Olives Poems - Poems about Olives

Jesus the Gardener

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

Ashes of my olive grove

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 inside,” he’d say,
“bring a bucket of water.”
I ran, feet light

Popping Olives

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 picnic basket with delights inside. Turkey and tomato sandwiches, crusts

Silence In the Garden of Olives

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 anxiety, distress, foreboding.
The sins of humanity were on his shoulders.
Suddenly

The Ripe Olives and Red Wines of Florence

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 guide says 
Possiamo fare di meglio in città

Either way there

Six Olives On a Skewer In Empty Glass

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 of a mother’s day and all things pretty and wrinkled.
a

Olives

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 nice.
I like them as a tapenade.
On salad or pizza, they

Olives

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 fits,
My preference is very strong
That they retain their pits.

For I'll

The Invisible Mount of Olives

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 without sin?"
Blame ceases to give a voice.

Meaning is pushed toward

Jesus On the Mount of Olives

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 in my heart
With heavenly sounds
she
opens her mouth

A Jar of Olives In Brine

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.

Lilies and Olives

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 the car toward the cliff when 
I was only fourteen

No More Olives

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 with ice.
Then I can stir it up until it is

Morocco and Black Olives

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: Vessislava Savova
rarebird

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