Solemn, inalienable right and poor, opportunistic excuse ...
Hospital waiting room in the afternoon
Tired flowers looking after the patients
Saplings emerging from the interaction
Oranges in the hands of the sun as it sets
________________________
11 September 2025
Haifa Oranges
The sky is light blue or pallid
It is late afternoon
Clouds are burgundy and
The sun is a Haifa blood-orange
Picked by a Palestinian
Gnarled hands.
That was his land, but a historical
Tremor came
He has resigned; this is Allah’s will.
But his sons think otherwise,
Blood orange, one day
Blood will overflow, run down gutters
As we have another tremor that
rumbles on an everlasting family feud.
Why won’t poets write about us?
Is rhyming with orange that troubling?
Don’t we, like other fruits need thus:
To be showered with praises all bubbling?
We have stunning looks and great taste
But where are the poems and sonnets?
We are saddened that no one makes haste
To promote us on shirts or bonnets.
We hate to complain about this,
But it’s awful and gone on too long!
It has come to a state of injustice
And us oranges can’t “move on.”
Will someone pen us a platitude,
Or wax about orange’s great name?
Or will cowards offer no gratitude
And we linger on, having no fame.
The next time you savor our juice
Or peel our remarkable skins,
We will pardon the years of abuse,
If poets will pick up their pens!
Peelings of oranges lying on the floor,
Forging a scent of a time that had passed long ago,
Obliterated shards of memory started to ignite,
Diving to the forest of crimson pale light,
Crushing into nothingness and falling into oblivion in the depths of night,
Your twisted knife lies in my heart,
Two unforgiven frivolous fragments of freedom fall apart,
Your pleading words as tattoos blending with my skin,
Staying forever if not at my will,
Your scream an echo to the dark corridors of my mind,
Dying in a mellifluous melody to my soul affined,
Sudden rain pouring in the shimmering whirlpools of ache,
The flow of grief decays the scent away,
Blurring the line that crashed my fate,
Peelings of oranges lying on the floor,
Drifting to pieces of nothing and everything before
When you rest, your head between my shoulder and jaw
My eyes forget every weight they ever carried or ever saw
I'm just a man, but to me, you are the world without every flaw
When your sweet oranges look up at me, I am forever in awe
My sadness is eviscerated by each breath you will ever draw
On a tree
Overcome by the scent of citrus
Sitting on a branch plucking fruit
With the rhythmic sound of grass below me
The wind blowing the grass like waves
Filling the air with musicality
The blossoms
Yellow and white
With the possibility to be greater than buds
Tightly closed but ready to open
Offshoots of the bigger, stronger branch
I have this quiet moment to myself
To admire nature at its finest
Chewing on honeysuckle
The blossoms are shaped like stars
Soft and round petals
But pointy,
Permeating through the casing they are trapped in
A star, that when pollinated, grows
Growing into the tangy fruit that we know
Not all fruit ripens at the same time, so don't look down on me from among the leaves, because you think I am poor fallen. A callen in suit for when I die it is to bear more fruit
Was it just the juice of oranges?
Was it childish innocence?
Was it just a summer barefoot-song?
Have I swallowed it amiss?
My mouth remembers tasting it -
remembers it was sweet.
Where is the salty flow of tears?
Did sorrow soak into the soil – or run,
or roll, into a wider sea?
A sighing breath escapes.
Has every piece of me grown up?
Does any of that child remain?
Do I desire to find her soul?
Or, am I safer lying tame?
Oranges, oranges, oranges galore!
Rinse, and quarter, then stack some more! :D
blood oranges live up to their name
When you cut into them
their insides are crimson
as if they are alive
with blood, but unlike our blood
it was not blue before the cut
A day’s routine so easily holds me captive.
I confess to mindless, museless departures,
Brainless unpoetic habits so unreflective,
That I cannot dwell in momentary textures.
But January ripens oranges on my neighbor’s tree,
Marking spring’s beginning in California.
Midwestern groomed; such play awakens me.
Fat, lush oranges tumble all over the area.
Bold bright balls, they must be painted,
Landing in my drive, my car mashes them.
With this mortal crush, I breach life sacred.
Yet, once I eat one, it’s no longer a problem.
Tree of oranges brings fruit reviving passion.
Luscious harvest renewal of vibrant conception.
Oranges
Frost in Florida once, I planted an orange tree
among thousands of other orange trees in an orchard
when in Florida.
The coppice belongs to a friend of mine who invited
me to plant the tree a day of wine and songs
remembering the old day when we lived in the Algarve.
I can pick out my orange tree among the mass of trees
simply because it is the most beautiful one.
Like in a pack of dogs, it’s easier to pick out your mutt
it has friendly eyes; we can also call it love.
My friend in Florida died, so did my canine; for my tree
I hope it survived the frost.
oranges are staining my nails
squirting and spreading juice
aromatic, wet, tasty,
sometimes tart, sometimes sweet
some can juice them
I try
but fail
buying my juice at a store
Orange and oil
The old man
smells odd like
burnt wires Black
&
cryptic desires
oranges and oil!
Static erupts like infinite fire.
Noise white grows in volume,
even higher.
oranges and oil...
Oxygen runs onyx tubes lighter.
The old man is a dying fighter...
Orange and oil odd objects
ornate resonate with our oblique imagery.
Tangled on barbwire...
oranges and oil
smell like a burnt twisted wire!
Copper taste to tip of the tongue.
Deeps scars bury
tinted desires
all expire
oranges and oil
infinite fire visions of white noise grow lighter.
...or oblique imagery resonates
as objects oily with afterthoughts
detonates resonates
oranges and oil
The old man has grown lighter...
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