The Scent Of Oranges
when you peel
the orange
i smell the thrill of
citrus
it is the same peeling
that night
when you feel like
peeling the foreskin of
my penis.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Try not thinking of peeling an orange. Try not imagining the juice running down your fingers, the soft inner part of the peel. The smell. Try and you can't. The brain doesn't process negatives.
quote by Doug Coupland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's a Citrus Thing
To feel and peel an Orange.
And to know it is naturally sliced.
Sweetened to eat when ripe.
Like a grapefruit!
Tasting good and nice in Summer.
It's a citrus thing I think.
An apple peeled does not reveal that!
It's a citrus thing I think.
Lemons and Limes are neither sweet or pink.
Being predictably what they are.
And often they are used in an assortment of mixed drinks.
It's a citrus thing I think.
Although Bananas do have seeds...
And grow from trees,
When peeled their seeds are barely seen.
Unnoticed they go when chewed too.
It's a citrus thing making this interesting...
With a fruiting done few do!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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While the storm outside is quieting down [2]
While the storm outside is quieting down
the last lightning bolts falls slamming
sounding like canon shots,
you are busy peeling an orange
and from fright you hand stops still
while we listen to the voice of the God.
While the storm outside is quieting down
the last lightning bolts falls slamming,
I polish the my pair of glasses,
you are again peeling in thin orange strips
that folds around your hand when you remember something
as if something has walked over your grave you are shuddering
while the storm outside is quieting down.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Something amazing
Is when you brake and burn rubber
And then you peel out
Going faster than you would
Peeling out from a cold start
tanka by Edwin Tanguma
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The Layers Of My Existence
peel me, not like an onion where you shall cry for every
layer, no, i do not require tears here, at most, you may need
only to smile, and then be so patient, as you peel me
layer by layer, as i watch, and as you carefully peel me
with your bare hands, i will allow it, all for you and your
curiousity,
you discover the erotic layer
and in there exists the desire
for an adventure, the disregarding
of sin, and then peel me further
move on,
find the layer of my
intellect, you shall find what i have
told you all about, my nerves and
common sense, my strivings to go
deeper towards my self, and then
peel me further, you see the bone
of my contentions, my hardened
principles and uncompromises
then peel me further, find the
marrow that makes all the blood
of my life, my sorrows and pains,
my exhilarations and bliss and
joys and happiness, and you will
say there is nothing more to find.
you are wrong. There is this last
peel that you cannot see. It is like
air, and it floats and it gets in,
it always finds an empty space,
and you cannot find it there anymore,
it is now inside you and you cannot
get that out of your system
you must accept this:
i have become
an essential part of you, and there is
nothing now that you can do.
you see, in peeling me, you find
no exit anymore. Whether you
you will be happy or sad, it is
already beyond my control.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Zen does not confuse spirituality with thinking about God while one is peeling potatoes. Zen spirituality is just to peel the potatoes.
quote by Alan Watts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Green Sour Orange....
first i get an orange
a green orange, the young one
sour, but still
citrus, not pungent
but inviting, not a cure for the
wound, not easing,
it penetrates pain and
makes it more painful,
then i cut the orange,
press it
and press it some more
to get all its juices....
i do not drink it
i leave it in the glass
for all those dark nights
till every juice dries,
till what you see and feel
is the same
emptiness....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Burning Flesh
I burnt myself again.
The pong of the rotten smell.
The flames seep my skin.
Burning like a fire.
With the amber flame.
Strange as it sounds
I dont feel the pain.
A twisted sense of realese.
The pain I do not feel
As my flesh bursts into flames.
Skin peeling like a snake.
It dosent bother me.
I need and deserve the pain.
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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GS [or the Fourth Cook]
He has notions of Australia from the tales that he’s been told—
Land of leggings and revolvers, land of savages and gold;
So he begs old shirts, and someone patches up his worn-out duds.
He is shipped as ‘general servant,’ scrubbing pots and peeling spuds
(In the steamer’s grimy alley, hating man and peeling spuds).
There is little time to comfort, there is little time to cry—
He will come back with a fortune—‘We’ll be happy by-and-by!’
