Best Camomile Poems
Death is a best friend
she visits often to dissolve old cells
tweak dioxyribonucleic acids
carrying silver sword and bamboo pipe
to draw breath, pointing to moon
caped in indigo velvet with hood
her whispers are silent breath on
white pillow
I invite her to sit on my bed
she admires an octagonal quilt red
removing her cape, accepting offering
of camomile tea, her eyes smiling hollows hyena, warrior, eagle, dung beetle
all at once, elegantly slow she settles
closer, fingering my ears, cold breezes
ripple down my legs
With sidelong glance she asks :
“So what is your claim to fame ?”
I reply : “I know not a name. Fame is
a shadowy flame, an orange-purple
one flickering to become lame.
All the same, I claim to be the highest
version of what Source intended
nothing more, nothing less.
This is free fame, oxygenated.
That is my game, if insane, let it not
be a shame, or a blame.”
Smiling, she asks next : “How have
you helped fellow humans ?”
I reply : “With Pluto Sun squared as
a dominant in my Chart, I undertook to
integrate escaping gloom into Light for
Self and others. As God granted Ketu
long periods of rulership over my form
I pulped Self in backwaters, where
angels fear to tread, to be a Presence
for fellow humans.”
Her hollow eyes with high cheekbones
move closer to my face. Sipping from floral teacup, fingers spindly, she asks :
“How erect will your spine be before
THE ALL ?”
I reply : “Not as erect as when I practiced kundalini and hatha yoga, though I detect
zero regrets, bereft of debts, slate clean
as an uncooked bean.”
Laughing, she replies that Divinity
will be pleased with my use of poetics
whispering : “Know that your spine will
revert to 21 years when I draw your
breath into mine, to gently carry to
Divine. You will sway on your way
into a ringlet bay of rosy everlasting days.
17 more good cheer years, hear my Dear.”
I watch quick footsteps across the
garden path. A thoughtform follows
slender caped back : “My claim to fame
is to be what HE-SHE desires me to be
~ Co-Creator of my own destiny.”
Next time Death visits, I will word it this way.
__________________
*[new form: L&N : Letters and Numbers]
At the sound of the gong you appear
to seek some welcome refreshment,
dear guests to be greeted right here
with a cuppa is our sincere intent.
There's a flask of filter coffee
and a pot of tea, a fresh brew,
there are also other infusions.
Now what shall I pour out for you?
You may choose decaf coffee or tea,
perhaps camomile or peppermint,
maybe some barley cup – gluten free,
green tea with lemon, mango or mint,
or green tea with jasmine accents,
'revitalising lemon with ginger',
'pure fennel – all natural ingredients',
or 'wild apple cinnamon with ginger'.
Earl Grey comes in various styles,
vanilla chai or rose lemonade
and assorted red bush bags in piles.
It depends on how you'd like it made.
Then I should mention liquorice too.
You could sample 'blackberry and nettle',
or into the garden just for you
I could fetch lemon balm plus the kettle.
We've 'red berries infusion caffeine free',
hot chocolate, horlicks or ovaltine –
but these need more preparation than tea.
Oh, there's a lonesome bag lost in this tin.
To whatever I've brewed for you
I could add sugar or saccharin,
maybe milk (or soya in lieu),
then lift out the bag or leave it in.
Next time you come over to stay
your preference I'll try to remember
but I suspect there'll be some dismay
with yet more choice than November.
Now I have come to the washing up,
that Yorkshire tea is still in the pot;
filter coffee I've poured not a cup,
so into the sink I'll empty the lot.
Snowfall so heavy in 'eighty-two
reproduced a Christmas card view.
A biting wind swirled in one foot drifts
over hanging in bridges..makeshift.
The fields flooded into skating rinks
into which each footstep sinks,
cracking under body weight so
not the best place to skate.
Thawing February brings twitching noses
in tussocks of awakened primroses.
Rummaging on hazel boles,hibernating mammals
poke from the holes.
