Best Aromas Poems
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.
In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a tree,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.
Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.
Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.
Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.
You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”
But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.
The Saint Tropez of summer.
The smell of flowers,
Carried by the gentle breeze;
Many aromas.
For years, those homegrown scents have been stuck in my head. It's mother's home-grown and freshly cooked mustard and turnip greens. Neither jiffy mix nor Marie Callendar, but it was mama's own homemade bread. That sweet aroma of blackberry, peach, or apple pie was a little boy's dream.
I cannot forget those awesome smells after school of a pot of pinto beans.
I smell the smoke from the pits of daddy's homemade drill. I hear the sound of a handy device made for parching peanuts. Daddy is barbecuing burgers and ribs from a very recent pig kill. For years, those aromas arrested and captivated everyone of us.
And everybody in the community thought that daddy's meat was a must
My Multi-tasking mom cooked, washed cloths, and listened to a pastor preach. Smells of cloths being washed and dried out back by the sun are unforgettable. Mama always used tide or cheer for laundry, and Clorox was her only bleach.
My wife often speaks of how mother's homemade corn bread was irresistible. The aroma of grandma's coffee and mama's fried chicken? Most memorable.
02252018 PS Contest, The Scents of Baking Bread......, Sara Kendrick English Quintain, ababb, 3 stanzas; HM
#Diminished Iambic Meter Poetry
COMFORTING AROMAS
to find comfort in aromas, of past pleasures
intimate, personal, memories ours
human odours, sensual, warm
arousing passion, lust
lascivious grace
a wink
siu mei aromas
waft up through open windows
community news
... inhale my sacred stink and
swoon into your living breath,
then again inhale: you smell divine...
radio belts out tunes
seagulls circling
whiffs of chipwagon
posted on May 27, 2018
The Chocolate Baker is a lady of stature so grand,
She bakes the best cookies and cakes over the lands.
Other bakers dishes are tasteless and utterly bland,
Sensationally goodness are the works from her hands.
Miraculous wonders from her oven every day appear,
Close to my palate her talents have become very dear.
Cakes, brownies, fudge, puddings and chocolate pies,
Scrumptious delectable aromas bring tears to my eyes.
As Chocolate is a part of my menu almost every day,
Living near the bakery would be a wise choice I’d say.
So a house I found with a little effort and a bit of labor,
Now the Chocolate Baker, a grand lady is my neighbor.
Author Eileen Clark
aromas fill the air
bread and baked beans
~ winter delights
posted on June 14, 2018
Sour
milk in summer,
damp clothes in the fall,
wollens lightly scented,with white
moth balls!
lilacs&
roses,
zest of
oranges
melons
&pears,
perfumes
shed by
lavender fields,
stimulate
the eye
nose
ear
&
lips
in verse
&
song
Bright Marguerites,open and ablaze,
Reflected in a sunny haze.
Lilies waxed in a summer light,
A Jasmined fragrance to fill the night.