Oranges Poems

Haifa Oranges

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

Of Paper Moons, Foxes, and Blood Oranges

I. Sighting

I saw you  
through refracted light-  
a prism of chance  
splitting ordinary into spectrum.  
Wind-tangled hair  
terra cotta and rosemary beneath your nails  
the scent of soil and citrus on your skin.  
You carried mysteries-living things  
I wanted to cradle.

I didn’t find you-  
you found

Forlorn Oranges

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

Peelings of oranges

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

Oranges

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

Orange Blossoms

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 then buds 
Tightly closed but ready to open
Offshoots of the bigger, stronger

Apples to oranges gruk

Not all fruit ripens at the same time,                                               

The taste of oranges

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

Oranges

Oranges, oranges, oranges galore!
Rinse, and quarter, then stack some more! :D

blood oranges

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

Tree of Oranges

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

Oranges

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

Juicing Oranges

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

Oranges and Oil Ii

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

The Oranges and Browns of Autumn

squirrels get frisky
cold weather aids their enthusiasm
round and round the tree they run
horses glad to be walking on cool asphalt
loving the oranges and browns of autumn

• Short Oranges Poems
• Famous Oranges Poems
• Best Oranges Poems
• Read Oranges Poems
• Long Oranges Poems
• Oranges Quotes