Best Ripeness Poems
We harvested the grapes in late autumn
when ripeness of love was at its best,
but deceit in the time of maturing
changed the passion to wrath and unrest.
Acerbic vinegar replaced sweet wine
and richness of flavour ceased to be mine.
Betrayed was the pledge of a tender vine.
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Syllable count: 10-9-10-9 10-10-10
Rhyme Scheme: a b c b d d d
Novel: Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
Contest: Titles of Novels
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Placed 3rd
© paul callus ~ 10 June 2016
Apples ripen pink, hotly blushing,
though the ardent yellow sun grows faint;
blackbirds sucking soft honeyed sweetness.
like babies at breast, show no restraint.
Mellow ripeness splays rich-toned color;
the trees raise scarlet armed applause.
Red-brown and gray, small creatures hurry
stowing provisions for winter's pause.
Copyright, September 1, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
it might as
well be my birthday
as i hold nature’s gift in my hand
i pause to caress it before i indulge
its form shapely its skin fresh and smooth
there’s nothing like it to ignite all my senses
i gently cut into the skin and each time is a joy
as the fruit reveals its rich deep amber color
and its lush ripeness oozes with juices
a delectable feast for my eyes
that smells absolutely
divine
the mango belongs on a pedestal because
i swoon with delight
when
this
fruit
touches my lips
AP: 1st place 2021, 2nd place 2022, 2nd place 2020, 3rd place 2025, 3rd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2020
My beloved Drino,
Take me to the memory
a neverlasting dream
which lived in yester yesterday
long before destiny took its toll
and footprints marked separate paths
Take me back to that December night
where we ran holding hands
to the cottage down the hill
by fields of evergreen
I am there, You are too
Kissing snowflakes from my lips
as melting moistness falls
upon silk wisps of auburn hair
How can I not remember
your palms' gentle rub
brushing raindrops
which trickled ever so slow
across the inner of my thigh
Ahh !I can still smell the scent
of your warm breath upon my neck's nape
~Honey and lemon
I can still hear that hush hushed whisper
beneath the tender of my ear
Still live the feeling,of your fading kiss
upon each flutter of my lash
My beloved Drino
Carry me back to those sheets
which still know the voice
and the colour of your eyes
Let me travel to the cradle
of those arms and perfumed wine
Let me travel to that smile
within the blossom of your heart
Threaded petals on a cheek
where scarlet velvets never sleep
Let my slippery fingers slide
to the soft hairs of your back
as you unbutton my last piece of innocence
As the corners of your mouth fulfill with juices
from the ripeness of pink peaches
As i open up to fire and you enter in flames
My beloved Drino,
take me to that night
where i tickled your wilderness
where you sank in my deep
Take me to the moment
where our sins were so sacred
and lust carried no shame
Not for the
contest..
But tnks
Cyndi
Macmillan
for your
'Spice box'
adult content contest
had been an
inspiration.
Ps..I had to delete
some spices after
i posted it
Hope its still liked
: )
He climbs up rhythmically
keeping his legs
within a ring of rope
like his life.
Intuition assures
the ripeness;
life-nut falls down
from the tree top.
Just a slip
will end in all end,
but practice
rarely slips.
Though the ways are hackneyed,
he’s honeyed and free
under his calluses.
Morrows and yesterdays,
he never climbs upon.
He hugs today, green and yellow
like the coconut tree leaves.
Blackberry Memoir
Blackberries, round and glossy,
Always invite me to return
To dusty country summer afternoons
When languid waves of mirages
Puddle into shimmering hiatus.
From the gently swaying hammock
I hear the rattle of berry pails
To see my grandmother, in her straw hat,
Smile an invitation - come with her
Into the wild blackberry patch.
Like garter snakes that hide in the thorny brambles
Tangled canes slither across the sandy path
No perfect rows only prickly trailing briars
That soar from the heart of the thicket
In arching limbs to touch on summer skies.
Like raven tresses the blackberry fruit glistens -
Capturing sweetness from the glowing sun -
Purple stained fingers release the ripeness
Then hear it plunk in the berry bucket -
Delicious as raindrops in a summer storm.
Warm evening settles in contented sighs
Watching moonlight creep through tangled vines
When juicy blackberry pie warm from the oven
Arrives on clear plates with salivating praise
Topped with ice cream dripping down the sides.
