Ripe Succulent Fruit
writing
rich red poems
bursting
with abundant juice
like succulent
crown cultivated
strawberries
containing melons
of tasty meaning
juices run
lusciously swobbing
painting
lipstick tarted lips
greedily gobbling
magnifying
improbable morsels
sucking shredding
squashed pulp
morphia
plants grown
were fed
mind slender
frail potted
plantings
mordant
in foliage stem beds
architect groomed
tesselated soil
were fruit given
strawberries grown
swob - apply (usually a liquid) to a surface; 'dab the wall with paint', archaic variant of swab.
morphia - [Greek. morphin from Morphesus, the god of dreams] the alkaloid constituting the narcotic principle of opium.
mordant - the term mordant comes from the Latin word, 'mordere', to bite.
A substance used to set dyes on fabrics or tissue sections by forming a coordination complex with the dye which then attaches to the fabric or tissue.
tesselated - chequered; pertaining to or like mosaic.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Related quotes
Tissue Tigers (The Arguers)
I shout this,
You shout that,
The clouds are coming over looking awful black.
Its all hot air.
You say go,
I say stay,
Clear blue sky goes sheffield grey.
Its all hot air.
Ive grown immune to your claws,
Pussycat, I know...
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Crawling across the table to me.
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Ripping em up is easy for me now.
I shout this,
You shout that,
An eye for heart and a tit for a tat.
You easy tear.
Think your stripes,
Are yellow and black,
I can only see the yellow one down your back,
You easy tear.
Ive grown immune to your claws,
Pussycat, I know...
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Crawling across the table to me.
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Ripping em up is easy for me now.
We argue all life long,
Youd swear that black was wrong,
Throw tantrums like queen kong,
Ive trapped you in my song.
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Crawling across the table to me.
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Ripping em up is easy for me now.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tissue Tigers
I shout this,
You shout that,
The clouds are coming over looking awful black.
It's all hot air.
You say go,
I say stay,
Clear blue sky goes sheffield grey.
It's all hot air.
I've grown immune to your claws,
Pussycat, i know...
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Crawling across the table to me.
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Ripping 'em up is easy for me now.
I shout this,
You shout that,
An eye for heart and a tit for a tat.
You easy tear.
Think your stripes,
Are yellow and black,
I can only see the yellow one down your back,
You easy tear.
I've grown immune to your claws,
Pussycat, i know...
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Crawling across the table to me.
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Ripping 'em up is easy for me now.
We argue all life long,
You'd swear that black was wrong,
Throw tantrums like queen kong,
I've trapped you in my song.
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Crawling across the table to me.
All your threats are tissue tigers,
Ripping 'em up is easy for me now.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The only faith that wears well and holds its color in all weathers is that which is woven of conviction and set with the sharp mordant of experience.
quote by James Russell Lowell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Silver-Eye
Down among the strawberries,
Up among the plums,
Cheeping in the cherry-tree
When early autumn comes,
In our silver spectacles
And sober olive suits.
We're very, very innocent;
We wouldn't touch your fruits.
Well, maybe just a speckled one,
A windfall here and there.
But raid your precious strawberries?
Oh no, we wouldn't dare.
Behold our bland astonishment,
The charge is quite absurd!
It must have been a parrot
Or some other kind of bird.
It must have been a satin bird;
It must have been a crow.
It couldn't possibly be us;
We are so meek, you know,
With our silver spectacles.
The accusation's vile!
How can you deem us guilty
When we're whistling all the while?
Well, if you've caught us in the act
There's no more to be said.
The plums are blue and succulent,
The strawberries are red.
And who'd refuse a dainty dish
When early autumn comes?
Oh, write a rhyme about us, man,
And pay for all your plums.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Sonnet: God is Great
Denies me God, some things that I did ask;
He gives me many more, I don’t deserve;
He knows my heart despite my facial mask;
He helps me timely and Him only serve.
Perhaps I ask for things not important;
My earthly eyes cannot discern His ways;
On Life’s fabric, His love acts like mordant;
“Just ask and it will be given, ” He says.
