Long poem by
Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Details |
Green light means go ahead
Make your choice
Here’s a list of the Green light or free, fruits go, go, go and eat them up
Apples, dried: Dried apples make a great snack food and are easy to transport.
Apples, fresh: It makes no difference what variety of apple you choose. My favorite is Golden Delicious. Availability changes with the seasons though
Applesauce unsweetened: Applesauce isn’t just for kids! Grownups like this tart sauce too
Apricots, dried: Dried apricots make a nice snack-the dense, sweet tart apricot taste can be quite addictive
Apricots, fresh: Apricots are a smooth, sweet summer fruit chock-full nutritional goodness
Blackberries: Blackberries are as big as your thumb, purple and black and thick with juice. I remember picking these as a kid while catching June bugs and watching for snakes
Blueberries: Blueberries are late-summer berries with a very rich taste. They’re great sprinkled ina salad!
Cantaloupe: Cantaloupe comes with its own bowl – just cut it in half and scoop out each half with a spoon
Cherries, sweet, canned: When you buy canned cherries, you’re getting two for a price of one – the fruit and canned
Cherries, sweet, fresh: Go for cherries when possible, and use frozen ones in a pinch. Canned syrupy pie filling is overloaded with sugar and starch, so avoid it
Dates: A few dates are all you need to fill up
Figs, dried: Dried figs are readily available year-round.The easiest way to chop them is to snip them away with scissors
Figs, fresh: Fresh figs are healthy fruit that can satisfy a craving for sweetness
Fruit Cocktail: When was the last time you had a serving of this pitch-in dinner specialty?
Nectarines: Necktarines are a smooth-skinned variety of peach. They taste best at the height of the season (in late June and July)
Oranges: oranges are fall and winter fruit. When eaten raw, none of its precious vitamin C is lost.
Papaya: You can bake unripe papayas like squash. They contain papain the dominant ingredient in meat tenderizer
Peaches, canned: Canned peaches make a quick dessert for any meal
Peaches, fresh: Don’t let a little peach fuzz keep you away. Peaches are delicious and loaded with nutrients
Pears, canned: Cut up canned pears and add them to a salad
Pears, fresh: You can purchase pears green and they will continue to ripen. They do get sweeter as they ripen!
Pineapple, canned: Always buy canned pineapple in its own juice instead of syrup
Pineapple, fresh: Known as symbol of hospitality in the south, fresh pineapple makes a sweet dessert
Plums, canned: Canned plums are readily available treat.
Plums, fresh: Plums come from trees found in every continent in the world except Antarctica
Prunes, dried: Prunes are dried, purplish-black, freestone plums. They’re rich in flavor. You can also find them infused with essence of orange and lemon
Raisins: Raisins are just dried grapes. They make a handy snack
Raspberries: When they are fully ripe, raspberries caps detach. Midsummer is their prime season
Strawberries: Strawberries are a super food chock-full of health giving nutrients
Tangerines: Tangerines are small, sweet, Chinese oranges. They peel so easily its as if they had a zipper
Watermelon: Watermelon is a summertime treat that can’t be beat! Try freezing watermelon juice in ice-cube trays and adding the cubes to drinks
Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza
Long poem by
Scott Bronner | Details |
Since eternity past God the Father Son & Holy Spirit dwelled in unity and sweet fellowship.
Then Three-In-One decided to make a marvelous universe with an earth for life to dwell.
Creating an amazing array of creatures was the easy part – the risk was on the last made.
For unlike other creatures, man & woman were made in God's likeness with a Spirit.
That Spirit communicated with God, and harmony reigned as earth was well cared for.
Freedom to do was great – limited by but one tree that the humans were not to ear from.
At that tree, Satan disguised himself as an innocent snake and asked the woman questions.
Did God really say don't eat from this tree? Well, that's to keep you from becoming like Him.
Look its fruit is beautiful and one bite and you'll know what God does and be Jehovah's equal.
Eve was confused, for this didn't sound like what Adam said God told her, but wouldn't it be grand.