When autumn strips the jumbled canes
To lie barren beneath the winter sun
My grandmother’s blackberry jam journeys
In reveries of summer days to come
When simple berry picking untangles life.
8-2-22
Contest: Your Thoughts on Blackberries
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
Nights grow longer,
stars in flamed blue,
the luscious trees waving away-
with boughs so plump,
ripeness is due,
and dreamy strolls light up the bay...
How the breeze jiggles, toes are bare
on sandy coasts, ioys are night's grace
then 'round I go to our town's fair
and cherish all of summer's blaze!
`````````````````````````
Jamie Pan's Contest 2/23/2017
Theme 6: Reflections on a window
From cloud-wells
Pour forth a quench--
And parting
Leave behind
rainbow high:
Our reach for heaven,
Extracting color
drawn from deep
enchanting sky…
Added dewdrops of
Fairy wings;
(Tints are flirting
Fluttering lashes)
Texture of silky, swirling
Web-sashes,
perennials of infinite dye;
We are Blossom Children--
Deep roots eternal
Not in soil,
But the maker of fertile-base;
His beds, earth and sky;
Of His many worldly petals
you and I--
Unfolding, our journey of ripeness;
Bearing fruits from bitter to sweet;
As blooms gathering all brightness
In service of gardens,
Forever Bouquets
a selfless treat….
Written: September 330, 2024 For Edward Ibeh Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A brown ribbon-like road with a blue sky.
A jungle of green, with the sky peeking high.
Asters are velvety rich, as a grasshopper's call.
Time flies—today is heat and tomorrow is fall.
Do you beguile me erratically, Hope?
The day of your birth has just waned.
But its white wings are full of scope.
With eyes that sang rhapsody, light reigned.
Grew bulky and bright and my path was clear.
Under their calming beams and smiles, dear...
A path going to some guilt-free land.
To which a star drops from the nightstand!
When did I leave the prisonhouse of clay?
My cantankerous spirit will vanish away.
We bestow all praise on the eternal elixir of bliss.
Oh, don't bury me amid rotting bones diss.
Amid a moon icy light, marble slabs shimmer.
Where a hapless mourner will always simmer.
Upon the graves of those who lie in peace.
While basking in the sun on a woodland lease.
Indulge in the September and fall faith.
September is unlike every other wraith
Colors and weather swing over the day.
No other month can claim the same way.
Season of hazy and luscious ripeness.
Loyal ally of the sun as it earns rifeness.
Crafting a scheme to load and bless him.
Vine-covered thatch-eaves surge, full of vim.
Using pears to twist the mossy home trees.
And yield every fruit its full, deep bloom breeze.
Inflate the squash and cram the hazel seeds.
With the tasty kernel, deeper buds will breed.
And further, later blooms for the bees.
Until they believe warm days will never cease.
The summer season has clogged their pores.
Who hasn't seen you often in your store?
More often, this soul stretches
farther than the breath of a moon....
and through jaded eyes,
I saunter on the ledge of woodland,
past time's curfew and sharp lacerations
from kin's betrayal : a wanton walk
glazes the ripeness of cherries----
that such pageant from susurrus of woods
weaves a new , disparate tune.
I twirl along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment
glorious as the slow climb of dusk...
this shard of pain spewing a wanton blaze
--radiant like a celestial star rising
from chambers, healing my ache
and waking pewter stones
while I half- slumber in a lull...
and I wrap my navel in soft linen,
the flickering, feathering night
differently cloaked in such nourished balm.
--I must be changed, my world honoring piety,
a lesson on life's lesion imbued through
the fragrant balm of my long , journey's song.
There stood a tree
Bare and alone
Many storms had left it torn.
The branches wept
The leaves were gone
No more birds sang their song.
But far above
Their hung a fruit
Passion drenched through the roots
It hung forlorn, barely connected
Many passersby’s assumed it was defected.
But then one day
A man walked by
Fascinated, he let out a sigh
Where did it come from?
Surely it did not fit in here
How was it being nourished in all this gloomy fear?
He held it in the palm of his hand
And smelled it’s ripeness, longing for it to land
But as he pushed it to his lips
It began to drip, drip, and drip
The essence of its juice made his hands begin to bleed
For it was a forbidden fruit he had to leave
Baffled by his reaction
To this ravishing satisfaction
Startled by this moment of unusual pleasure
He knew in his heart he had to leave it forever.
