Olives Poems - Poems about Olives

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

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

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

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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...

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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 guide says Possiamo fare di meglio in città Either way there...

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

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

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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 fits, My preference is very strong That they retain their pits. For I'll...

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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 without sin?" Blame ceases to give a voice. Meaning is pushed toward...

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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 in my heart With heavenly sounds she opens her mouth...

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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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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...

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

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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: Vessislava Savova rarebird...

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