If God is so good, why would he keep this secret from us of being able to be like Him – is He jealous?
The firm, juicy fruit was indeed delicious, and she quickly called Adam to taste, which soon he did.
A small act? Every war, family problem, anger, hatred, lie, killing, stealing, rape, abuse came herefrom.
The beauty of God's creation was now marred with sin that affected every part with death and decay.
God graciously gave Adam & Eve animal skins for no longer would they live in Eden's perfect climate.
From now on there would be sweat for the food they ate and exceedingly great pain during childbirth.
Even their firstborn would murder their second, starting the cycle of revenge and killing that's ongoing.
Yet God also made a promise that one would come who would crush Satan's head while being bruised.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" clues us in to who.
For God's Son Himself would come to teach, heal and offer His life on a Cross to destroy our death curse.
Our sins He would bear and in rising He's seal the promise of eternal life, so great we Jesus' love for us.
For Jesus the cost was unbelievably high, and for us the reward is incredibly great – if we but accept.
Accept that I am a sinner, I've done wrong and need God's forgiveness to live with His perfection.
Accept that Jesus can do what I cannot – change my heart, make my Spirit alive to forever live with God.
This being GOD, the promise of heaven and new earth is sure, though pain lies in between. Choose now.
For GOD and all creation cry out – this is what life is meant for – to know and love One's Maker.
As humans we live eternally with or apart from God, and His great desire is that we choose with.
But just as an earthly Father cannot force true love, nor does our Heavenly Father – He waits.
Though He made all and knows beginning from end, he waits and yearns that we receive His love.
Then love and be loved by Jesus in life's harshness & delight, sharing that love with other lost children
To work in harmony with the One who made us, makes life new again as our spirit is filled with new life.
There can be dry days when we don't feel His presence, and others so full that we want to shout for joy.
The fact is Our Father GOD, our Savior Jesus, the Holy Spirit, are always with us and never will leave us. Amen.
Copyright © Scott Bronner
Long poem by
Johnny Sumler | Details |
It was a sight that I could not forsee
Ambushed by my own men at morning hour
Hands tight with cord and naked from the waist
A mean air on the Bounty blew unkind
It was the troubled wind of mutiny
My men, whose morals all have been erased
Once officers, now Pirates inward-out
Reached for the Bounty as a gang of thieves
Abused and overturned by thine own dogs
If only that thy men were proud Marines
His Majesties Ship was all but a voyage
To Tahiti where the breadfruit lay
Our mission was to gather in abundance
Thy fruit as diet for the English slaves
Yet as for fruit, my men did taste the women
How beautiful the native women were
In all compare, the beauty of a Goddess
From skin to tone one also could compare
Her beauty to her Island, a paradise
'Twas something in the air of that fine land
That made savages of my poor pale men
With every fruit aboard the ship to sea
But of themselves, themselves rather not leave
Yet off we sailed, and carelesness carressed
Uncomfort in the head and shoulders of men
Which are ye stubborn fools, cowards or clowns?
Yes from my tongue my words did lash a whip
Upon scoundrels of little self-esteem
Art thy mind but a pyramid of mold?
Again, to officers I raised the question
Are ye capable of morality?
What ounce of Navy blood dost ye concur?
Must curiosity outweigh thy wit?
Where art thou mothers breast, you babe of fools?
Ye brains, the size of grapes and tasteless wine
It seems to me thou intellect is ill
Not once did I not discipline untruth
To say my words of truth, an sharp-edged sword
Did strike my men again, again, and again
Without truth we are fools and prisoners
Compared to other Captains, I was mild
For these men did not realize in themselves
Their duties, yet beguiled by their desires
'Twas like a clockwork orange of secrecy
A little rum and brand of mutiny
That caused this plan of treason to incur
And in my cabin did my rascals storm
Seizing that I may not utter a sound
Forcing me on to deck, my mutineers
This officer Pirate scorn, Fletcher Christian
Whose own words..."I'm in hell, I am in hell"
Now forcing me onto the Bounties launch
A twenty-three foot boat, in seconds 'twas
Overloaded with eighteen loyal men
Against the waves that wanted us to drown
And many storms whose plans were our demise
Against all odds, an underprovisioned boat
Beyond the verge of probability
Unsound skiff through such dangerous a sea
A subsequent quest three thousand miles and more
Did I return unto the English shores
To thine Judges, is court martial the question?