God fully knows what things are best for me;
He knows the ideal time and routes to give;
He sees my heart and soul primarily;
He guides my earthly decisions to live.
So, God is great in everything He charts;
No devils dare raise doubts in human hearts!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 9-12-2005
poem by John Celes
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There are three tasty morsels: figs, peaches, and melons.
My sandal wood
I groomed your feelings
For more than a decade,
And the time it is about to ripen,
You have grown past the lustre.
I have grown past the vigour.
Yet, I want you,
Not as a fruit but as a sandal wood,
Not to consume bur for perfume.
25.05.2002, pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength, move on.
quote by Henry Rollins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We do not rejoice in victories. We rejoice when a new kind of cotton is grown and when strawberries bloom in Israel.
quote by Golda Meir
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the spirit of Rumi - 43 - The Poet
And they often said,
‘O poet, as you call yourself –
why are all your verses
to your divine Beloved, full
of ‘as’ and ‘like’? ’ –
‘Her lips are like red rubies, or as strawberries’…
‘Her neck, as slender as that of a running young gazelle’…
‘Her smile is like sun after rain’…
‘Why do you tempt us with these earthly things? ’
The poet said
‘Like’ and ‘as’ are the keys to heaven, no less:
there is no language spoken yet by men
equal to the language of Her presence –
my truest poetry is spoken in the moment when
I look upon her beauty, but stunned to silence –
but how then to praise her, tell of her
to those who never saw her beauty yet? …
and so, I take those things most familiar,
most dear to the senses of all mortal men,
saying, is this not beautiful? And yet, beyond all this
her beauty, which yet comprehends all sense,
all mind, all spirit, all love, all lovers, is her love…
and even when I do not say those words,
but, silent, let an image come of her:
‘A gazelle ran wide-eyed through my dream; and I awoke
with the taste of strawberries on my lips…’
then, I know myself to be blest by her,
and yet, the image but a teasing veil;
this is her immortal gift to poets –
to know their mortal failure, yet
to sing to men: I saw her but in passing…yet…
now, I am possessed of her, and sworn
the Beloved’s servant all my loving life…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Draft #3
Sometimes i become afraid of myself because my anger brings danger. Its like this almost infinite power that's just rushing through my forearms just as popeye; my anger being the fuel like the can of spinach. Suddenly i become blind to the world as i'm faced with the images of the past. Now, i'm reliving it and feeling all the pain and then suddenly, i find myself drained of all energy, thoughts, and common sence. I'm finding my lack of self quite mordant although i'm morbid
poem by Chris Solomon
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The Shell
"...It seems in truth the fairest shell of ocean." —Shelley
I.
What is it makes thy sound unto my ear
So mournful, Angel of the mighty Sea?
Is it the soul of her who once was here,
Speaking affection, through thy lips, to me?
II.
Oh! from my childhood this has been to me
A mystery which no one could solve!—It sounds
And sorrows for the Sea incessantly—
Telling the grief with which my soul abounds!
III.
Here, in its labyrinthine curve, it leaves
The foot-prints of its song in many dyes;
And here, incessantly, it ever weaves
The rainbow-tissue of its melodies.
IV.
When any harsher sound disturbs me here,
In my lamentings in this world for the,
I will apply it to my listening ear,
And think it is thy soul come down to me.
poem by Thomas Holley Chivers from Eonchs of Ruby (1851)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Strawberries
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
poem by Edwin Morgan
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Well I Wonder
Well I wonder why and when
Montage reeled, callosities peeled,
Wrathful flames ignited
From another's confusion
And flowers withered into oblivion
Well I wonder why and how
Do I haul myself from this labyrinthine limbo
And how and why would you tell me things
Tied on their ends with a riddle
Devoid of any answer
Well I wonder why and what
It takes to abjure this incarceration
And smear the fragrance on the floorboards
Where memories sprawled like blood
Blackening and drying everyday
Well I wonder, I wonder
Why I snooped in the latticing webs
Only to ensnare myself again
With mordant words and rues
I should have never hoped for you.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Magic Of Words
I admit to never having read much poetry before,
But now that I’ve started, I’m eager to read more.
