Poèmes sur le thème : apple

Poèmes sur le thème « apple » sur Poets.by.

TristeDave Bonta

Wild Apples

giving my apple core a toss watching it arc and land in a forest clearing i think of you Dad saying where should i plant an apple tree today a habit from boyhood summers at your uncle’s orchard continuing into your college days on a motor scooter with Mom exploring every mountain and forest in Pennsylvania the fall and only the fall was for apples culminating in your favorite the stayman winesap
JoyeuxDalilahshigaraki

Alex Rue

Brown hair, Hazel eyes, A smile like the sun. She'd love to sing and dance for us, And have more hoodies than she should. (duh) Her favorite food would be green apples, Oh, and she'd love to read and draw. And anytime she sees a dog We'll be hearing her name it all day long. If she ever fell out of a tree (which she will if she's like me) She'd run inside and laugh it off- "Don' worry daddy, I fine!" And if she's like you, I'll have almost no time on my hands, Cause I'll be too busy keeping her out of trouble
TristeAncient Artifact

The Pea

every picture and note and smashed bottle cap was thrown into a box hidden beneath my bed behind shoes and blankets and laundry so that i'd never have to look at it again but i can feel it through my mattress trying to seep back in my soul so i think i'll shove some more crap under there those sheets i meant to throw away a rotting apple core a notebook or two and more and more and moreandmoreandmore
Joyeuxcountry_guy14

Roses and violets

Roses are red Violets are blue That's what they say but it just isn't true Roses are red and apples are too But violets are violet violets aren't blue An orange is orange but Greenland's not green And pinkies aren't pink what does it mean? To say something's blue when it isn't, defiles it But oh, what the heck, it's hard to rhyme "violet"
JoyeuxGene Fowler

* * *

to peel an apple-- a store full of knives and swords! ah, well--
JoyeuxRobert Frost

The Cow in Apple Time

Something inspires the only cow of late To make no more of a wall than an open gate, And think no more of wall-builders than fools. Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit, She scorns a pasture withering to the root. She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten. She leaves them bitten when she has to fly. She bellows on a knoll against the sky. Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.
ContemplatifRobert Frost

After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell
RomantiqueRobert Frost

The Rose Family

The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But the theory now goes That the apple’s a rose, And the pear is, and so’s The plum, I suppose. The dear only knows What will next prove a rose. You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.
RomantiqueGerry Stewart

Autumn Apple

Tinge of frost kisses the grass, apples catch the dew on burning cheek. Hot mouth shivers, anticipation - sharp teeth snag the skin taste the bitter essence.
InspiréRisa Bear

See It Through

One should not have an orchard and Not care for it; so she tries, Even lurches from the depths of a chair She's found at some thrift, pre-softened; from Her house, warm or cool as she might wish, Out into too much sun or too much rain; from Under the kind roof of a porch she'd built, Leaving tool after tool there to gather Dust and webs, marks of a new will to Neglect. Beyond the weed-bent fence, an Orchard of sorts awaits her care, each Task having skipped two years at least. Hands grasp lopper and saw. She visits Apple, quince, pear, plum, cherry, clipping Vines, tall weeds, watersprouts, suckers; Even designates branches for her stove.
ContemplatifRisa Bear

Decembering

All that is left is the Granny Smiths; she Loves that they cling to their shivered tree, Leaves long gone. Even the hens have left off Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, and Have retired to their tractor, pecking At storebought feed in its styrene bin. The winds whistle through, rasping Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod and Stub their green bellies. She Lifts ten or so down, as if they were Each one of her own breasts, tenderly Filling her small basket. In the kitchen They will sit shyly waiting their turn: It is the season for other foods; in Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus Talk among themselves in distant tongues.