Quotes about orange, page 2
My Grandpa Orange Garden
From my grandpa Orange Garden
You can saw green orange leaf
all over the place
it fruits had started ripening
He frequently late going home
My grandma hit “Kentongan ”)
For going home soonly
But my grandpa workinghard
Forgotten to eat and drink, and going home
When he going home he saw the roof falling down
And black cloud seen in the sky
Quickly my grandfather took the ladder
Up to the roof and care the roof
For bettering their room
The rain fall from the sky
My grandpa walking down from teh roof
sleppy, and never wake up again
[...] Read more
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Ballad Of Skip Wiley
He's a man on a mission
Wild as a ricochet
Picture if you can
When the everglades ran
From the gulf coast to Biscayne Bay
He's gonna give it back to the gators
Lock the tourists up in theme parks and zoos
He says "join me for lunch at the reptiles brunch
Where the Barometer Soup is you"
He's crazy and dangerous
But who else can you trust
He's the outlaw in all of us
The environmental terrorist
Chorus
You can mess with the mouse in Orlando
Jilt a tourist in St. Augustine
You can shoplift all day at Blockbuster
But you can't steal the Orange Bowl Queen
No you can't steal the Orange Bown Queen
Verse
[...] Read more
song performed by Jimmy Buffett
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ode To Orange Chgicken
Orange chicken, oh orange chicken,
how much I love you.
You're sweet, sticky, and tangy, all at the same time,
you go great wi th soy sauce, but never with lime.
ode to orange chicken, which I love to devour,
it's been in my mouth so often, it knows that i have power.
It knows the names of my taste buds, Jill, Lil, and Bill,
sometimes the orange chicken is happy, but sometimes it's held against it's will.
Whenever I eat orange chicken, it goes CRUNCH, CRUNCH,
and I have to have chow mein, and that goes MUCH, MUNCH!
Ode to orange chicken, it is always in a bowl,
but did I mention, i also love eggrolls.
poem by Aubrey Harmel
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Red And Orange
Ther's a red house,
Inside there's an orange door.
Beside that there's a red carpet,
On top of an orange floor.
There's a red table,
Below an orange ceiling.
Upstairs there's a red bed,
Inside an orange room.
There's a couple of red people sleeping soundly,
Next door two orange ones too.
Outside there's a red truck,
No one knows what to do.
I don't see the proble,
Why don't you leave us all alone.
But now I see the red more clearly,
And I know what's done is done.
And I'll float away with the cloudy smoke,
Before the inevertable happens and I start to choke.
Good bye red house,
So long orange door.
[...] Read more
poem by Sam Price
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Tampa Robins
The robin laughed in the orange-tree:
"Ho, windy North, a fig for thee:
While breasts are red and wings are bold
And green trees wave us globes of gold,
Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me
-- Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree.
Burn, golden globes in leafy sky,
My orange-planets: crimson I
Will shine and shoot among the spheres
(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears)
And thrid the heavenly orange-tree
With orbits bright of minstrelsy.
If that I hate wild winter's spite --
The gibbet trees, the world in white,
The sky but gray wind over a grave --
Why should I ache, the season's slave?
I'll sing from the top of the orange-tree
`Gramercy, winter's tyranny.'
[...] Read more
poem by Sidney Lanier
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Orange Moon
Im an orange moon
Im an orange moon
Reflecting the light of the sun
Many nights he was alone
Many many many nights
His light was too bright so they truned away and he
Stood along every night and every day
Then he turned to me he saw his
Reflection in me and he smiled at me
When he turned to me
Then he said to me
How good it is, how good it is, how
Good it is, how good it is
Im an orange moon
Im brighter than before
Brighter than ever before
Im an orange moon and I shine so
Bright cause I reflect the light
Of my sun
I praise the day he turned my way
[...] Read more
song performed by Erykah Badu
Added by Lucian Velea
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Voice
And I lay still and snow dust
is burning my skin.
Snow dust is burning to me,
burning never burning out
Orange
Orange
a grey moon.
And I am becoming strings
strings of violas
guitars
violoncellos;
Strings of all
string instruments
when they are searing me
starting to sear me
like orange
like orange
and before I become
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poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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My Single Orange Rose
Here is my prose,
All based on a single orange rose,
Grave grass springing,
Church hyms their singing,
Blood stains clinging,
On my single orange rose,
No soul is laughing,
Deaths hands are clapping,
Coffin case trapping,
On my single orange rose,
Trees are branching,
My cold blank eyes are trancing,
The life cycle of death is dancing,
On my single orange rose,
I picked my final wish,
On deaths lips I kissed,
My long life I missed,
All because of that single orange rose,
COPYRIGHT 2008 BEN SPARACO POEMS
poem by Ben Sparaco
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Murder is a Colorful Thing
Red is the color of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Orange is the color of her stained shirt because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Yellow is the color of her shirt before it was stained orange because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Green is the color of her stomach as I cut her tummy open through her once yellow shirt stained orange because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Blue is the color of the happy sky while I cut into the green of her tummy through her once yellow shirt now stained orange because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Violet is the color of my swollen face from crying under the blue happy sky while I cut into the green of her tummy through her once yellow shirt now stained orange because of the red of the blood splashed on the walls of my home.
Murder is a colorful thing...
poem by Tamara Buengener
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Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
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poem by Frank O'Hara
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