More Than Pomegranates

This is where Pomegranate Pithos reblogs the things she likes. If you would like me to consider your work for reblogging, tag your writing with #morepomegranates or use the submit link at the top of the home page. If you wish to contact me for any reason, please send a message to my main blog. Thank you.

[nanfe]

I love this pose, I think I have at least 3 paintings similar to this, perfect “denial” pose. Inspired by “Flower” by Yong Junhyung.

[graffiti-scars]

Daughter of Time and Creation

This is my hijack of the awesome poem by @definegodliness.  His original poem is in regular font and my added parts are in bold/italics. 

[behindthelastdoor]

Poem 703

Battle hymn for tomorrow’s glory—

How, in this art, the martial seems Blessed with dire grace and practical fury

How the certainty of despair and earnest hope Do weave into a melancholy harmony

How reassuring, that those who still stand In their conspicuous pallor of absence Will stand together

[expressionism-art]

Cosi fan tutte, Otto Dix

[dltnart]

Sea Smoke IV 24” x18” #watercolor #paintings #art #artist #artistontumblr #artistsoninstagram #contemporaryart https://www.instagram.com/p/BnSGjaNgDEd/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=9tz34gfiv4u7

[thespiandrummer-deactivated2025]

“

If I could kiss every strand of your starless-night hair, and every lock and curl that exists upon your perfect frame

I would find my breath clasped between the rhythms your heart beats, exchanged of air in waters from the sacred lakes and fires of your soul –

And as I cross the settled rivers of your soil, across the endless acreage of our life’s land, you become my journey to a discovery: that the rules of breathing captivate my

soul on the coastal sands of your gaze, the portered bronze and marbled phrases of your eyes in colors I cannot explain seized in the twilight of a night’s single star

“

© Thespian Drummer / Breath Clasped

[dementia7]

Mind New Roman

“The elkhound sniffs corduroy dunes; its master is missing, her boot steps overtaken with ski pistes & grooves—”

My greenhouse bus station; this book of poems scripted Mind New Roman.

“—a wool glove without a hand, her loyal pet bites the wind.”

Four flags wave to the villa state, lime alarm stripes at the knees, rusty billboards spin about-face.

Rocked to dream by chuckholes & hydraulics; the mountain, the dog.

I was reading, wasn’t I?

Where are the words?

[waadtariq]

i take myself apart each night unsew worn skin and tear out old scars watch myself disassociate and unbecome stay up late to pick at thoughts take my whole apart where i unravel the skin and see myself in flaws in delicate wills and indelicate truths try to rid myself of myself and create myself anew take bites of who i am and who i’m not and hope my teeth leave marks hope something of me gets lost somewhere between unraveling and putting myself back together wondering all the while if i’m what remains or if i’m what’s gone.

i wonder who rests beneath this skin | wt. (via waadtariq)

[lebuc]

mingling in our midst

* you ever  chance to visit  here on this lonely island where the wind wafts crisply over the sea-foamed rocks below to the junipers hiding inland under shade, presently * when the sun, sultry in summer warms our cockles, basking - has us feeling not so alone,   where rays are rings fit snugly over like-named fingers, also hands, arms, toes, calves, thighs & the occasional other this is a family tome -  understand * island air, it’s said is infused with a certain scent magical to the mariners who’ve sailed, missed crests, coral & entangling weeds regaling the locals with their words of wind, whimsy & royalty’s command & coerced consent * before captains of commerce  saw fit to avoid for years this wee plot adrift, aloof; little industry in scarce space sparse palms, plants more pretty than profitable ‘cept in our own hands in the place between waves, pulses of our heart * rife with aroma - juniper berry seafoam whisked in a certain island magic - ‘gica’ says little kit to kerry - twins * hoping to with friends  breathe untroubled deep breaths, prosper, mature, marry, remain on our lonely little island of magic, somehow yet mingling in our midst. * 8/18 - lebuc - mingling in our midst

[goatsmell]

Kitchen Nightmare

I’m making a jambalaya that will Make all the old men On all the porches Run slick with all their sweat Gordon Ramsay himself Will hear about this jambalaya He’ll come over here and Tell me it’s Simple Rustic True to its roots And likely the most delicious thing He’s ever had Anywhere

We’ll become great friends, he and I He’ll come by every Tuesday Stuff a cheque for a million euros Deep into my undies and Tell me it’s Simple Rustic True to its roots And likely the most delicious thing He’s ever had Anywhere

Then I wake up screaming And needing to pee

[cryingoutinthemaddingcrowd]

Stupid 90s

r&b band member,

who doesn’t

love the taste of

whipped cream?

[genvieve-of-the-wood]

The Daring Young(They Wish) Shitweasel on the Flying Trapeze

I have discovered a

new kind of acrobatics,

one which

I view with shock,

amazement and sometimes,

even horror.

There are some people

out in this world

who have mastered 

flipping, 

distorting,

contortioning

of the truth so brazen,

so bone breaking

the original acrobat

no longer knows

what their original skeleton

looks like anymore.

They will take you up

to the trapeze,

dress you in beautiful costumes,

and catch you as you

flip for them.

Soon-

you are taking your

act on the road.

You trust they will always

put the hand out,

as you swing and fly.

Your partner is able to 

pretzel, 

to be fast, impetuous

and thrilling.

But their greatest act

is how they let you fall,

for fear of a mistake

and losing the illusion

that is so vital to their

 performance.

As you lie there-

body shattered,

your partner has no hesitation

in telling you

the fall was your carelessness,

that you didn’t believe in them,

that you should have reached

for what wasn’t there.

They then begin

a double-jointed feast

for the eyes;

family and friends

do not see what they are,

they see a sincere artist,

so beautifully dressed.

You are barely able

to crawl away, 

but you do.

And on they go,

quickly replacing you

with a novice,

sparkling, dazzling

audiences everywhere.

The novice

however,

is more ambitious

and twisted,

they discover

right before

they miss

the net.  

@Genvieve-of-the-wood Sept 2, 2018

[titustheandroid]

[ryderedword]

Words of Fire

At some point in my life

A peddler came to me

Asking for a donation

Bed and board

I asked him for his credentials

And he showed me his bottled commission

In words of fire

Upon a boulevard of destitution

The monks in ashes and rags

Yesterday’s initiates

Consociate amongst themselves

Condemned to wither and dissolve

They showed me their commissions

In the back of a burnt-out taxi

And the peal of a radio

Born above a purpling shoulder

Now, a third

Who can imagine without fear

The search that remains

And the rest that awaits

Soothes my listless agitation

As I receive her words

And depart this vacuum

With my own commission

Inscribed with words of fire

At the sum point of my life

[robinreids]

vitis vinifera

grey clouds and

pale yellow thoughts,

a storm bellows.

eyes fixed on each other,

let it come,

we’ll endure it all.

[littlefireflybigforest-deactiva]

in a wheatfield

la vie, elle est belle while summer dies underneath these baby blue skies 9.4.2011

[fantodsdhrit]

beloved lxix

i write for what is left of monsoon,

solidify time, along with moon-spirit enveloped by silver clouds,

you hang up and cry when i come back to the mountains; i think about you—

standing outside where moss sprouts, sun comes and goes in snippets,

i am mute to your warm,

salt tears; there is a place, where two rivers meet behind your ears,

where your hair rests—

that places flashes in my mind often; to part or to be with you is tantamount,

but your lips demonstrate whiteness—i could explain at length, but it is better

if you could feel the falling rain.