It's summer and
the grapes are still unripe.
Which stone inscription of history
shows my presence
in the scene of an eternal life?
I am a raw brick
unbreakable
Shabnam Shirvani
IN THE TANGLED WEB OF TIME
How much longer in time,
Must we victims of injustice,
Still march and sing—our feet
Grown weary as facades of justice
Quietly seek to deafen our voices?
Today, we remain footnotes of history;
Ourstory, a cocooned legacy of
A pregnant dream hanging
In the tangled web of time:-
Matrices of pseudo gains,
Continue to tease unripe minds
With bigoted scams of liberty.
Today, in due time and due season,
We will rise from the pit we’re now in—
Rise and catch the fallen dream,
And lay it in the warm nest of the bosom
Of liberation—incubating the waiting vision
Of our destined realities, singing redemption songs:
Ringing bells of freedom, dancing to the beat of liberty:-
Indeed, the flame of determination burns eternally,
And the love-journey of the unshackled continues
On to the trysting place: Where we shall, in due time,
Come together in the onederful oneness of the
Onement of the peace and love of God’s liberation:-
I remember how their mouths nipped at
me.
Fangs of wine-dusted petals, sharp.
Their thorny digits clenching my neck.
In the white hospital room, they come.
With white gowns that swirl like mouthwash.
The gleaming teeth that adorn the
uniforms.
Here, child. The flowers want you to
take this.
And I do, with the orange-peel pill bottle.
Lithium sucks the life out of my marrow.
My family, they do not know me.
And they do not care, to know me.
I gaze into Hades' little den of comfort.
When the shadows shift and shape,
I can see the hollowness of my future,
The futility of my unripe fruit.
Rotten, some of the apples, that's what
They all say. But I see the infant green
Yet, I also know it will never do.
At the hour, and season of eighteen
I slice into the cake of chocolate drywall,
And savor the aftertaste of adolescence.
unripe nice cute grapes
among the vibrant green leaves
emerald pendants
Reheating seaweed soup
scooped and steeped from the Milky Way
rummaging sharply into the corners of torn memory
my unripe mother flickers like a candle watching the soup boil
There is no sieve to strain the light of her face that day
yet a cotton quilt smile that could soothe even icicles
a yearning for tomorrow holding starlight pooled within
the fluttering back of my twenty two year old mother
The remaining warmth in the seaweed soup she ate back then
seeping into my time grown heavy as it slowly reduces
tapping my worn and weathered pupils
engraving bitter salty tenacious footprints
Before the birthday dawn dries away
even if only in the haze of a dream
it would be good to see my mother as she was that young day
My existence speaks of roses
I'm blood
Breath of thrones.
It speaks the essence of my soul.
I pour oils on my skin
Scented like unripe spring flowers.
But the essence stays unaltered.
Veils of softness don't soothe the hurting.
Stabbing.
Like a midst of a sunset or autumn.
When death murmurs colorful lullabies
And soothes us with warmth
Into another life
A strange autumn this, with its closed fisted,
hollow fruitfulness.
Ashen drapes shroud listless maples, a sky
reluctant to color its face.
A hostile pestilence has worn out
the pith of those who still survive.
War has beat itself upon our shores,
and the dragons of earth and sky
have allied themselves
to the hidden worms.
The unripe fall far too soon.
There's a terrible smell in the kitchen
like rotting fruit
or a dead mouse
high and lonesome, eye-watering
thin and whispering, fuzzy with grief
Whenever I think I've located it
it goes into hiding
You can bleach the sink
and empty the bins
look under the table and behind
the cupboards, but
you won't find it any of those places
Beneath the warm sun, we wander
through the tangled branches
my grandfather's hands gentle,
like the tree itself, rooted and wise
He points to a ripe fig,
its skin a the color of a jewel.
I reach, as he coaches me
ripe and unripe
Conversation is exchanged
his grumbly Italian voice echos
like a simple song on the summer day
He tells stories under the shade,
of times coming and going
and I listen, hands sticky with nectar
learning from his words
In this small act
the picking, the talking
we find a moment, fleeting and eternal,
a harvest of memory and love
When I compare my love to frozen vines,
repressed beneath the frost’s relentless grip,
while sweetness looms, I nary taste the wines
of love that lingers taunting me to sip.
My aching skin, akin to frozen grapes,
betrays the warmth your nectar must exude.
Though pressed by weight and time, still on I traipse,
a doom I meet, forbearing interlude.
I crave your taste, but yearning still haunts me.
Your ardour shines yet coldness stains its glow.
Your charm forbidden till a bride to be,
conserved in mem’ry neath the depth of snow
Besotted by a love that’s crystallized,
Unripe fruit, yet adored, and idolized.
*Broken*
Emotions that breaks a heart
Feelings of deep caring
My desire for someone to talk to
Loneliness to grieve
My suppressed pain
Oh! This temporal defilement
When my soul becomes merry
The days of happiness is past
The hour of sadness is now
This part hurt to know
This fruit of mine unripe
Taste sour yet enjoyed
Monsieur Lucifer at work
My feet singing tunes
To the lullaby of a foe
For years till date
My chameleons hid her colours
Come, sit with me friend
Give ears to this fool's grief
My cries are not
This daughter of Eve brewing tales
I need my growth not waned
Sadness that held up my tears
Aching for changes that sting
Devil's green snaky being
Desiring to have a taste to me
This life I loathe, detest
The days of heart games gone
As eagle flies in the sky
Shall aid my increase to bloom
Names, gestures, and words so oft are empty
In actions, we find a true meaning worthy to knife
To grow is to walk a serene valley you fill of plenty
Of hollow praise and false flattery, be weary
We shed the skins of our former, unripe life
Names, gestures, and words so oft are empty
Our wills are rivers, carving through stony indifference
Acts of love and words of kindness cut through strife
To grow is walking a serene valley you fill of plenty
Seeking truth in every course, holding every moment near
Learning to read the signs that speak beyond lies, run rife
Names, gestures, and words so oft are empty
Now, in this quest for meaning, stripped of all pretense,
So give thanks; awakened to join the dance found underlife
To grow is to walk a serene valley you fill of plenty
Become the silence of your actions, pure and steady,
Find yourselves, your souls, burning fate's own woodknife
Names, gestures, and words so oft are empty,
To grow is to walk a serene valley you fill of plenty
summer has started
bunch of unripe green palm dates
soon shall yellow shine
Down by the tempest
wild panacea grabs your attention
In places yet explored
with eyes half open
we gasp for air
I have heard your half hearted pray
But what is right ?
when the remedy is unrequited love
carry the weight of freedom
but be aware of the snakes
in the grass
PAIN, the raw blistered truth of the wrongfully made choice laid bare and exposed.
JEALOUSY, the corrosively selfish vanity-fed flame that burns impatiently for an unearned reward that is solely deserved.
GREED, the insatiable festering itch to consume all in exchange for self entirely.
SHAME, an echoing shadow stamped upon a piece of time corroded by the consent of wickedness.
DOUBT, the panicked teter upon the tight rope suspended between distrust and questions unanswered
HATRED, the tiny acidic drips of a vicious flame turning to ash every speck of happiness, wisdom, and love within its reach.
FEAR, the all-consuming black sand stretching its way up your thigh stealing stealthily from you, your worth, your life.
SPITE, the unripe immature fervor that breastfeeds only petty rage, to strip you of your honor.
ANXIETY, the quaking thoughts that fall into the cracks of bone and turn to rubble your skeletal frame
SELF DESTRUCTION, the inevitable dwelling place of the invaded mind.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.