sweet.
Bay.
Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown
Of living song and dead renown!
poem by William Morris
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The Lemon's Quest
The whole of the fruit world were assembled
to hear what the lemon had to say.
In anticipation the fruit sat and trembled,
would it be the lemon’s day?
“Why can’t there be a sweet tasting lemon? ”
Said lemon in a tone of revolt.
To the fruit world this was open rebellion
and had to be brought to a halt.
The atmosphere turned sour towards lemon,
as he said, “This is not a lot to ask,
it’s a reasonable enough question,
and I’m sure not a major task.
I cannot understand your objections
about a fruit that wants to progress.
I’m open to all and any suggestions,
but until then I’ll sit and digress.”
The avocado replied to the question,
“The lemon is bitter and that is that! ”
“That’s an unfounded objection, ” said lemon.
“It maybe, ” said the Chairman, “but it is a matter of fact.”
The language was now strong and offensive,
as Chairman Plum called out for restraint,
“Order, fruit please, we must not be derisive.”
The tangerine looked likely to faint.
Chairman Plum summed up with a speech,
“This raises many questions for all nations, ”
he was then rudely interrupted by the peach,
“Just think about the complications? ”
A voice shouted from the back of the room,
it was grape with an answer to the problem,
“A sweet lemon must have its own bloom,
without it there will be no conclusion.
The answer is simply, graft and propagation,
a vine, with a lemon tree shoot.
It’s straight forward and without complication,
and should produce a sweet lemon fruit.”
The assembly calmed and became much quieter;
grape was thanked for his solution.
The outlook was now decidedly brighter,
bringing an end to the lemon’s resolution.
The lemon looked across at the chairman
and asked if there were any one with doubt.
The avocado said, “Yes, you give me indigestion, ”
“Out of order, ” said plum, “cut it out! ”
“All those in favour say aye, ” said plum.
“Then the ayes win the vote gentlemen.
We now await a fruitful outcome,
and this assembly is adjourned until then.”
One year later
On the grafted lemon tree a fruit appeared,
but the colour didn’t quite look right.
The lemon was fighting back his tears,
as the grape suggested more light.
Two weeks later
“What beauty of yellow and blue, ” said plum,
“It must be time to judge the taste, ” said grape.
“Why, it’s delicious and sweet; a job well done,
we must have a drink to celebrate.”
Three weeks later
At the next assembly, Lemon beamed with happiness
and announced the success of the new taste.
The avocado said, “I don’t wish to spoil your party,
but aren’t you celebrating in haste?
A lemon is a lemon and will be forever just a lemon,
a beautiful smelling fruit with a taste that's bitter!
I sincerely hope that you have learned your lesson,
a lemon no, but a new fruit that tastes much better.
So with this sweet new fruit I congratulate your success,
but lemon, please don’t try to be what you are not,
you’re famous for your aroma and countless other uses,
so be happy with what you’ve got.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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Wait!
Wait
until the fruit is fully ripe
so you can taste
its sweetness.
Wait
until the rain is over
so you can fly your kite
up so high.
Wait
until the flowers have withered
so you can take the seeds of the new blooms
for the next springtime.
Wait
until I say the words 'I love you'
so you can hold me
....closely.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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The Crossed Apple
I’ve come to give you fruit from out my orchard,
Of wide report.
I have trees there that bear me many apples.
Of every sort:
Clear, streaked; red and russet; green and golden;
Sour and sweet.
This apple’s from a tree yet unbeholden,
Where two kinds meet, -
So that this side is red without a dapple,
And this side’s hue
Is clear and snowy. It’s a lovely apple.
It is for you.
Within are five black pips as big as peas,
As you will find,
Potent to breed you five great apple trees
Of varying kind:
To breed you wood for fire, leaves for shade,
Apples for sauce.
Oh, this is a good apple for a maid,
It is a cross,
Fine on the finer, so the flesh is tight,
And grained like silk.
Sweet Burning gave the red side, and the white
Is Meadow Milk.
Eat it, and you will taste more than the fruit:
The blossom, too,
The sun, the air, the darkness at the root,
The rain, the dew,
The earth we came to, and the time we flee,
The fire and the breast.
I claim the white part, maiden, that’s for me.
You take the rest.
poem by Louise Bogan
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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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Wild Honey
B. wilson
Mama Im tellin you as sure as Im standin here
Shes my girl and thats the way Im keepin it my mama dear
No good will it do you to stand there and frown at me
The girls got my heart and my loves comin down on me
Last time I met her since I got a taste of wild honey
(sweet, sweet, my honey bee)
You know shes got the sweetness of the honey bee
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
Honey, (sweet, sweet, my honey bee) she got me all and stung me good, oh, yesiree
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
Before he even stung bees buzzin around her hive
She singled me out, single handed took me alive
Im gonna take her home and spend my life
Eatin up the wild honey
(sweet, sweet, my honey bee)
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
(sweet, sweet, my honey bee)
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
Oh mama shes sweeter (sweeter) and sweeter (sweeter) and sweeter, sweeter
Yaaaa, honey (sweet, sweet, my honey bee)
Let me tell you how she really got to my soul (sweet,sweet my honey)
It aint funny, (sweet, sweet, my honey bee) the way she made me want to sing a little rock and
Roll (sweet, sweet, my honey)
Theres nothing quite as good as the taste of wild honey
Break my back workin just to save me some money
I can spend my life with her eatin up her wild honey
(sweet, sweet, my honey bee)
Oh honey shes sweeter (sweeter) and sweeter (sweeter) and sweeter, sweeter
Now
(sweet, sweet, my honey bee)
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
(sweet, sweet, my honey bee)
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
Gimme some gimme some
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
Gimme some gimme some(shes the one)
(sweet, sweet, my honey)
Gimme some wild honey
Gimme some gimme some..........