Leafless hedgerows where buds now form
a carpet of white corm,
Badgers forage for food near their sett
renewing their bracken scented couchette.
Sparrow and robin pair off in twos
as lengthening days come into view.
aconite open in rays of sun
below yellow catkins with tails fine spun.
Osier shoots in green corn camomile
as early Spring mornings begin to smile.
I once tried some camomile tea,
It was bland and tasted like pee.
‘Twas lapped up by the dog,
Who then snored like a hog.
From then on, was just beer for me.
Jack Horne for Francine's Beverage contest, 29th October
With a basket woven brown, covered in linen, hiding goodies under cross stitched flowers
She with the Crimson Hoodie, and a smile like cookies and cream
Heading for the cottage so cute, and the walls pale white, the smoking chimney raising towers
The forest so dark, and the path so long, Granny waiting like a dream
The aforementioned teen, skipping through the glades, miles from Granny, four
Her laugh so pure, and her stride so sure, swallows soaring high above her head
She smelled the smoke of beechwood ash, as she slowed and tiptoed to Granny’s door
And tapped with a knock like butterfly kisses, and entered upon hearing what her Granny had said.
Her Hood slid back, and her raven hair gleamed, her Granny snuggled under the bedspread blue
The lass placed her basket on the table and eased over to Granny, her arms open wide
Her Gran silent and still, the girl leaned over, about to stroke her loved one true
And when the scruff of grey fur peeked out from the covers, the child leaped over to one side.
The deep gruff voice, and the teeth so long, and the breath so foul, and the growl
The now-wise lass, her arms and legs akimbo, her eyes steeled for combat and pain
She snicked out her blade from under the Hood, and sliced and diced the lupine creature’s jowl
The blood sprayed like summer showers, and then the wolf lay still, to move never again.
Soon she had found and untied Granny from under the bed, and made two cups of camomile tea
Then, nibbling poppy seed muffins and ginger biscuits sweet, as the stench began to flee
Hands washed clean, the sweet young soul apologised for her lateness, after she had deep buried the gory Cur
“My Sensei wanted to see me after Karate class, and he does SO make my small heart Stir. “
aqua dependent, thirsting for
the mechanical tin priest.
the lord is in the kettle when
the water begins to move.
now there is a river without reason
that flows from the faucet.
the faucet is cheap and leaks when
turned all the way to the right.
the lord is in the cheap faucet
for the lord is in all water.
there is a flame on the stove.
the lord is not in the flame
because it is to late for that.
Camomile divinity in a tea cup
at half past 9..
Natures aromas, fragrance naturally disperse
Delightful infusions for our senses to indulge,
Fresh cut grass, delectation, beautiful Ladies purse,
Old English roses bloom with scent they divulge,
Honeysuckle, jasmine, hyacinth, excite nostrils
Inviting participants to go closer, exciting receptors
Within nasal passage, leaving memorable trails
Of pleasurable sweet life giving golden nectars,
Honey scented buddleia, joyful lilies pure, true
Gently Intoxicate, alternating mood docile to virile
On a summers evening, aroma wafting through
Sultry night air, standing on a carpet of camomile,
Essence of Lavender entwined with magnolia
Accentuate our pleasure being experienced
By fragrances, or colourfulness of begonia
Our wonderful aromatic plants can't be replaced.
twitching noses
in tussocks
of awakened primroses
rummaging on hazel boles
hibernating mammals
poke from the holes
leafless hedgerows
where buds now form
a carpet of white corm
Badgers forage
for food near their sett
renewing
their bracken scented couchette
Sparrow and robin
pair off in twos
as lengthening days
come into view.
aconite open in rays of sun
below yellow catkins
with tails fine spun.
Osier shoots
in green corn camomile
as Spring mornings
begin to smile.
W I N T E R
B R E A K S
N A T U R E
A W A K E S
G A R D E N
A S L E E P
&
an oldie reposted
Fields flooded into skating rinks
into which each footstep sinks,
cracking under body weight so
not the best place to skate.
