Know Your Healthy Berries

Berry Boosters

Berry Boosters

Acai, Maqui And Many Other Popular Berries That Will Change Your Life And Health. Berries have been demonstrated to be some of the healthiest foods on the planet. Each month or so it seems fresh research is being brought out and new berries are being exposed and analyzed for their health giving attributes.

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You ought to have seen what I saw on my way To the village, through Patterson's pasture today Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb, Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum In the cavernous pail of the first one to come And all ripe together, not some of them green And some of them ripe You ought to have seen Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow. That's always the way with the blueberries, though There may not have been the ghost of a sign Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine, But get the pine out of the way, you may burn The pasture all over until not a fern Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick, And presto, they're up all around you as thick And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick. 'I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect, He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower I've told you how...


Although I could smell old lime-covered History, at ten I'd still hold out my hands & berries fell into them. Eating from one & filling a half gallon with the other, I ate the mythology & dreamt Of pies & cobbler, almost Burning with thorns among berries too ripe to touch.

The Wanderings of Oisin Book III

Till, fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-mown hay Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries fell down Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far away, From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-weeds brown. And my tears were larger than berries, and I murmured, 'Where white clouds lie spread

Poem in Response to Doom

But anarchy to poets who chant names of nuts and berries the way acolytes sing-song the mass. Quavery solemnity to summon back a naive awe in response to awfulness. Puffed like emphysema a beautiful word. Which is how someone got all Spain to lisp. By the time the mail delivered our cards pasted in Art and signed to the girl with polio named Donna, she'd died. My first time when the awful gloat of death got too chill to thrill. Helpless and stupid-hearted with fear I carried home the gift she never got. Returned to sender, crushed in my lunchbox with all the silly pictures and papers all stinking together like tuna fish. I barely knew her. Like vampires, any Spot or Fluffy carried germs of sudden slathering hate. Toilets and swimming pools seethed with death.

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Obscure, inclos'd the Stone of Night oblique it stood, o'erhung With purple flowers and berries red image of that sweet south, Once open to the heavens and elevated on the human neck, Now overgrown with hair and coverd with a stony roof, Downward 'tis sunk beneath th' attractive north, that round the feet A raging whirlpool draws the dizzy enquirer to his grave

The Moss Of His Skin

Of her arms, this was her sin where the wood berries bin of forest was new and full, she crept out by its tall posts, those wooden legs, and heard the sound of wild pigs calling and did not wait nor care. The leaves wept in her hair as she sank to a pit of needles and twisted out the ivyless gate, where the wood berries bin was full and a pig came in.


Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes Ebon in the hedges, fat I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies, The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them they believe in heaven. One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

Roadside Stand

The little old house was out with a little new shed In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped, A roadside stand that too pathetically pled, It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread, But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint. The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead, Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts At having the landscape marred with the artless paint Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts, Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts, Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene. You have the money, but if you want to be mean, Why, keep your money (this crossly) and go along. The hurt to the scenery wouldn't be my complaint So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid Here far from the city we make our roadside stand And ask for some city money to feel in hand To try if it will not make our being expand, And...


YET once more, 0 ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear.


Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine, After the Tuscan mariners transformed, Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed, On Circe's island fell. (Who knows not Circe, The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cup Whoever tasted lost his upright shape, And downward fell into a grovelling swine ) This Nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks, With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe youth, Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son Much like his father, but his mother more, Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus named Who, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age, Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields, At last betakes him to this ominous wood, And, in thick shelter of black shades imbowered, Excels his mother at her mighty art Offering to every weary traveller His orient liquor in a crystal glass, To quench the drouth of Phoebus which as they taste (For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst), Soon as the potion works, their...