Scarcely time to kiss his sweetheart, barely time to change his duds,
Ere they want him at the galley, and they set him peeling spuds
(With a butcher’s knife, a bucket, and, say, half a ton of spuds).
And he peels ’em hard to Plymouth, peels ’em fast to drown his grief,
Peels ’em while his stomach sickens on the road to Teneriffe;
Peels ’em while the donkey rattles, peels ’em while the engine thuds,
By the time they touch at Cape Town he’s a don at peeling spuds
(And he finds some time for dreaming as he gets on with the spuds).
In the steamer’s slushy alley, where the souls of men are dead,
And the adjectives are crimson if the substances are red,
He’s perhaps a college black-sheep, and, maybe, of ancient blood—
Ah! his devil grips him sometimes as he reaches for a spud
(And he jerks his head and sadly gouges dry-rot from a spud).
And his brave heart hopes and sickens as the weary days go round;
There is lots o’ time for blue-lights ere they reach King George’s Sound.
But he gets his best suit ready—two white shirts and three bone studs!
He will face the new world bravely when he’s finished with the spuds
(And next week, perhaps, he’ll gladly take a job at peeling spuds).
There were heroes in Australia went exploring long ago;
There are heroes in Australia that the world shall never know;
And the men we use for heroes in the land of droughts and floods
Often win their way to Sydney scrubbing pots and peeling spuds
(Plucky beggars! brave, poor devils! gouging dry-rot from their spuds).
poem by Henry Lawson
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Wish it is Funny
funny thing, i can still feel the touch of the scattered petals, white roses with red ones
funny thing, i can still hear the coo of the turle doves freed, flying high
funny thing, i can still see the golden sun slowly sinks under wide ocean
funny thing, i can still taste the sweet yet semi dry wine, passionately aromatic
funny thing, i can still smell your citrus-minty scent, soothing my senses
funny yet unfair
everything i feel, hear, see, taste, smell accompanies YOU
everything i feel, hear, see, taste, smell symbolizes you
everything that i feel, hear, see, taste, smell is not funny at all
it is bringing me black smoky background
it is bringing me delusions and hallucinations
it is bringing me confusion
funny but wish it is fair
dainty as the roses
free as the turtledoves flying nowhere
golden as the sun collided under the wide ocean
passionate as the wine
citrus-minty as your scent
wish it is
funny
poem by Shelomith Noarbe
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Earhtcrosser
Sleep little flea
Little boy
Me a freak
Am I clean?
I feel like men
I feel like boys
I think Im peeling the ringing in my ears from playing too loud
I hear the ocean
I hear the crowd
Im disconnected
I am unattached
An unmade bed makes me feel like a failure
Bedroom eyes lead to blurry vision
And the ringing in my ears from playing too loud
I hear the ocean
I hear the crowd
Too pale
Too sick
Too scrawny
But Ill sleep here anyway
And the sheets smell like bodies
Not mine
Not yours
Its two a.m. and its quiet again
Wheres my lip gloss?
song performed by by Veruca Salt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why Oranges Are Beautiful
In total frankness,
I bear no particular fondness towards any of the fruits.
I'm sure there are nut-jobs who are obsessed by oranges (or indeed amazed by apples, captured by coconuts or plum-tuckered-out with enthusiasm for plums) .
Yet, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
And, more than once, have I found myself with stinging beauty beholders after citrus juice squirted into them.
Therefore,
If oranges are beautiful,
And I have had their beauty in my beholders on more than one clumsy occasion,
Then surely if I behold hard enough I shall be favoured with their beauty?
They are (after all) a lovely colour,
And my favourite juice (above no other) .
Also, how very satisfying they are to peel.
And they do provide a taste of the exotic.
Under waxy peel (if I were to wax poetic) ,
I see delicate white veins tangle over sweet flesh,
Where baby seeds wait and rest.
And how easy the segments are to share.
I mean,
Perhaps if the Evil Queen, had poisoned an orange rather than an apple,
She would have got a lot more done that day.