Do pardon me for thine loss of the Bounty
Copyright © Johnny Sumler
Long poem by
Ruben O. | Details |
I tried to find a consolation
to my frustration
saying to myself that it's not a question of whether it's right or wrong, maybe it's just different. But this constant-reiteration is like a surgical interruption of the nerve tracts of my shrinking brain; once again I make a prefrontal leucotomy to myself just to avoid the cognizance of my reprehensible ignorance or my negligence
It's neither traditional or contemporary
nor proper or improper
it's just the prosaic practicality
of a pro-preposterous absurdity
But who am I trying to fool using pretentious and alliterated words?
How difficult is it to accept that I can't write a haiku?
I know it's unfair to quote out of context but when the master Issa said
"[...] try to forget all of the rules," he was wrong
I tried it before and I could only get unrhymed footles
The king of fruit, nah!
No metaphors until I could understand what "absolute or deep metaphor" means
To be or not to be a watermelon
No personification allowed
Watermelons rhymes with fellons, nah!
Those Watermelons...nah! No Caps
Oops! The kigo! The season word!
Easy: watermelons are the most popular summertime fruit!
The Kireji, my "cutting word" is typical of an IQ above 140: a knife!
My yuxtaposition: another geniality!
The watermelons are...are you ready?
The watermelons are yuxtaposed in a "pile"
side by side one upon the other, showing their differences
5,7,5: 17 syllables! 3 unrhymed lines without a title! I did it! With my own hands!
What a joy!
cost ten cents more than a knife
the fruit prices rise
I captured the precise moment in which "I" realized that the watermelons cost 10 cents more than a knife! Aha! An instance of apprehending the true nature of fruit prices to raise awareness and a recognition of its essence, which, in this case, is the watermelon scent. Also, as the way the economy is going, everybody can relate to it: a universal haiku!
Original focus/experience/clear images/perfect!
If somebody has the audacity to haikuticize ME, I can still play the card up in my sleeve:Creativity!
Creativity in arts: my undeniable power of unrestricted use to determine...whatever!
to transcend traditional ideas, rules, concepts, and whatever!
to create new forms: an 8-lines-Nonet, an unrhymed footle, a 17 syllables-Sonnet (Rubenserian), or whatever!
I think I've created a new form...
I(Me)am so talented!
Copyright © Ruben O.
Long poem by
Erik Fuller | Details |
Like a present long waited for that is sealed
I’m in and out of love and don’t know how to feel
Although my love life has come to a yield
Now is the time to harvest the fresh fruit in the field.
I’ve picked apples and oranges
To lemons and limes
But I need someone that will marinate
Into a fine wine
I can’t create a prototype although I’m whipping the base
To sample and see how well it tastes
I’ve had a couple that has tried to make a case
But it just wasn’t my acquired taste
Had a blend a while back of strawberry and peach
Started to enjoy the blend though it was too sweet
Shaped around into a bottle of Eisenwine ’85 I knew I had plenty
Then it turned out to resemble the taste of Mad Dog 20/20.
In the field I happened to pass by another peach
I thought it was out of my reach
All of my friends told me to pick her please
Even though it felt like she instead picked me
Things were sweeter after we started to intertwine
Like a Chenin Blanc ’00, she was a light white wine
Our fermentation didn’t turn as well as prepared
Then I found out the whole time my wine was being shared
Her wine was discontinued and taken off the shelf
Although I still bootleg on occasion cause my skills are superior to anyone else
But now the Chenin Blanc’00 tastes more like Chenin Blanc’78
And I know it's at its best between 3 to 5 years after the date.
My year is expired and pouring her out is the hardest
Until I realized that she was not the end of my harvest.
