Golden apples of a dream

Ripening persimmons

Ripening persimmons

I once wrote a poem about picking apples and likened the topmost, unreachable apples to the ‘golden apples of a dream’.

The fruits in the photo are smooth, golden, dreamlike – and reachable since the tree is still quite small.

Golden apples feature  in Greek and Norse mythology and are believed to refer variously to quinces, tomatoes and oranges; not persimmons. Ah well.

Our persimmons are of the astringent variety which are only edible when ripe and gloopy.

A few of them are sitting in a bag to ripen alongside some ripe apples while the rest are unashamedly serving as ornaments.

They really are the perfect winter ornaments because the leaves turn coppery red and set off the orange globes.

There’s a different, non-astringent variety of persimmon which I tasted today – absolutely delicious. Like melon only sweeter.

The snail’s on the thorn

Snail on the balustrade

Snail on the balustrade

So runs a line from Robert Browning’s poem about all being right with the world.

This snail has a more comfortable surface to walk on, though.

I found it making slow and stately progress across the shiny paint of our balustrade after a downpour.

It should have been glad I wasn’t interested in popping it in the pot …

Take that walk

730087The record oscillates as
an eyesore rug,
inviting and rough,
scathes against my palms.

The ceiling is
afraid to blur or turn, it dangles,
comatose, stares right through me,
yellowing and cracked.

I live inside
what I cannot change or borrow,
flipping through identity cards
which do not match my face,
my traits, my date of birth.
I am young and I am disgusted.
What’s worse,
I can’t even explain my reasoning.
But listen anyway;
my hell should be your ultimate priority.

I will not sugarcoat my lips
or blunt my tongue
or spare you;
I’m taking the plunge
and you’re coming with me.

Brain on a budget

I sowed the seeds.842061
I am utterly capable
of growing golden trees
on my inner skull;
but with the branches torn,
there’s nothing to catch
the lovely language
I am learning.

Like sand, like water,
crushed or running thin,
the distractions make me stupid.
I cannot scrape enough coins or time together
to gather designer brand knowledge.
The mundane mornings
are washing the colours
out of my mind.

The hours are scarce,
but look at this space.
I am putting it
all to waste.

July 19th – Poem

It feels like a Saturday.854075
There’s orange pulp in my water.
I’m depressed about my weight.
She says ‘sing cos it’s obvious,’
but how or why it’s so obvious
I can’t fathom.
I’m really far from home.
I never learned piano.
A walk around the block
sounds like too much
in this heat.
I spilled a drink on my phone.
I can no longer type the letter ‘k.’
I’m sick of Special K.
I’m glad I never got roped into trying
the other Special K when I was younger.
Outside it smells like bins.
Nonsense poetry is not what it was.
Whoever came up with the term
should’ve thought about how
it could be abused.