Tomatos, Oranges and Other Fruit

Morning Gaze

2012-02-06T05:05:00.003+03:00

When you find words,
You think you're the hero,

Then you remember,
You are just the writer.

When you see love,
He looks like your man,

Then you remember,
Your man looks beautiful,

No more,
More beautiful,

Than the day you first met him.

When love rains,
It remembers nothing,

The umbrella you are carrying,
Becomes adornment,

You are already drenched and,
He's only ever been,

An angel,

Receiving sunshine,
On your pillow.

The tyranny of doubt

2011-03-16T22:39:00.001+03:00

When you are born,
You know that you are,
Here to change the world.

And it is good.

And it's alright,
To do your best.

Then,

You're checking the curtains,
Just in case,

You run out of sunshine.

-visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦photo - http://www.phuket-info.com♦

The man at the bar

2011-03-13T22:18:00.004+03:00

The man is pressed into the lime green decor,
This bar is known for.

Four cones of orange light form,
Four distinct pools,
On the blue formica counter.

There is music playing and he,
Taps his foot methodically,
On the porous brown floor.

I am taken by the hair on his arms,
Down to his knuckles,
Dark and thick.

The barman has already glanced at,

The silver case,
The man had pulled his cigarettes from.

I am aware of a pulsing at my throat.

Two women,
One carrying a large important handbag,
The other,
A Japanese fan,
Conquer the purple leather bar-stools,
On either side of him.

We are at war.

Due to irregular patterns on my Hawaiian shirt,
It is not clear which way this will go.

visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦image - twilightwap.com♦ linux hosting

I have forgotten who I am

2011-03-09T09:57:00.002+03:00

I have,

A mug of hot tea,
A roll of Maryland,
Chocolate chip cookies,
And bad breath.

The bamboo lamp beside the sofa,
Sheds dull orange light across the carpet,
And I am not casting a shadow.

My shoes are not where I left them.

There is a dog howling in the distance,
And the sound reverberates,
Lifting the dew off the canopy of trees outside.

I seem to remember going down to the
Laundry room,

And watching her fold steaming towels,
Fat haunches, corpulent bust,

And a very fine neck.

-visit my postaday2011 blog-
♦picture - webstockpro.com♦

John Rabe

2011-03-07T10:33:00.001+03:00

John Rabe,
Crys alone,
At the dining room table.

His back is hunched but,
He wears his jacket with pride.

His back is hunched and he is crying because,
His nation doesn't love him,
Anymore.

They want to know,
Why in Nanking he,
Bothered to keep the farms going when,

The railroads were fixed and,
Potatos were coming in,

In the brown paper bag,
On the dining room table,

Is a package from China,

Containing,
One rice-cake,
Some dried fruit, and

A letter from sixty-thousand people,
Asking him to return.

Light from the window,
Lifts dust from the surface and,

John Rabe,
Cries alone.

When he died,
Died hungry,

The Chinese came and took him away,

They took him to Nanking and,
Laid him to rest,

Swastika, jacket and all.

'...a living buddha in China, an outcast in Germany...' he wrote in his diary

-visit two beautiful German poems by Han-Magnus Enzensberger-

-visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦photos - 123rf.com and John Rabe at Widipedia♦

Earthquake

2011-03-06T09:31:00.000+03:00

Her leg will be amputated but,
Non-collapsible items like,
Book-shelves and fathers
Can make a space to survive.

-submit to 4&20 poetry and check out my postaday2011 blog-
publishing 15th March 2011
♦photo - 123rf.com♦linux hosting

Looking for the rain

2011-03-04T16:54:00.001+03:00

You're covered in the shit of life.
Great big clumps of it,

Hands jammed so far down into your pockets,
That you have become a statue.

Someone once told me,
Look up when you're down,

There's God in the clouds,

Rabbits in tuxedo's and hedgehogs exploding,
Bands of men with pointed noses,

Streams of women with long flowing scarves,
Platters of cheese, and housewives in bath-tubs,

Stoves and kettles and cottages,
With smoke-stacks,

Hot-dogs,
And grandmas,
And Einstein.

I look up and try and see,
Hoping only for the rain.

-visit my postaday2011 blog-
♦photo - 123rf.com♦

The courtyard

2011-02-25T11:55:00.000+03:00

The courtyard is alive,
With the spit of angry, bullets,

And baked hard,
By the scorching sun.