My last harvest has the blend of peaches,berries, and grapes
Shes got a hold on my taste buds that I can’t escape
Weve known each other for a while and Ive watched her blend
Shes a little pricey but I wonder should I put in a bid
Theyre other wines that are close to her
And other samplers that wouldn't approve
At this point I feel like I have nothing to lose
The sample thus far has got me bent
She must have been heaven sent
Slender with sex appeal from her eyes to her toenails
Like a bottle of ’86 White Zinfandel
Shes intriguing at every stage
Like Zinfandel, shes going to get better with age
The thing that hurts about keeping it to myself
Is that I know there is not another one on the shelf
Comparing her to other wines is a waste
Cause deep down inside I know shes my acquired taste
Now you see why my love life is at a yield
I should just harvest the fresh fruit in the field
For this particular fruit, Id put down my last dime
To see if she'll marinate into my glass of wine
Copyright © Erik Fuller
Long poem by
Ph.d Volo Von Wolfenstein | Details |
2011, the modern year, coming closed
in 2012, and passive fat assed American apathy
strangles feeling from the esophagus, **** it.
I choke, cough out vowels in wolfballs. Owwww, couuunterculture, Uhhhhh,
Ohhhh coca cola. But make no mistake, the guzzling and guzzardry
of modern lore, dwindles.
Now last minute survival, duck and cover politics:
carrot, apple, pear, grape, tomato -----> so gently placed in plastic, lid covered, transitory to umbilical cord socket-sex, button sodomy, and the machine-like THUNDER of Mexican blade-bombing and the garish gore-grind. Vrummmm Vrummmm Vrummm, and, and,
orange safety pylon juice meets fruit software unincorporated, hums, sticky desert fringe fruit unwormed and hanging like a sour breast finds love in virgin wine, Bacchus
walks away laughing. Oh and the swollen GMD red clown nose gets squeezed of its comic jelly in a controversial orgy of fluid intercourse.
and it SLIDES, ALL THE WAY DOWN THE THROAT. That's what hindsight tastes like...
But, but, but, it won't heal the Dr. Pepper gut, and 30 years of exhaust-pipe rape. Not to mention pizza Saturday, chicken-wing February, and 1997: The Year of Bacon and Beer.
Might as well vomit regret, bet on black, and stick a heroin needle in your eye, you're ****ed.
Hey, not to advocate passive hedonistic pleasures, but Epicurus saw truth in the bottom of brown goblets and pink asscheeks. We live for pleasure.
Pleasure breaking rules, silent sneaking greed, pressure of self-indulgent fantasy realizing, uncompromised, counter-cultural cum-fiesta: the pornographic fix, the malignant business pleasure cancer cell, self-absorbed do-goodery in ego-built mosques of morality: religion as the psychological security of being GOOD. Ohhhh to be GOOD, to be GOOD, to worship a MAN nailed to WOOD. Not even the holiest incarnation of V8 fruit juice can save the soul from the body. Rotting.
Rotting, as you drive to deposit paper, media, machinery, the labour of hand or mind that drives resources to extinction, imagination and sweat into money, money into monopoly, monopoly into politics, politics into personal pleasure torture camps, adopted adultery adrenaline, cocaine-fuelled power-posturing and the snorting of ignorance, forgotten children, and the fattening of the proletariat power core. But no macaroni communism creations, just pleasure, sadness, confusion, thankfulness, ignorance, oxygen, and the inability to stop existing.
Copyright © Ph.d Volo Von Wolfenstein
Long poem by
Victoria Anderson-Throop | Details |
SHIPWRECK OF THE FISHING FLEET 11/24/2012
He was lost in white surprise
Of drugs and doctors quips
His mind was filled with flapping sails
Of white that guide the ships
To dance among the white capped rocks
In North white nights of June
Bring in the catch to catch the maid
Who’d be his wife so soon.
Wild hair so white it shamed the sheet
That soft caressed the grass
The grass-plagued daisies held her there
As clouds triumphant passed
In columns white the bossy clouds
Marched brisk across the sky
But none of them could match the spark
Of whiteness in her eye.
