A local past
mind may
transfer to a
permanent po-
sition in the
sane high or
lower ener-
gy than the
incidental knight who
only shows to
know some
thicker skinny fish or
brightly burn-
ing paper ti-
gers.
evening was pregnant with silence
noiseless in eerie quietude
the kind of night ripe for murder
she usually liked walking this path
never felt threatened before tonight
but eight young women were missing
she hesitated when she heard a twig snap
then she began walking a bit faster
hearing another set of footprints catching up
Rose behind back, plenty to choose.
Her pensive eyes, her pretty blues.
The stems have thorns, her bow is black.
Plenty to choose, rose behind back.
In dusk’s ripe wheat, this gypsy mourns.
Her bow is black, the stems have thorns.
The shoulders’ bare, her curves are sweet.
This gypsy mourns, in dusk’s ripe wheat.
Though sun is hot, her flesh is fair.
Her curves are sweet, the shoulders’ bare.
Man reaches out, found a nice spot.
Her flesh is fair, though sun is hot.
There’s crushing buds, where seeds sprout.
Found a nice spot, man reaches out.
Garden sobbing with prickly suds.
Where seeds do sprout, there’s crushing buds.
Petals wilting, center’s throbbing.
With prickly suds, garden sobbing.
Dirty affair, the soil’s tilting.
Center’s throbbing, petals wilting.
The world is crazy,
believe me or not—
it knows neither good nor bad,
only flows forward,
shaping wonders
for you to see.
A meal needs its patience:
chop, fry, stir,
each in its turn—
only then
can you taste its truth.
So too with life:
blended as you seek it,
revealed only
in its season.
Everything takes time,
wrapped in its own package.
Do not blame time—
stay open,
for it will come
when the moment is ripe.
(This poem is also posted on medium for wide range audience under the pen name Trishila, for more poem and stories you can follow me on medium website as well)
Soft air is ripe for dancing,
you feel the climate changing.
A hum leading tap,
raindrops chasing butterflies.
Woodwinds are no match.
The slightest touch a flutter,
melancholic masterpiece.
You feel the climate changing,
soft air is ripe for dancing.
The peace they display is a ripe fruit from thousands of battles,
They walk among us, in a silence that intrigues and soothes,
We think they have always been this way, under a benevolent star,
But this peace vibrates like metal hammered a thousand times,
It resonates with the memory of blows and raw wounds.
A hundred years of inner war means demons faced,
The fear of not being enough, doubt like a splinter under the skin,
Anger burning inside, more than any enemy,
It's a hundred years of learning: forgiveness frees oneself,
That falling matters less than refusing to rise.
Their peace is a silent victory, a fortress without walls, light,
It's not forgetfulness, but a comforted memory, inhabiting the cracks,
It does not fear the storm, knowing that at the end the sky is washed clean,
And when their eyes meet yours, you feel the humility,
Of those who have walked through fire and found themselves undefeated.
I finally get it
What they say is right
Never walk with a woman
On the road to maturity
That person will be in tears
And closet yourself to mature
And superior to your past
Then fall in love with another girl
And bad for the other.
Fruit that’s ripe is easily picked from a tree
but things which are forbidden are not free.
_____________________
In the infancy of spring,
An apple orchard raid.
The trees are bearing blossoms,
Teeming with fruit;
Some ripe ones on the ground.
The gang, excited and well-prepared.
Jimmy is up one tree
Shaking the branches
As apples fall every which way.
Apples here, apples there,
Apples everywhere!
His friends get busy picking them up.
There's more than enough
To fill up all the buckets and bowls
"Jimmy, try one, they taste so good!,"
Exclaimed one of the pickers.
"Not now, they must be washed first!,"
Replies Jimmy.
They go tree to tree
Plucking low hanging apples.
Oh, the varieties! The varieties!
Granny Smiths,
Twenty Ounces,
Rubyfrosts,
Yorks,
Galas,
Golden Delicious....
Yummy looking apples!
Lots and lots of collected apples
To be enjoyed!
Indulge in juicy strawberry stars
let that sugar soften your tongue;
The taste of Summer when it's cold
you visualize the bright Moon of June;
Let that sugar soften your tongue
that lazy grin will warm you up;
Frayed tank top replaces your hoodie;
The taste of Summer when it's cold;
Suddenly overheated and sweating
happy taste buds steal the season;
You visualize the bright Moon of June
splashing in the shallows of the sea,
a ripe time for something sweet.
From time to time sets a bait,
Her patience she makes sure wait;
Over issues would she skate:
In sweet words the tempting state
And seek to mask thy sad fate!
It is not spurious her bet;
Her marked gift is a glass plate:
Something surely at real stake;
Time for you to right steps take,
Kate's to-be-voiced favors fake!
So, now it's clearly a bait,
You should not naively wait.
Kate you meet for an asked date
But sure make you are damned late,
Never using her front gate...
If, at last, it proved a bait,
'Very poor' should men rate Kate.
You to stop calling her classmate
You once borrowed her black slate...
Also ripe time to Kate hate...
Reach up again, for things don't look
As they seem, focus your sight
From a higher place, for your true identity
Is in the spirit realm.
Grab hold in a new way, your spiritual gifts and callings
Rejoice in the innermost being, we are crossing over
Into our promises, into our advancement,
Our barns are filling up, our healing is on the way.
For the time is ripe, to taste and see
The Lord is good: a new day is dawning.
Favour to advance is here, to move forward,
To overcome, for Jesus reigns!
A dog that is feeding on milk
Won't go all days been fed by an ilk
When situation makes him bilk
Then the dog won't be as fine as a silk
A ball at the back of the net is a goal
Two balling on bed must have become a soul
With the one that is in control
Pleasurably drilling the hole
Two goals are called a brace
Jubilation is always of deep embrace
How hard opponents feel so disgrace
Trying to come back in form through grace
Three goals are called an hatrick
After two is no longer a baby mama by trick
Enjoying the memorable awesome kick
Which never get you sick
Unexpectedly in love;
Hugs plant Olive.
Unexpectedly with peers;
Olive's shade gears cheers.
Unexpectedly in joy;
I, a playboy.
Unexpectedly with ladies;
Scope drives Mercedes.
But men are running late for altar's oath
Wandering soul mate can't afford a troubling both
But has forgotten the lurking loath
Running behind them, are many a troth
Rush of intense flavors
Rally passions of taste
Rich ecstasies that peak
Robust, flushed perfection
Rotund shapes do excite
Rippling drips, lush fresh bites
Richter scale of delights
A Pleiades Poem
9/29/2022
is it wicked of me, if i,
buy a peach and it's too soft and ripe.
If after these words it does, what you thought
it would do and then it well, just might.
And yes you know my fingers are more than,
any thing they do
and still you would have me, sigh.
What if i pick the next one up,
and squeeze the center and it does it too.
I keep running fingers all around it, in and out it
underneath it, like those around me do.
Yet still peachy they remain, as last they were
and watching yes they laugh so hard and knew.
Well, i guess i can always wipe that kiss off your
face, but i'm thinking if i do, what if the rest i miss
and pass them by and the best i left behind.
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