11-18-2015, 05:42 AM
Stolen Fruit (edit 2)
The oak had my back, armoured,
though useless as a sentry.
His juniors circled
like witnesses at an acident.
Curtains of chlorophyll green
provided privacy against prying eyes,
for the peach that fell into my hands
was mine to neither pick nor taste.
Blushed skin, freckled, with fine hair,
brushed my mouth, releasing
notes of readiness
to dance across my palate.
The hors d'oeuvre demanded an entrée
and now my prize bit back,
resisting while yielding
and tasting while being consumed.
Inviting devastation, to feel how it is
to be absorbed by another.
The stoic oak preserves our secrets
one circle deeper with each passing year.
Still in my memory, the taste has dulled.
Never forgotten, only losing
potency with each reimagining.
Like dusk fading to summer's stars
her scent remains
where she rested briefly against my shoulder.
Original post
An early version of this poem was described by other reviewers as "a bit Mills and Boon" in places, so I'm keen to know if this reworking carries credibility.
Stealing Fruit
The oak at my back
was a useless sentry.
Pine circled
like witnesses around casualties,
while undergrowth in chlorophyll robes
curtained privacy
for a crop crying out to be eaten,
though mine to neither pick nor taste.
Blushed skin, freckled with fine hair
brushed my mouth, releasing
notes of almost summer
that approached my palate
then gently withdrew.
The morsel hastened a mouthful
and now my prize bit back,
resisting while yielding
and tasting while being consumed.
Eager participants in mutual destruction.
Oak and pine enshrine our secrets
one circle deeper with each passing year.
But taste fades like memories,
never forgotten, only losing
potency with each reimagining.
Like the shrinking shadow of her scent
where she rested briefly against my shoulder.
The oak had my back, armoured,
though useless as a sentry.
His juniors circled
like witnesses at an acident.
Curtains of chlorophyll green
provided privacy against prying eyes,
for the peach that fell into my hands
was mine to neither pick nor taste.
Blushed skin, freckled, with fine hair,
brushed my mouth, releasing
notes of readiness
to dance across my palate.
The hors d'oeuvre demanded an entrée
and now my prize bit back,
resisting while yielding
and tasting while being consumed.
Inviting devastation, to feel how it is
to be absorbed by another.
The stoic oak preserves our secrets
one circle deeper with each passing year.
Still in my memory, the taste has dulled.
Never forgotten, only losing
potency with each reimagining.
Like dusk fading to summer's stars
her scent remains
where she rested briefly against my shoulder.
Original post
An early version of this poem was described by other reviewers as "a bit Mills and Boon" in places, so I'm keen to know if this reworking carries credibility.
Stealing Fruit
The oak at my back
was a useless sentry.
Pine circled
like witnesses around casualties,
while undergrowth in chlorophyll robes
curtained privacy
for a crop crying out to be eaten,
though mine to neither pick nor taste.
Blushed skin, freckled with fine hair
brushed my mouth, releasing
notes of almost summer
that approached my palate
then gently withdrew.
The morsel hastened a mouthful
and now my prize bit back,
resisting while yielding
and tasting while being consumed.
Eager participants in mutual destruction.
Oak and pine enshrine our secrets
one circle deeper with each passing year.
But taste fades like memories,
never forgotten, only losing
potency with each reimagining.
Like the shrinking shadow of her scent
where she rested briefly against my shoulder.