I’ve discovered many poems, ones old and new;
There are all sorts: happy ones and sad ones to.
Some poems paint a picture, and are descriptive in their style.
While some are humorous, and are designed to make you smile.
There are also narrative style poems, such as the ‘Goblin Market’ story,
By Christina Rossetti, there are close to five hundred lines, in all their glory.
Alliteration always sounds extremely catchy and really rather nice –
When an initial consonant is sounded, in quick succession, at least twice.
Assonance also often comes in quite handy too,
Especially when the rhyme isn’t quite exactly true.
The addition of onomatopoeia can be a real whiz,
Adding sounds like Crash! Bang! Pop! And Fizz!
I love poems which have a regular rhythm, and which rhyme,
And I try my best to incorporate these factors into poems of mine.
In rhythm and rhyme, myself, I like to try and immerse,
As I have to admit that I’m not a particular fan of free verse.
With poetry, I’m really beginning to get a little bit obsessed.
I change words around, trying to see how they sound the best.
I like to keep my writing quite simple, not complex;
I hate it when words and ideas complicate the text.
I love it when words paint a picture in my inner mind;
When a masterpiece is created, as snapshots are combined.
My mind finds it difficult to process ideas which are too abstract;
I just like simple descriptions and a smattering of interesting facts.
Unless I understand the first few lines, I can get very easily bored,
And from then on, reading the rest of it can become quite a chore.
I’m not keen on poems which, I consider, are way too short,
As they probably haven’t really required that much thought,
And, likewise, I’m not keen on poems which, for me, are too long,
As reading them, can feel like running a twenty six mile marathon.
If I see a word in a poem which I have not previously seen,
I will look it up in a dictionary, to see exactly what it means.
I always enjoy learning the meaning of the odd new word,
But I hate it when there are many, of which, I’ve never heard.
I also like to look words up in a thesaurus to learn,
If I can swap them for an alternative word or term.
Reading and writing poetry can be a real education in themselves.
You pick up books which may have previously been left on the shelf.
If you’re sat concentrating on reading or writing,
Temporary release from problems, is quite inviting.
It can have a very calming affect upon your soul,
When life’s worries and woes have taken their toll.
I don’t know if I’m just going through a phase, or if my obsession will last;
Over the last few months or so, I really have been having an absolute blast!
I’ve felt proud of some of my works - I didn’t think I could do such things,
And I’ve really revelled in the happiness, into my life, which poetry brings.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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I probably carry more scar tissue on my derrire than any other candidate-that's political scar tissue.
quote by Alexander Meigs Haig
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The potted plant
Parents were there that I had no boy friends
Husband is there; I avoid men’s company
Children are grown that I stopped flirting.
I have thus grown without a scandal.
As a plant, well pruned and potted.
23.02.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sparrow, the Special Delight of My Girl
Sparrow, the special delight of my girl,
whom often she teases and holds on her lap
and pokes with the tip of her finger, provoking
counterattacks with your mordant beak,
whenever my luminous love desires
something or other, innocuous fun,
a bit of escape, I suppose, from her pain,
a moment of peace from her turbulent passion,
I wish I could play like she does with you
and lighten the cares of my sorrowful soul.
It thrills me as much as the nimble girl
in the story was thrilled by the gilded apple
that finally uncinched her virginal gown.
poem by Gaius Valerius Catullus
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The Principle
The Principle stood up;
He's grown in stature over time
It's not like he wanted to, you know, but
his forced tribulations have caused this
Strife
The Principle strode through the door
Ready to take on the World
He's grown-up, matured, overnight, yet
He already feels withered and
Old
The Principle stares into the belly of
The Monster looming large
He shouts and screams and kicks until
He's the one in
Charge
Now what good has all of this resolved?
Life brings many troubles
Yet He is all but a metaphor, for
My very own
God Damned Morals.
poem by J.I. Stuart
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