Best Olives Poems

Silence reigned….for the moment.
Nothing stirred in the garden.
No owl screeched.
No bird flew.
And inky darkness seemed to spread.
Even the moon 
hid itself in shame.
A light breeze rose suddenly freezing all.  
It rushed through the trees, wailing.
Still the man-God stood tall.
Existential angst wrinkled his face.
He felt...

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There was no way I could boil and 
drink yesterday's espresso, or move 
the olive tree to the ridge, or make 
the sky forever purple, or perch in the 
trees with the sparrows and blue jays.

There was no way I could forget how 
you aimed...

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A jar of olives in brine…?...
Add zinger or a punchline,
Let your juicy thoughts trickle,
Let your tangy wit tickle.
The title too must be fine....

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The universe is turning
its
eyes on me
Unrest in the days
Where the blood moon...
&
My hands touch the stone
Silence comes from the voices
Driven into the night
Not a feeling of sadness
The fire of torches has alarmed them
Father give me strength
Essence from the chalice of the infinite
A white rose blooms...

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Olives

I like olives - so smooth and round, 
wrinkled or puckered, by the pound, 
from the deli or in a jar,
savory flavours, the best by far.
Firm and juicy, large or small,
ripe or salty, I like them all.
Stuffed with garlic, pimento slice,
those saucy tongues are pretty...

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And swallow are of love
the silky horizons
hit by a wing
of pink flamingo.

And the weeds are with deep
roots,
drawn water
of secret wells.

Careless was the wind,
carried off in hollows
tenderly
all kind of visions of
color.

Now the time is of the sand,
crossed the life-giving river.
And blows only wind from
Sahara. 




*Translator bulgarian-english:...

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I don't like all varieties,
Especially the green,
But it's a treat to see them
On the appetizer scene.

My favorites are the Nicoise,
Very small and brownish-black.
I can polish off a bowl of them 
And still keep coming back.

I'm up for trying other types 
And, though I won't throw...

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The sound of grip dripping
From a blank embankment
Crowds a single finger
Under craggy terrain.

The embrace emits steam
The color of Jasper
The smell of Jasmine
Aimlessly floating for drift.

As the rust settles cliff side
Blame begins...
Judgement unearths the first stone.

A soiled hand and phalanges
Point at choice questioning sin
asking, "Who is...

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I am sorry to say,
there are no more olives today.
For gin, I have Beefeater and Tanqueray.
I also have Gordon’s, Seagram’s, and Bombay.
There are a few others you can see.
I have the best dry vermouth with Martini and Rossi.
I can put some together in a pitcher...

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how clever a peck on the cheek, a kiss on the head
a hug with a boa constriction for the parents i love.

how cruel this fate of social isolation, to stunt the breath
of this illusion, that i might have them more and more times.

the kiss off...

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The Ripe Olives and Red Wines of Florence
David J Walker 

Austere is the way I remember 
The convent in Florence
 
Perfectly white walls 
And the small single bed fronted
 
By worn floors from daily 
kneeling in prayer

A simple soup 
will be served
At supper 

My native...

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He plucks a pear from the tree and tosses it my way. Hands fumble, but nails sink into flesh to maintain a solid grip. He doesn't see me slip. Examine the freshness of the fruit before sinking teeth through skin. Open the lid. A woven...

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When I was just four,
Baba would walk me through the olive groves,
his land stretching endlessly,
acres of trees—each one a memory,
each one rooted deep in the soil of home.
He’d set up a ladder for me,
let me climb,
picking the dark, ripe olives
from the branches heavy with history.

“Go...

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from a craftsman of heaven's domains ~ to a gardener of olives...

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