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eden No More
Oh why dose the
Teardrops fall
From above
It mourns the loss
Of Eden no more
Man and wife
The creator did make
In his own image
A miracle of love
Hand in hand
They nurtured the land
That God gave to thee
For prosperity
Amongst the beauty
The garden of life
There laden a tree
Baring the fruit
Of knowledge and life
One simple rule
That he gave to thee
Thou shalt not
Taste the forbidden fruit
From the apple tree
But alas there lived
Amongst the fruit
Of the tree of life
A fallen angel
That tempted mans wife
He convinced the maiden
To take one simple bite
One simple bite
That changed the rest
Of her life
The texture was crisp
And it tasted so sweet
A forbidden fruit
That was divine
To the taste
Its taste so sweet
She needed
To share the
Divinity that
Had fallen from
The apple tree
Said fallen to Eve
Take heed of my word
He will love you evermore
If you share this divinity with thee
Believing it to be so
Young Eve did show
Her husband the tender
Fruit from yon tree
The fallen just smirked
At how easy to sow
The seeds that will
Embellish mans fate
In the page's of time and history
poem by Kaila George
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Pluck A Plum Where There Is No Tree
PLUCK A PLUM WHERE THERE IS NO TREE
God who freed
from fruit the seed
can pick a pear
from a baby tree.
God who sired
the hallowed fig
does harvest fruit
from a barren sprig.
God made blooms pastel
and bright fruits
and can a kumquat take
from a tree of quince.
Who made Pluto and
the Pleiades
can pluck a plum
where there is no tree.
================================ =====
(to Senator George Mitchell
.. tireless worker for peace
in America and Europe)
The Sanskrit word for the Wish
Fulfilling Tree is Asritakalpalateeka.
It is spoken of in Revelation.. the
tree with 12 kinds of fruit.)
poem by Saiom Shriver
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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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Harvest
So there's my year, the twelvemonth duly told
Since last I climbed this brow and gloated round
Upon the lands heaped with their wheaten gold,
And now again they spread with wealth imbrowned -
And thriftless I meanwhile,
What honeycombs have I to take, what sheaves to pile?
I see some shrivelled fruits upon my tree,
And gladly would self-kindness feign them sweet;
The bloom smelled heavenly, can these stragglers be
The fruit of that bright birth and this wry wheat,
Can this be from those spires
Which I, or fancy, saw leap to the spring sun's fires?
I peer, I count, but anxious is not rich,
My harvest is not come, the weeds run high;
Even poison-berries, ramping from the ditch
Have stormed the undefended ridges by;
What Michaelmas is mine!
The fields I sought to serve, for sturdier tilage pine.
But hush - Earth's valleys sweet in leisure lie;
And I among them wandering up and down
Will taste their berries, like the bird or fly,
And of their gleanings make both feast and crown.
The Sun's eye laughing looks.
And Earth accuses none that goes among her stooks.
poem by Edmund Blunden
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Apple in a tree
Love is hard i see
Like an apple in a tree
Not ready to be picked
It may make you sick
Sometimes we have to let it be
Time can be the key
Let it ripen
Just wait and see
Let it soften
Before you get on your knee
Take your time
Just move with ease
Like an apple in a tree
Some are rotten
Just let them be
Some are red
Wait for the right word to be said
Some are green
Sometimes they can be mean
Some are yellow
Just try to stay mellow
I know you feel like jello
When you find the right one
So juicy and sweet
Then love becomes a treat
And this my friend is pretty neat
poem by Joseph Whelan
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Peach
Soft is the
Skin
Of the ripe peach,
So gently,
I will coarse
My
Innocent hands
Through
It's fine hair
Caressing
It's
Curving surface.
How
I wish for a bite.
Soft is the
Skin
Of the ripe peach.
Sweet it is
To savor.
In
My hand, I hold
It,
Waiting to
Treasure it's
Taste.
My tongue is teased.
How
I wish for a bite.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Pears
Some say
it was a pear
Eve ate.
Why else the shape
of the womb,
or of the cello
Whose single song is grief
for the parent tree?
Why else the fruit itself
tawny and sweet
which your lover
over breakfast
lets go your pear-
shaped breast
to reach for?
poem by Linda Pastan
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He Sits Beside Her
when he sits beside her
she knows what she wants
him
and she pretends that she is just
nothing but a girl
whose hands are too tiny and so fragile
and he of course
will be tender & gentle to any kind of girl like
her
but she is more than a girl now
that
he must know
she knows where to touch him
what weak spot
and tell him
you are sitting beside this
woman
he takes a look some more
her eyes are are inviting
not innocent
he begins to see the eyes
of the woman
he made love before
she wears the smell of a beautiful
full-grown woman
ready for any sweet seclusion
or inclusion shall i say
a seduction just to be exact in some ways
this physical smell
of warm flesh and smooth skin and luscious lips
of a woman
now she looks at him again
a lingering stare
ready to take him in
only if she understands
the changes in her taking place in this moment
in such a magical moment he does not see the same little girl
whose hands he thought
are innocent
and so fragile
he understands fully the begging hands of time
now the fruit is ripe for the picking
the tree is waiting
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It is strange to be single
I walk past vineyard of grapes,
see the struggle that the small avocado tree
has against the ripe
while a string of doves
on the telephone wire
looks cooing at me
and feel like the fallen tree
over which the hollyhocks, geraniums, carnations
and ferns are growing rampant and trailing
as if I am laid down dead as well
but still shoots
is reach high into the air
past the roof
like fingers to the sun.
It is strange to be single,
not to catch the view
of your sun filled eyes
and the dogs are following me
and the cats await me
and I am really lonely.
poem by Gert Strydom
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