at the pharmacy
ome books in my bookshelf are unread
and can stay the way, I need not read
everything printed
depression hangs over the landscape like
dust on windows tells me the obvious
come clean me now
When finally going ashore, I had floated
like an ant on an oak leaf, I was baffled
electricity bills have to be paid
the pharmacy is open, but I will wait a bit
it is full of middle-aged women talking
about their illnesses
there had been a storm, pot plants
had fallen to the floor, the weather
is getting worse every year
the apothecary is empty. I walk in
to get medicine for diabetes, but
I no longer ask why me
The storm recedes, its rage now spent,
Leaving the earth to emit a scent,
A dank, damp, earthy smell of wet grass,
That breaks the drought, from its parched impasse.
In the quiet there after, all is still,
Thunder's rumble quelled to distill,
Sound to liquid, rage to peace,
As hopes of rebirth and new life increase.
The scent of rain is a heaven sent smell,
Wafting up to dispel a lingering spell.
It's a therapy from nature's apothecary,
Dispensed from a dry-grass prairie.
Imbibe the aroma of the heavenly scent,
To flush the stench of discontent,
From your life's toil and strife.
Imbibe its smelling salts, revive your life.
An idiosyncratic apothecary,
neo pop corollas line its grove;
The price and results may vary;
Heinous hues hang extraordinary,
the bourgeoise see a treasure trove;
An idiosyncratic apothecary;
Chartreuse poppin’ pills be wary,
a champion’s golden boxing glove;
The price and results may vary;
Bating mediocre alive to bury
immobile in the web they wove;
An idiosyncratic apothecary;
Citrine and amethystine they carry
promise calm, balance, and love;
The price and results may vary;
Naïveté of the Sucker is scary,
silk subterfuge we do not speak of;
An idiosyncratic apothecary,
the price and results may vary.
the old crone’s dome boiled
skull scalding, full of trouble and toil
oily face, razorburn neck
my eyes the type to scan
salamander like
darting here to there
wondering where to next
where to next?
I tire of the comfort in
mom’s crockpot, I'm hungry
for another bite of syringes
in the soil
slippery like a leech, i suck
blood because its richer than what
I'm loyal to
needlepoints outnumber the steps
I cant walk a mile in these shoes
another affair with the fairy dust
apothecary that swindles all
all i have left is the
nothing that i have to lose
I need serotonin so serenade me
Let me slip away into a soft dream sleeping soundly , crossing the threshold of your apothecary
You're my medicine
Be my Sunday afternoon in the sun warmed spot on the bed
My safest space
My sleep is disrupted, badgered
by incessant wordplay,
a thesaurus of woolgathering
in semi-conscious dreams.
I keep a voice recorder,
bedside, to record the tidbit morsels
Lest they're forgotten
when I awaken and make bread
from the crumbs dropped
on my passage through the night.
The poet's worst nightmare is that
the crumbs will be eaten by crows
or carried away by ants in the night,
so the way back to recall
the thought trail is lost
and the poem will never
see the light of day,
and will never be crafted.
Any loss of these dream-let gems
is so frustrating and intolerable
to a poet, forever on the hunt
for magical meaningful words
beyond the hocus-pocus
of abracadabra in dreamscape thoughts,
and images, that pop into my head when dreaming.
Let me start without an apology
Because you, honey, need not be in apiculture
Every second you bee apiece apiary
As I fall for your rich honey droop apace
Take me to space if you must but never cause apathy
Because you dug in my heart with a never closing aperture
And when in your presence I fumble on words like one with aphasia
Darling the gospel you preach to me makes you an apotheosis of an apostle
Sometimes your therapy I take like you were an apothecary
Or maybe you are but again you make me aplomb
Knowing fully well you're the apostrophe
That omits my imperfections like an apparition
Let me make an appeal
Because if I don't all this might not be applicable
So I appreciate your every applause
As I apprehend
This love you shower me with a posteriori
on endless summer days
winter's feeble sun
apothecary of toxic tinctures
phantom of the night
Jean Neuhaus had an apothecary store in Brussels.
He started covering medicines with chocolate, to make it more palatable.
His grandson replaced the medicine with praline.
“a spoonful of sugar”
John Keats qualified as a surgeon apothecary
before concocting his poetry
He also wrote ballads & odes
but sonnets were his favourite mode
Come on down to Pleasant Pharms:
Apothecary quaint with charm.
Motto here is 'Do no harm'
Sometimes we sort of miss…
Grab some psychedelic fungus,
Mushroom that are quite humongous
On the trails right here among us,
And colors when you piss!
Don’t need any antidote, see
Mescaline’s here, and peyote.
Howl the moon like a coyote,
Then go chew off your arm.
Drop some acid; be discrete.
We’ll hide ‘em in a blotter sheet.
Perforated little squares, neat!
They say no long-term harm...
Come on down, don't be a stranger!
There’s no clear and present danger,
Just neural pathway re-arrangers
Down here at Pleasant Pharms.
Historic flood
There are a few unread books on me
bookshelf and they will stay that way
I needn’t everything in print.
My depression hangs in the landscape
streaks on dusty window panes tell me
the obvious: clean me now!
I wait for the pharmacy to open after
the lunch break, hope it is not full of women
talking about pills, illnesses and diets.
I’m not watching TV today I need not
to know more about the storm everyone
talks about, I have seen it worse.
Soon I will be stopped by a hero telling
me he was in New York during the histrionic
storm which made the governor famous.
The apothecary should be open now
better hurry and don´t worry
what the afternoon newspaper prints.
Labyrinthia P. Babineaux …………… The White Witch of the Lower 9th Ward
Papa Babineaux …………………………… The Father, an honest apothecary
Algebra Babineaux ……………………… The even-tempered Mother
Bumblebee Babineaux ………………… The precocious younger Sister
Gnat Babineaux …………………………… The curious little Brother
Cabernet Babineaux …………………… The distant Cousin
Ulysses “Zully” Kowolski ……………… The world-weary Sailorman
Nikita Something ………………………… The learned Creole Seer
Mitchell Hollywood ………………………. The adulterous Inn Keeper
Tom Sickley …………………………………… The disingenuous Feather Merchant
Fr. Marcus Paternoster ……………...... The lecherous Clergyman
Steve Merkin ………………………………… The unscrupulous Accountant
Vince Fettish ………………………………… The nefarious Fantasy Man
Xerxes the Great …………………………… The Emperor of Persia and Media
Dante Foolhardy …………………………... The Stultifying Court Jester
John Travailleur, Esq. …………………… Just another John
Plus … townspeople, pirates, Indians, street musicians and beggars, Cajuns, swamp rats, women, young ladies, and girls.
Let's go to the apothecary shop
-- Ah, it's closed over the noon hour
We'll stop by the milliner then
-- I see. It's closed then too...
I guess we'll just be forced to play
'Peek-a-Boo' at the Local Loo
Beloved Apothecary, you are most
lovely to me in ways you cannot guess;
your subtle smile, which haunts me like a ghost,
exalts and elevates me nonetheless.
More beautiful than the rest, you beguile
the best in me, a tame and mild, old soul
your soft demeanor has blessed all this while;
and mended to health and to being whole.
Because of you, I have gained newfound wealth,
a treasure and fortune from meeting you
one fateful night this last spring, on the twelfth
of May, which I remember to this day, too.
Like “Mona Lisa,” so are your delicate ways;
but a glimpse of you oh! so divinely repays.
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