Clouds of smoke drift in,
In patches and,

Are collected by moans,
That become tiny whirlwinds,

Which tug at the dog tags,
On dead men's chests.

-visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦photo - 67pics.com♦

Careful now

2011-02-21T22:40:00.000+03:00

And look,
There’s an African!

Oh,

There’s another!

So fragile,
Precious stones off,
Every limb!

Careful now, may
Come a time,

When evil cloaked in,
What is right!
Leads goodness into night.

-visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦photos - Pierre Holtz & Paul Cadenhead for REUTERS at TotallyCoolPix.com♦

Inspiration

2011-02-19T00:55:00.000+03:00

The silhouette against the window moved,
Sighed after the first big bang,

I could just make out her hair,

Dewali again,

Hissing Indian Gods,
Brilliant blue crackling,
The noise of joy,
Colour-racing bolt shot across the sky,
Ricocheting off stars,
About the face,
Of the lady in silhouette,
Across from me.

She moved again,
Between the words,
And was gone.

-visit my postaday2011 - http://shitsugane.wordpress.com/ -

♦photos/123rf.com - see photo links♦

When Water Tasted As Good As My Palestinian Friend Said It Would

2011-02-16T23:21:00.000+03:00

They removed the thermostats,
And made us pay for every cup of water we used.

I was standing in the rain when it happened,
With a white friend and a,
Servant.

We did the mud,

Rivulets of grime,

Marveled at the homemade architecture,
And heaved
Big
Sighs.

I asked him why there were,
Water tanks with signs that read,

‘Twenty shillings a litre.’

He said,
‘They sell water here too.’

Scottish men protect,
Single malt whiskey,
Welsh women,
The language they speak,

My Palestinian friend once told me,
Water,
Israelis keep.

-visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦photos - National Geographic & Carlos Barria, REUTERS for Totally Cool Pix at Yeehee.com♦linux hosting

Where Do Dreams Go?

2011-02-14T22:41:00.000+03:00

The yellow-bellied,
Rubber insect with,
Eight legs splayed against the,
Black plastic,
TV-top,

Scuttled a little to the left,
And scissored its antennae.

"What were you doing on the moon, then, eh?
Running around in silver suits, and
Planting flags of pride?"

- He was rubbing his two front legs together and it,
Sounded like my mother cleaning the carpet with,
A steel wire brush -

"Did you really want to go?"

The ant, on my honey-pot, there from the night before,
Was silent,

And I was thinking;
Where do dreams go, when you're done with dreaming?

-visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦Photos - courtesy of NASA & 123rf.com♦

Trying to Post a Poem a day!

2011-02-14T22:37:00.000+03:00

Right, I gave up trying to import my blog from WordPress, I don't think the two platforms like each other very much!

I've only just started blogging, and I've found a lot of bloggers over on Wordpress from Blogspot so I've decided to repost here too, for those who found me at Wordpress. If that makes sense! Ahhhh.

Anyway, OneStopPoetry seems to have originated over here so it can't be that bad eh. These poems are a mirror of what I post on Wordpress so I'd head over there if you felt you wanted to know more, although I know going from platform to platform is a pain.

Lordy, I'm rambling! Look, hope you enjoy the poems and looking forward to getting to know you all a little better!

Anyone know how I get my blog image to fit the box they've given me?

The Motorcyclist

2011-02-12T09:39:00.000+03:00

Between the steering wheel and the
Cigarette lighter,

Is the glance to the rear view mirror.

And the cocky grin of,
The rider behind me.

All I see is his eyes,
Glinting from behind his visor.

Beautiful Helmut,
shining in the sun,

Sleek, body fit,
Blue-black
Jet suit,
Rippling with muscular motion,
Fluid
But,

Wait.

A twitch in the wrong place,
Sends me back to the mirror.

He’s making his move,

-I hear her even now, watch

How she cradles his
Broken body,
Humming bird too late-

He’d only just learned how to love!

Becoming a blur to my right,
The old lady up ahead,
Makes her move.

photo - 123rf.com

Sorry I'm at WordPress at the moment and can't work out how to import my page!

2011-02-10T15:56:00.000+03:00

TOMATOS, ORANGES & OTHER FRUIT

Importing blog

2011-01-30T15:34:00.001+03:00

I have a WORDPRESS (Tomatos, Oranges & Other Fruit) account that I'm trying to import! Back shortly!

And I'm so sorry for the faulty link...you know, some of us are on Zimmerframes!