He wiped his hands on that verboten tree
And mournfully knew he had to let that fruit be.
By Sabina Nicole
Watermelons
Dull, thick, green rind with a creamy yellow behind,
From where on the ground, it sat waiting to ripen.
Round the gourd, the melon matured, bursting the gird;
With juicy, sweet liquid, and fresh succulent meat
(Ninety per cent water and six percent sugars)
Ready for consumption during the hot summer weather.
Carefully pick the vegetable from the bin;
Choosing the size, weight, and colour of the pepo.
And feel for firmness, then cradle, knock, and listen;
(Duller the thud the better) indicating ripeness,
Or employ other quirks to determine freshness.
Then wash, slice, and serve the delectable berry,
With bright red flesh, seed or seedless variety.
Etiquette is discarded when eating the melon,
As my teeth sink into Citrullus Lanatus
(Like a hot knife cutting into frozen butter)
As juices spurt out and run down the sides of my mouth,
While I guiltily look, as I piggishly eat
And slurp away, smiling, and spitting out the seeds;
This August 3rd on National Watermelon Day.
I've started my stand-by diet: a few different fruits each day,
and having repeated it time and again, I feel qualified to say
apples, unless of a rare and crisp nature, are mushy and generally gross.
Halfway into the core of one, I'm still starving and feeling morose.
The diet's mainstay, pineapple, for its fat-burning enzymes revered,
when fresh, is somewhat palatable.
If it's green, though, ones mouth can be seared.
And that popular phallic banana, which when peeled, fast begins to rot:
That one I'll leave for the monkeys though it's garnish for sundaes or not!
Tomorrow I'm finally in for a treat. It's a watermelon to eat.
But for all my thumping to test for its ripeness,
it well could taste flat and not sweet.
Blueberries, too, and cherries are good.
I wish there were more fruits like these.
However, I long to see them all "berried"
‘neath Cool Whip atop cream cheese.
Plums or grapes, frozen or plain, "not bad" until they are dried.
By the time I'm consuming ghastly prunes,
I'll be famished for food that is fried!
Mangoes, too, are on my list of what I must partake.
But (gag me) their texture lends the sensation
I'm swallowing snails or a snake.
I've noticed of late with this regimen, its slimming magic is slowing
as with each precious year's dissolution, my metabolism's lowering.
Next week (so I say) I'll banish forever this obsolete, once-potent "cure".
It long since has extracted from me any craving for food that is pure.
With a dull kitchen knife I took my papaya today and reverently sawed it.
With its flavor lingering there on my tongue,
it struck me it hinted of vomit.
*I'm not a big fruit eater as this shows!! This is a diet I will no longer pursue!
Next I should do a poem on how sickening it gets eating salads day after day.
Jan. 27, 2017 for Jamie Pan's "It's time for hilarious poetries"
summer harvest sweet
plump fruit ready for picking
a cornucopia treat
one would be wise to know how
quickly ripeness turns to rot
Fair Spring, a lady, palely loitering,
Whose brow is decked with flowers and with dew,
Whose bosom births youth’s essence which does bring
Unto the barren glades, a glory, new,
Where have you been for every heart had pinéd without you?
Where have you been, when winter with its shroud
Had wrapped the world with thorns of frost and snow,
And when the strength of Cheimon’s hoary cloud
Had swallowed worlds and bound from head to toe
Each aging tree, and froze the rivers which once, swift, did flow?
Fair spring, I’ve grieved and skulked in mortal grief,
And wept for endless days. I craved your breath
To make once lively every faded leaf,
And save the sprightly buds from early death,
And blossom effervescent flowers from the earth, beneath.
And birth sweet fruits, ripe with rich, temp’rate blood,
And kiss the earth’s wan cheek and ever store
With ripeness every stalk and shoot and bud
And with pure sweetness every apple’s core,
And turn to foaming bubbles and bright verdure, winter’s hoar.
The spirits of the worms all beam with pride,
And all the swift-heeled elk run round the leas,
And mid the blossoms, nightingales hide,
And sing a tune that gently, long the breeze,
Wafts through and through: an ode to you, your beauty, ne’er to cease.
Oh, spring, at last, I bear a mighty beam
For seeing your first budded rays, which bring
Upon the glades, gold wealth and honeyed dream.
At last, the winter fled upon his wing
In fright of all your powers, for you came, at last, fair spring!
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov