The orchardist held the apple tight,
Staring deep into its being,
As if it had something more to show him than its rotten skin.
Unwilling to admit it to its predestined fate,
He first peeled the apple to view its innards.
Unsatisfied by the inedible flesh,
He continued:
Deeper and deeper,
Until his hands were coarse and knife dull.
Finally upon reaching the core,
His anger released itself in a swift action,
As he hurled the apple core towards the wall.
Quickly though, he ran towards the remaining mush.
Grasping at anything, hoping to get his apple back.
However, it would not be,
Nor was it ever so,
its rancidness was sown in its creation
Hey little girl.
Upon hearing what teenage you had to go through, you gaped
On realizing how bold I’ve become, I gasped.
I want you to know that it is okay.
If I had to say something to you about where I am today
It would be who knew.
Who knew that you would be depressed at the age of 13
Stuck between being emotional and emotionless.
Who knew you would discover the power in forgiveness at the age of 18?
Who knew you would master the art of letting go at the age of 19?
Deep wounds heal but leave permanent scars.
And I live with an inedible image of battles I had fought
Till this day 5-year-old me who had dreams and a fairy-tale life planned still lives
You still live at the back of my mind; I still hear your voice
Reciting all your dreams like you did at 5
I wrote this letter to let you know that I am setting teenage you free, I am finally allowing her to heal.
Written By: D. Collins 12/9/25
The world has become inedible meat.
So, fowl even vultures refuse to eat.
Resevoirs of toxic streams and lakes.
Filled not by rain but words of hate.
With air that is full of unsavory scents.
Targeting those who possess melanin.
It's a putrid world in which we now live.
Lacking of love from any perspective.
The entire globe has turned rancid.
Dipped into a barrel of sulfuric acid.
We can't digest what's being served.
Or a painful death is what we deserve.
All can fall in love madly...
if they give the illusion
to be believers of fables;
would I choose differently,
would I hold onto convictions
and ignore this warning again!?
Commit or be free?
Going from delusion
to pain and feel miserable...
when nothing seems credible;
commit or be free:
is it hard to find a solution?
In the urgent quest for happiness,
we fall into the hurtful trap and cry;
we feel betrayed and give up on life,
never trusting anyone who offers only lies...
will be happy with a sudden goodbye,
will be comforted by arms that miss hugs?
Does time pass too quickly turning pages,
leaving its inedible mark on everything,
making us regret unwise decisions?
Nobody is to blame but ourselves:
the best choice is: commit or be free,
starting that life we imagined to see!
Commit or be free?
Devote all passion to one,,
safeguard what's worthwhile;
a shoulder to lean on daily:
is comfort over tragedy!
Commit or be free?
My new year’s resolution was to lose some weight.
Cut down on take outs and use smaller plates.
So I joined a gym to try and get fit
But lost my breath on the stairs, so took the lift.
My favourite ambition is to learn to cook.
But my food never looks like the recipe books.
The end result is often inedible.
I blame the author whose work can’t be credible.
I’ve never been very good with my hands.
As whatever I try seldom goes to plan
So decided to persevere with some D I Y
But it all fell apart, don’t ask me why.
Attempted to try some art and craft.
But my serious endeavours just made my friends laugh.
Then decided to give some gardening a try.
Yet everything I planted just seemed to die.
Joined a local choir and attempted to sing.
But all people heard was a terrible din.
You could say my life’s a disorderly mess.
But everyone’s good at something, I guess?
How many layers should you peel off an onion?
I often stomp in the salad
yes, until it is inedible
In confidence _ to risk
Trust must always lie with the bottom up
The gears are spinning
Call me naive
I believe ... until proven otherwise
Like a strawberry.
Seeds on the outside.
Tethered vines of trees.
In the grass.
I have to eat sometimes.
Just yummy stuff.
There’s no one there.
So I stir a little more.
Look outside the outside place.
And you’ll think of berries and shrubs too.
That could be endless.
Like socks, and tendons.
I have to eat them all.
Rancid and sweet.
Nothing but outer space.
Past that tree.
I have to grind it all up.
With strawberries, and blueberries.
Making some jam.
And growls.
Inedible jam.
We took the sludge we made.
Worth nothing.
Tossed it into space.
Like a strawberry.
Gets thrown away right off the vine.
marred this mead of honeyed brew
yet flaxen still thy rotten spike
and spoil it so inedible
but haste unto her charge, she will
and grail be this austere cup
to carry off ignobleness
and watch it drain through gullet of
a wrongsome hound, the cad, it must
and mete thy charm, ye witches grail
Drifting face across fulfilled lives, how many lies do I see inside?
I see without visual, drowning in endeavours.
I hear within silence, the blinding numbness adhere to my veins.
The silence enriches my absent thoughts, swallowing me whole into the jaws of fate.
What’s holding me captive in this divine existence? The monotony of being etching away my compounding resolve.
Saturated with doubt, with guilt and remorse. A futile endeavour to attempt release from the clutches of madness.
Altering ley lines to divert my path, digesting the inedible and finding purpose within.
Disturbances not overcome but overgrown with enamel concealing the ugliness left behind.
The path forward we travel, onward we look. Hereby is the contingence to survive. Survival is key, survival is free, survival is not where I want to be.
A Bengal tiger has an uncanny hunch
That he'll encounter a tasty beast to munch
Finding an inedible Prey
with fear he roars go away!
Then runs to seek a more suitable lunch
I’M LIKE AN INSTANT POT
I’m like an Instant Pot.
We’re both big and bold.
Heavier than we should be
Fussier than we need be
Neither of us should ever
Sit on the kitchen counter
When not in use.
Our metallic armor,
Fitted seamlessly,
tight and wide around the waist
Hard to keep that much armor shiny
So I don’t try to very often.
We each have different
temperatures,
we operate that way.?Different temperatures
deliver variable output
We both even hiss!
,
Beware the danger of getting it wrong,
Pushing the wrong button,
For it is the user who chooses
How far to turn the knob
How much heat to Render,
For success and bounty
As a temp too great or too small could
Ruin inside us, each.
Operate us incorrectly and we’ll
Explode all over you
When guidelines are taken
Seriously,
Pamphlets and fine print read,
we can both be tricky about
Unfollowed rules.
When you don’t know our laws
Of operation
Our innards could easily
turn to mush
Unrecognizable, inedible,
Salty.
Be reluctant to turn the knob too much.
Naked pink American hotdogs, inedible
Their popularity, barely regrettable
Baking scones has been
The absolute bane of my life
Fifty-five years I’ve spent
Its caused me nothing but strife
Up and down the country
You’ll find them in any café
Soft, light and beautifully risen
The highlight of any display
I simply haven’t got the knack
No matter how many times I try
Mine are completely inedible
Concrete-like and dry
You can crack a tooth on them
Or perhaps prop open a door
Try using them as a paperweight
Or to holy stone the floor
On no account use them for eating
That I wouldn’t recommend
I will not take responsibility
Unless you have a dentist as a friend
But at last, I have cracked the problem
I have a plan that’s mighty fine
I’ll buy scones down at the shops
And pass them off as mine
Note.... NZ/English scones are known as biscuits in USA
view incredible
owl swoops mouse - concrete stands still
rats...inedible
I considered naming this haiku 'An Owls View of the White Dove of the Desert.'
Mission San Xavier Del Bac, in Tucson, AZ aka 'The White Dove of the Desert', a Catholic Church, depicts in its facade, a cat and a mouse on its left and right sides. Legend has it that the world's end will occur when the cat catches the mouse, though nobody knows how this legend came to be, they are intricately displayed on the front of the beautiful old mission.
The White Dove of the Desert on the outskirts of Tucson is well worth a view, but owls beware; those mice are for the cat's catch.....
In an Elysian wood,
flitting faeries
among the trees
ponder their
magical seeding,
for a fairy ring
they’ll build,
within the greenwoods
emerald sea.
Moss-laden ferns
feathery light,
help feed faerie magic
late at night growing fungi,
puffballs round,
a faerie ring,
inedible magic.
2-15-2022
A STRAND (1074) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Sub Categories
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