You are a peach tree

You are a peach tree,

Lingering in the shadows of

Apple trees, in an apple orchard.

Kids yearn for your peaches, but

Walk away disappointed with apples.

You are desperate,

Desperate to share your peaches,

To let yourself be known as delicious

Yet no one can find you

In the middle of the apple orchard.

You are a maze,

Full of intricate designs and tricks

To fool those trying to take your peaches,

But not knowing you are tricking them,

But only knowing that you cannot be found.

You are a peach tree,

Full of ripe and delicious peaches,

In an apple orchard full of rotting apples

Yet you remain hidden among secrets.

short like a cherry blossom - a poetic response to Michael Ondaatje's "sweet like a crow"

Your voice sounds like a brown oak seed
muffled in the layers of soil
like someone has just fallen off a mule
like wind and rain blowing on the side of a mountain
like a rusty metal angel, like someone grating cheese
on a cheese grater, like a mouse chanting a lullaby,
an apple stuffed in a pie,
a ball being thrown
a baby hugging a bear.
Like a coyote howling in the wind,
like bee flying in an ear
like hundreds of flies swarming,
a secret papaya, an alpha wolf
with a case of depression
like a boat chasing the sunset
like a man in a coma,
a rapper high on sugar, like fallen
cherry blossoms torn, like a lamppost
illuminating the pitch black of night,
the sound of bongos filling the air,
a gorilla riding an airplane like a skateboard,
the sound of a harp luring a beast into endless sleep,
like the swish of a basketball when it hits nothing but net
like a river sweeping fish downstream
like an army of mutants fishing for fish
and burning their bread, like a single puppy
in a room full of cats, like a berry bush in a desert,
like 2 cats in a cradle,
like 21 basses hitting the lowest key
like the sound I heard while having my lunch
and someone came in and started to sing.

the red wheel barrow style poem

so much depends
upon

a green blade of
grass

moist with morning
dew

eaten by
brown rabbits

Miss Hancock was a sunset.

Miss Hancock was a sunset.
The sunset's beautiful vast variety of color could be recognized by anyone,
but to see its true beauty,
one must get to know the sunset, acquaintance with the profusion of colors blending together,
forming beautiful and delicate shades of yellow, orange, and red,
too bright and too delicate, leaving much too fast.
Past these beautiful shades of yellow, orange and red lies even deeper mixes of color
so tightly fused together to form the richest and most profound colors that meets the eye.
Oh how the smallest swirls of color with the tips just melting in to the next
just turned your heart into melted gold.
Most people would just glance at the sunset,
not considering to just take one special moment
to gaze at a flawless piece of art,
but others,
they can see past the garish colors of yellow, orange and red.
They can see the true beauty behind the skin,
and treasure it, while they still have the chance.

What are they saying?

What are they saying?
A poetic response on "The Sound of the Hollyhocks"

Sitting there, talking to the flowers
Green, Blue, pink,
Dandelions, daisies, hollyhocks
They all tell another story,
but of what?
Is it a gift,
being able to talk to flowers?
Or is it a curse?
A curse to make you seem
mentally issued?
How do they speak?
Melodically?
Soothingly?
or even
demanding?
Flowers can be portrayed
as more than just plants
but as powerful speakers,
like Steve Jobs,
But how would I know?
I can not hear the dandelions, daises and the holly hocks speak,
but I can imagine.
I can imagine the flowers talking to me.

Can you hear the flowers?











http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hollyhocks.JPG

gentlemen your limerick

limerick:

There once was a guilty man Oram

He killed fifteen men in a forum

Knowing he'd be tried,

he committed and died.

But he saved five men in the quorum.