Best Peach Tree Poems
They would ripen all at once
under a hot sun and hang
in a sugary glut only for a day
or two before starting to spoil.
I had to be quick and when
the time came,
I hurried home
from school to clamber up
the tree and seize
the fruit. Each was a warm,
engorged globe of flesh
with just a hint of give
when a finger was pressed
into skin.
No command,
not even from God,
could have held back a bite.
Mouthfuls of sweet peach
sent every pleasure bud
on the tongue into a spasm
and spilt the overload
oozing out of the corners
of stretched lips.
Great gulps
were hurried down the throat
to make room for another bite.
No savoring restraint held
me back, this was volume.
All afternoon
my face and hands
dripped a sticky syrup,
coating my shirt.
Finally I would have my fill
and sit bloated beneath
the tree surrounded
by peachstones some still
encased in leftovers
of pinkish flesh. Sorry evidence
to convict. Afterwards,
a terrible remorse always
took hold. Next day
I thought my stomach ache
was punishment from above.
Every year of my childhood,
in the heat of late summer,
I repeated the same sin,
suffered the same consequence,
hoped for forgiveness
from a wrathful God.
Glossy glow velvet
Sunripe peach tree high up
Nectar beckons now
Reach up high to grab the light
Glossy glow of peaches grow
Oh how beautiful,
Is this little peach tree,
With my wondering eyes,
I really do see,
Two little peaches,
So delightful,
So Plump,
Waiting to be picked,
By little old me.
My favorite fruit is the peach
I pick one from the tree
and pick out more within reach
eating them with glee
The emerald and still evening
lures the crescent moon rising,
to make a small peach tree shine
as if it were already daytime;
it even invites the brutal wind
to lash it so that its flowers
would lose their pretty petals...
then one of them starts to descend,
others sadly follow behind to resemble Autumn leaves...
who has sympathy for a small peach tree which grieves?
The enchanted, star-draped sky
watches the white petals fall off the small peach tree
into the lake that earlier reflected its flowery image;
isn't it enraged by the wind's ravage?
Its anger can last until the deep shadows wane and die:
that's when the light will restore harmony.
Written by Andrew Crisci
for Gail Angel Doyle's contest,
" Petals In The Wind "
on 1/ 15/ 2012