Poetry Archive :: Avocado

Really no idea what happened here. You can tell it has been a long week.


Avocado

A fruit from this tree,
persea americana;
mass phenomena.

Ancient nutrition
long before that toasted snack;
climacteric fruit.

Healthy yet fatty,
contradictory; texture
smooth taste sensation.

Millennial angst,
green-fleshed monster: symbolic
arbiter of wealth.

Avocado, shade
bathrooms, guacamole; build
California rolls.

Poetry Archive :: Moss

No regrets about the crap pun in verse #5 ❤


Moss

Small, flowerless plant
seedless, simple leaves: clumped stems
surprisingly dense.

Dispersed on swift winds,
beautifully fragile spores;
yet hardy, stubborn.

Cracks between old stones,
surviving dessication:
liquid renewal.

Comfortable bed,
thermal insulation, or
growing medium.

Moss’ sterling work
untold uses: shady greens,
non-vascular stars.

Poetry Archive :: Laurel

We’re having fun over the next four weeks by doing quite literal interpretations of our subject matters. In this case, it was incredibly easy to throw together five verses on the literal essence of laurel, both historically and medicinally. This worked far better than I’d initially expected it to, so much so it’ll be fun to do the same with three other shades of green, or green-related words going forward.

Amazing sometimes how an idea spins you out to a completely different direction than first anticipated.


Laurel

Aromatic tree,
evergreen shrub: mountain nymph,
priestess of Gaia.

Victory’s symbol,
poet laureate: favoured
by the Gods themselves.

Immortality,
emperor’s regalia:
Roman reverence.

Vital astringent
wound’s salve: that Bloody Mary’s
green ingredient.

Humble, verdant growth
vitally symbolic; plant
new futures within.

Poetry Archive :: Nobody but You [Redux]

Love is still horrible, unsurprisingly.

The original version of this poem can be found here.


Nobody But You

Now, departed: mind
desolate: understanding,
our love is over.

All passion desires
out of reach: estranged moments,
cold, empty feelings.

Every day, torture
realisation; final
line drawn, completed.

Point of no return,
old path blocked: accept failure
future, crumbling.

Nobody but you
at this instant: matters more,
loss too much to bear.

Poetry Archive :: The Slightest Touch (Redux)

The original for this one is here, and if I’m honest, you might be hard pressed to discern the difference. There’s not really a ton of change, and this one was a bit saucy before we started. However, if pressed, this feels like an improvement.

Next week is the last of the old stuff. NEW THINGS BEGIN AGAIN IN APRIL \o/


The Slightest Touch

Sensitised, moving
side to back; sense arrival,
waking arousal.

Coarse flesh, rough hands brush
back, touch hip: pulling closer
face blurs as lips touch.

Lost in joint passion;
blessed manipulation
bodies twist, combine.

Looking down to you,
hands grasp: shifting weight above,
organ pulse inside.

Your slightest touch lights
chain reaction: seed, life’s spark
little death our end.

Poetry Archive :: Regret

This is, in my opinion, as good as the original.

You can find that here.


Regret

Holding belief close
to beating heart: how now to
begin this story?

Commencing belief,
honesty placed: strong passion
swallowed soul, grasped mind.

Our middle movement,
soaring, reflective: leading
onward, to coda.

Beginning, ending;
passion departed: transformed
bitter memory.

Regret devolves, love’s
beautiful broken sliver;
life’s once perfect whole.

Poetry Archive :: Transition Two

Rewriting your own stuff is an odd experience: looking at a poem you considered the pinnacle of achievement, that absolutely did not need to be edited at the time, before realising what a doofus you were about a year ago. It is a sobering experience, understanding what has come to pass, normally via the pain and stress of failure.

I’m about to do the same thing with two more pieces I wrote in February: how will they fare? Am I again going to be chastened by my own inability to do the work? Or, will this form yet another bone of the important evolutionary skeleton, an inevitable part of each neophyte poet’s life?

You don’t care, here’s the poem. You can compare it with the original here.


Transition Two

Essence shudders, stops:
suddenly too much; how did
simplicity die?

Moving across space,
transition: often easy
except, this time, fails.

Considered options
concertina: shrinking, show
tiniest failure.

Sudden implosion,
comprehension dead: shattered
pointless planning, gone.

The dust, settling:
inevitable failure
fate, out of your hands.