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Fragrance of Life

Fragrance of Life © Cool rain drums on blistering asphalt, the scent streams into the nostrils--hot, grassy smell of summer, freshly cut-smoky cedar lingers on the air Fresh popcorn drenched in butter, I sit in the dark, musty movie house. Childhood memories of Tom Mix dashing across the screen A breath, deep of rain-damp wool, heady peat of whiskey neat. Old butt-imprinted leather and the dusty, pulpy smell of a well thumbed book as the page is turned The mule drawn plow turns the rich, boggy earth beneath an autumn sky. With luck and some rain the larder is full at harvest time Wrapped in strong arms, nose pressed to warm skin smelling of soap and outdoors. Drinking the heat in with the smell of the man, your man Sweet puppy breath. Pure doggy conviction that you will love him as much as he loves you Candles and incense in the great cathedral… the heart fills with faith, hope, and expectation Soft curls, sweet skin, the babe squirms closer… powdery newness, innocence, and trust Briny, sharp tang of the northern sea. Balmy, yielding, essence under the Southern Cross Green aftertaste, fishy decay and salty fresh scent of the clean-swept beach Sultry air twines itself through the Quarter, crushed sugar, wet pavement, yeasty bouquet of hot beignet. Warm beer, praline sweet, heady grape Old river water slugs along Stifling, coppery smell of blood be it the battle field, hospital, crime scene, butcher shop, or birthing room… Cloys In the nostrils sticks in the back of the throat like old mucus Icy sweetness of winter air, frigid sting of snow to come… sharp pine tantalizes the senses, as harsh breath smokes the air Steaming manure in fresh straw, roasted peanuts, pink spun sugary sweet… the pungent animals stalk the cage. Sawdust under old canvas glows like old gold in a shaft of sun light. The Big Top! Childhood rushes back The smell of her on your mustache… you don’t want to wash your face… lose the heady scent of her love New trees struggle to rise above a sea of old petroleum. Pine sol lies still on the cold tiles, stale baloney on old bread. Rancid tired clothes reek of cheap cologne The truck belches halitosis Move on down the highway Sharp fall gusts through the quaking aspen, pitchy sap barks in the crackling fire, snowy air assaults the senses The loon sings, warming the heart. Trisha Sugarek Butterflies and Bullets

Copyright © | Year Posted 2014

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Date: 6/1/2016 9:48:00 PM
Superbly crafted word images -- descriptive, picturesque and imaginative.
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Trisha Sugarek
Date: 6/2/2016 6:32:00 AM
I appreciate your generous words, Tom.
Date: 4/10/2014 10:57:00 AM
A fascinating mélange of sensual experiences. Your poem reads like a mosaic -- never tiring us by lingering too long on a particular stimulation. Every line is fresh and invigorating. Read carefully, we actually smell the "stale baloney on old bread" or hear the "pitchy sap barking in the crackling fire". Thank you so much for sharing, Trisha.
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Trisha Sugarek
Date: 4/10/2014 11:23:00 AM
Thanks, Sam. What a lovely critique. Trish