Thawing February of twitching noses
in tussocks of woken primroses.
Rummaging on hazel boles,hibernating mammals
poke from the holes.
Leafless hedgerows , buds now form
a carpet of white corm,
Badgers forage food near their sett
renewing the bracken scented couchette.
Nature pair off in twos
lengthening days come into view.
aconite open in rays of sun
below, yellow catkins tails fine spun.
Osier shoots in green corn camomile
early Spring mornings begin to smile.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Virginal and silent,
unbroken by steps
that would turn
stones into shaken beats.
Alongside brewed growth,
soft layers of life
simple with worms,
nightcloth and grass song.
A stride away from the lights
of distant roads,
the air cold,
we are new under stars.
(This is the picture that
makes me stare holes
through thenight, you turn,
asleep in your bed,
a cocoon of linen and camomile)
An interesting occurrence begins in a bag of one kilo of frozen peas. Not in a bag of peanuts. Nor in a packet of crisps or chips. Chipolatas agree with this but the soda water states that the occurrence could also occur in a packet of marshmallows for marshmallows were a popular accompaniment to soda and soda shouts so all must listen in lines. But the flour lifted up from a bowl and boomed his disaproval. "The interesting occurrence does indeed begin in a bag of frozen peas". The itemised items thought and the soda gave a haughty look and swirled the straw into the air in disgust. Then the arrival. Jiggling jostling joking jerking jumping. It could only be. The peas. They were given a standing ovation by all the forks. Whose prongs pointed uprightness gave a signal to all cutlery who dashed out of the drawer to join in. The maze that was being created by the peas who had dived out of the packet after loosening the clip was just so difficult. The high hedges formed by the little green balls was just so impossible to see over. But in the middle there was a cleaning cloth. Wow. What an incentive! In the end whilst the forks got lost and tripped over themselves the knives got stuck and the table spoons and dessert spoons gave up. The little teaspoons found the centre and won the cloth. For the second year running. To a roar from the riotous crowd of frosty iced coffee. And clapping from the camomile tea bags. So an interesting occurrence does indeed begin in a bag of frozen peas. 1 2 3 leap then. Z
Delicate dewdrops of spring
Powder the sweet meadow of life.
Passion of wild flowers,
Blossoms of tulips and daffodils,
Haze of violets and camomile,
Charms of the rosemary,
All surround the pale horizon.
A vision of fragrant petals,
The water of life,
A portrait of the soul.
Oh
Your whimsical
Words and whiles and ways
Are like Vaseline on a chapped baby's bum
Or camomile on sunburn skin
Conservative journeys traversing the vacuum
On the dark side of the moon
Only the true believers
Are destined to see
If Apollo goes to plan
And the shuttle lands
The future is in your hands
Fire up the marching band
And make a stand
For a return to mother earth
Re-entering in a blaze of firework glory
The countdown where Rockets left
Sound a crack of warrant thunder
No more under
The spell of magic
The whimsical reside
Man has been to the other side
And there is no going back
The heaven's are no longer black
Back to the motherland
Where the only thing to fear
Is conquering army's
That fund exploration
my world is covered with pristine white, and I want to, go shopping,
the snowflakes are pretty, but the wind is causing, huge drifts,
oh, will stay put, to write my poetry, and drink camomile tea!
____________________________
October 15, 2019
Poetry/Sijo/snow versus poetry and tea
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1188-694-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the FFI Blog Series 29 - Sijo
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
Grant me a peaceful afternoon
with hums alighting on nodding blooms,
butterfly wings and a soothing
lullaby whispered by washing
hanging on a line.
Let life be settled by a calm
with pleasant talk and camomile tea
and overhead, the soundless
drift of clouds across a placid sky
and leaves weaved in patterns
to print a cooling shade
upon a table set with scones,
cream and raspberry jam,
and above all,
birdsong sweet enough
to camouflage the sound
of screams and falling bombs.