You know,
If that's the way you (or your head) rolls.
poem by Grace Roberts
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Oh So Ordinary
Oh so ordinary
is a hot summer night
when the whirl of a fan
is music in the dark
accompanying
croaking frogs
in the distance
oh so ordinary
is waking to a glowing
herald of break of day
and the frogs
now deep asleep
and quiet
oh so ordinary
an electric coffee pot
percolating
as a toilet is flushed
and a faucet lets go
cool morning water
oh so ordinary
a day goes by
in a rush
while someone
stacks oranges
and red apples
and peaches
and apricots
in perfect rows
oh so ordinary
that someone
pushes the wheelchairs
and lines them in
a large room
perfect rows
and there they sit
oh so ordinary
memories of
a seasick morning
on a day called D Day
and another of
a train station farewell
and that was that
he never returned
and another
of sawing two by fours
under a cloudless blue sky
in a backyard
of a tiny two bedroom house
in East L.A.
and another of
a wedding day in 1942
with just a week
before that train farewell
and I still feel the rice
a handful my brother threw
as if it were yesterday
and another of
peeling an orange
near a stream
in the mountains
in that beautiful place that
just right now
I don't seem
to recall
but I can still
taste
that orange.
poem by Bro. Bartleby
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peeling an onion
to love
or to be loved?
haiku by Chenou Liu
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The Monkey & The Onion
See the monkey peel the onion
See the monkey cry
He can feel his tears are flowin
But he dont know why
He continues peeling faster
'til the onion is no more
Now at last his cryins over
But all he had is gone
Whatever for
You and I are always chasing
Wild ambitions and far off dreams
As we run in all directions
Nothings quite the joy it seems
If I tell you that I love you
Dont ask how much
And dont ask why
Have no doubt and ask no questions
Just believe its not a lie
Never take my love for granted
But never put it to the test
Like the monkey and his onion
Too much investigation
You know the rest
You and I are always chasing
Wild ambitions and far off dreams
As we run in all directions
Nothings quite the joy it seems
On that we could be contented
With the good things that weve gained
But in the end were empty handed
Just because we need the world explained
song performed by by 10 Cc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life is an onion and one cries while peeling it.
Through the Shutter
The dull transfiguration's of this hapless old room.
The rusted edges,
orange-brown autumn leaves
on Yosemite's endless trees.
And I'm sure,
you can feel my sigh
With my head tilted upwards,
As I watch, the green paint peeling
and small flakes falling,
it's color becomes less overwhelming.
The rooms passage,
less open than before
still open,
none the less
leads to nowhere
for ages hence
and I sit here waiting,
patiently staying
watching the beautiful scene outside of the window before me.
and my eyes do seem
to be wondering what lies beyond this stale green.
but they know,
they have to surpass,
the endless darkness beside this room
for nothing here has changed,
and they know nothing would.
poem by Joseph Ostapiuk
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Orange Rose (Poem 10 from Rose Series)
The orange rose,
gives you bliss,
happiness and enticement.
If you want a good time,
all you gotta do is pick up,
an orange rose,
and smell it's sweet scent.
You will feel that bliss,
happiness and enticement.
The orange rose is meant for everyone,
to pick up and smell.
It's good for you,
cuz everyone needs to be happy.
Take the orange rose....
poem by Ninja Soul
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A pomegranate-
Art of peeling intricate;
Haiku on my plate...
haiku by Mamta Agarwal
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Who I am
Grandma Kasan, has the Bali citrus fruit tree
Their fruits was very luxuriant
Unfortunately with-him, Day And Night
after she made the Palm Fruit Charcoal
Always the road observed the her loves citrus fruit
because of being not again child
and the grandchild in her big house
when the night, I pass away
was carried by Old brother
under the citrus tree
that already ripe
around the little path
close my house
get its with my hand
when the grandmother fell asleep
and then I could eat citroes
when at the afternoon I ask her
to have her fruits not permitted
such was juvenile delinquency
when I older we to like children
that wanted to win ourself
the developing process of life
that always
repetitions
Who I am
when the others
gone
left me
alone
in the quiet home
poem by Prasetya Utama
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