Fishing was the fruit of life
their land bore little green
the joy and danger that it brought
left little in between
and men who braved those waters
better be prepared to die
for reaping nets and filling holds
bows to a fickle sky
And then his shocked brain shifted
Jigged timed across his life
How many white nights had escaped?
The maid now was his wife!
Saw breasts so white that milk they gave
Seemed paltry in contrast--
To feed the babe that snuggled there--
The fruit of love surpassed.
Then shipwreck banged into his head
The white-flashed lightning zing--
He tested feet and moved his legs
Seemed he’d survived this fling
Of nature’s whims again he’d live
To tell the lusty tale
of how north winds had jumped from waves
to grab their ship's main sail.
Before the White-Christ
Had emerged from his Semitic genes
The sailors would have cried for Thor
To ease his hammerings.
Sailors lost were prices paid
To live in Arctic shores.
And, lost at sea was ever feared
By them, and wives adored.
He’d play a trick, they’d think him dead--
Would make a crafty tale!
By his hearth and in his bed
would sound a mourning wail.
His house would be a feast of black
Mad weeping would impress--
Then his imagination called her tears
He vowed each tear to bless
He smirked to think of their surprise
When he stalked through the door--
An unsuccessful leap from bed—
He’d rest a little more.
And being man-- he pondered sex
And pleasures it would bring
There was no sizzling passion like
His lover’s offering.
a putrid glass forced through his teeth-
Morphia drew him in
To dream the dreams of healing arms
prickles kissed his skin
He found her face beyond his pain, smile that could disarm--
In dreams , with wife, in languid bliss
he caught a fish of charm
Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
Not like a figwort but not an aster, either. Could he be a buttercup
with sepals, no petals, but sepals like petals? Alan is a bluebeech,
an ash if his books sell. Quick shake hands. Zach's bald ok, a
magnolia, cone-like fruits a bridge to his Neanderthal father.
When did Ben become a chestnut lover? It's said women are practical
but there's much variation in their leaves, ovaries. Many are older,
stumps, snags for peckers and porcupines, teachers, feeders, seeders.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?
Sometimes a mushroom. Did you know such fungi are mostly protein?
Mushrooms could replace meat, and the dead, the dead's feet, white
as pyrola, could replace the living. Well, we worry. Will we, bad luck,
be extinguished. Denizens of convenience stores think who cares, will
I beat the reaper? Hope sempiternally springs. Things rarely clear
as sun among the sundews. Eating huckleberries from your kayak.
What Paulinaq says is live your life and then your death until nothing's
Then thou shalt be bereft
of the heavy sackcloth of the soil, soul.
Said to Mrs. Buckthorn: good poets imitate, great poets steal.
I think she's more an apple tree. Or pear. Good to eat,
amenable to loving. Rose or Ericaceae, the differences make the
difference. Emerson and Rylin Malone are dead. The dead
are dumb, the dust won't speak. And this deep, dull and dark
blessing's a horizontal reserve. Moonlit. Mr. Hickory is actually a yellow
holy and exfoliating. Busy spilling seed on the surface of the snow.
writing, algebra, earth science, branches of government.
I would be a cypress, cedar, branches calligraphy brushes, divorced
It takes a divorce for one to know one knows no one, not only one's
but your very sons who will always choose the open flower bud.
Good, as they should. Their bones are your bones, strange bones, and a
strange selection of their words. They are Uvularia sessifolia (wild oats)
and Polygonatum biflorum (Solomon's seal). They outlast the holocaust
or not, they're made of matter. These windows need a good cleaning.
Leaf-raking. Dusting for ghosts. Ah, sweet peace, perfect rest, there are
adults are trees, teens are shrubs, and children are herbaceous.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow
Long poem by
andrew delapruch | Details |
according to wiki
the braeburn is “though to be”
the progeny of the
the lady hamilton
now, don’t get me wrong
as a kid, i won’t lie, i enjoyed the granny smith
what with its unique, and if i might say,
granny smith apple © color
setting it aside from the routine
variations on the color
but i have never heard of the
and i must admit
i’m a bit suspicious about the supposed parents of the
i haven’t seen the papers on this alleged “lady hamilton” myself
and being that my trust lies with the
well, i’d like to take the lady to the lab
and get down to the nitty-gritty on her true origin
because as far as i’m concerned she could be spawned
from the incestuous “royal” family of britian
for all i know, granny and the lady went to town on each other
and somehow produced this mutant thing we call a
maybe it was something extraterrestrial
a gray came down and made its move on the lady
maybe the writers of the fictional god character
who worked on the jesus myth
found a need to go even further and cook themselves up another
and create the
you know, something along the lines of
the lady or the granny or both of em’
bein’ immaculately conceived in something like a
nativity fruit bowl
when it comes down to it
is what you purchase in the fruit section of your local grocery
when there are no galas or fujis
due to the fact that i fell out of the love of that
brought to us by the granny smith
basically, because my jaw does that lock up thing that happens
when you suck down some sour food
and i’m just not cool with that
the braeburn is the third choice
it shines like the fuji and the gala
but it tastes more like a mcintosh that has been frozen
losing it’s sweetness and gaining a little brown on the inside
lets give the braeburn props
even if it is something of a bastard malus domestica
it fulfils the need in the avid
no doubt, physicians in the world would recommend the braeburn
as a sufficient contender for the
“apple a’ day” placement in the lives of
healthy homo sapiens
lets give the braeburn a stamp of approval
even if it doesn’t really taste that good
and it’s the bastard of an alien, a fictious god creation or
some quirky lesbian apple sex between
granny and the lady.
Copyright © andrew delapruch
Long poem by
andy thomson | Details |
Sometimes you must lose all you felt you once needed
But all you ever feel is cheated
You can't pull diamonds from the sky
There is no constellation prize
You’ll never be happy, never complete
To you there’s only a drive to compete
Fixing the game to undo yourself
Wishing you were somebody else
My non-Newtonian, liquid heart
Turns to mush and falls apart
I was sitting there still, back to your flaws
You went for the kill and loosed your claws
Spices tracing through my blood,
Earthy smells and petrol mud
Shining like brake lights on a wet night
Seeing red and looking to fight
I know everyone thinks I'm paranoid
But one day I'll catch it on Polaroid
Corporate loans and indecision
Hinder the upper-class’s vision
Lightning reminds you that nature is pretty
And parks are not forests surrounded by city
Spinning brightly, the atmosphere shines all your stars
As you dance on the highway between blurring cars
Traded the love sting for tears on a string
Burned your old photos and shook out your wings
Lost to the winds that dried out your skin
The planes that have fallen are pulling you in
The trains that rolled through, soon dragged you away
With their sun-worn graffiti and staggering sway
To those who mislead you, take no notice
Walk your own path, soft and pure as the lotus
Courting a desert to take your last breath
Relinquishing moisture to camels of death
It isn't win-win when losers contrive
Convincing each other there’s no need to strive
Whenever I’m speaking, I'm not who I say
Not now, not ever, not day-to-day
About inspiration, uncertainty moves me
Or at least I believe that this is what soothes me
Inside your purse you could misplace a car
A tangle of items much like a bazaar
If blood has spilled, it's but a drop
Forever until humans stop
Generals need a lot of attention
And in general I can't stand pretension
Amazing moments dot your life maps
As mediocrity bridges the gaps
Scribbling out some irrational scheme
Strange and evolving communist dreams
Hiding every glitch and flaw
Grooming to be son-in-law
And all the nihilists come to sing
Pointless songs about nothing
Sometimes a wolf will believe he's a sheep
If left too long dressed up in fleece
Like the phantom itch of amputees
Jealousy fills him, now you’re with me
Encoded nightmares from the past
Will keep you safe unto the last
Then into a hard-wired state of delay
This splintered electric decay
Copyright © andy thomson