Best Incense Poems
Cinnamon memories catch my soul in snares
as I trace in anguish the curve of your lips
in a photo stained sepia with my tears;
a thousand words... spoken through my fingertips.
Susan Ashley
October 14, 2020
~ Second Place ~
Excerpt from: Lost In My Lost Cinnamon Dreams; May 9, 2019
Premiere Contest: Rithimus Divisa 10
Sponsor: Gregory R Barden
clouds
of
incense~
inhaling
exotic
dreams
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
"Incense Infuses Autumn Air"
aromatic incense infuses
brisk winds billow golden leaves dance
sweet potato pie baking
scent of chestnuts roasting
marshmallows graze flame
Autumn cupcakes
chilly breeze
delights
air.
air
inhales
pumpkin bread
wood burning stoves
charms harvest in bloom
kissed by frosty breathing
smells haunting Autumn decor
as Angels dust atmosphere sweet
intoxicate petals crisp cool air
fragrant aroma swells hearth and home
infiltrates with candied apples
cinnamon spice tempts Autumn
holly berry laces
trees with cider chips
inhale crepe musk
as Heaven
feeds Earth
air.
air
caress
breathtaking
pleasant twirl glows
sunshine warms odors
cascading Autumn air
vibrant view invigorates
senses accelerate enjoy
harmony exists to honor God.
*For Russell Sivey's Up In Autumn Air Contest.
*Written by: Linda-Marie The "Sweetheart" of P.S.
*Oct. 14, 2012.
Incense burns fiercely permeating us
With sweet smells calling us closer to it
Stare straight in the flame and be mesmerized
Fascinated and placated
Meditate and self-medicated, sit
Enjoy the soothing atmosphere and wait
Light one, two, three, as many as needed
A big room we light four; intoxicated
Like drinking wine in front of the sunshine
We all fill our senses with ambience
Surrounded by multi-colored auras
Uniting us and strengthening all of us
In fundamental bliss and peacefulness
We clasp hands and walk into the abyss
Embellished saris glide with hot winds
as the clatter of bright anklets varnish
female heels rippling on New Delhi's trails:
pungent waft of curry permeates
through a local mart —betel, cinnamon
and mint leaves flaunt their skin—
kohl for Oriental eyelids, ambrosial herbs
rousing elder men-- while a bowl of lentils
incite my buds.
Although the thick of dust settles mid-air,
Delhi’s evening of jasmines reflects
a holy incense sanctifying a mystical chant
quiet , ethereal as I adorn myself
with a comfortable sari and layered bangles ,
gazing at Taj Mahal, if only to imbibe
this calm energy unfamiliar yet known
inside my core… my breath follows
Hindi prayers of wonderment
on and on like a song of moonlight,
until I accept allow such deep belonging
through the city’s rhythm with the world
and somehow, intimately mine.
Exotic Contest for Debbie Guzzi
7/20/2017
The love is killer; but sweet
Like the fragrant incense
Of fire
This baby born in Bethlehem
to intervene in history,
two thousand years His diadem
still glitters gold with mystery.
Birthed in a stable to a maid -
this baby born in Bethlehem -
bound in swaddling, not bright brocade,
of Jesse's root, eternal stem.
Scorned by her doubting countrymen,
how did she walk those eighty miles;
this baby born in Bethlehem
to mother hardly more than child.
Bent low before His manger, stark,
what love gift can I offer Him,
the incense of a burning heart:
this baby born in Bethlehem!
Copyright, November 28, 2017
Faye Lanham Gibson
Dark Mother of the fullest silver moon,
Once more I call upon thy hallowed name,
Beneath thy light I mark the sacred rune,
As in thy blessed hands my spirit’s tame.
By the burning of candle’s amber flame,
All through the night unto the golden dawn,
Inspire my voice; invoke thy pow’r and claim,
Unto thee in lunar light my soul is born.
As to this world I know I must return,
To seek thy wise so I may clearly see,
Inspire my heart so I may want to learn,
Thy ways that bring my soul closer to thee,
As incense curls to show my destiny,
Those ancient ways I know must come to be.
Form: Irish Sonnet
To my nose she was a stick of incense.
Filling me whole, her eyes.
The ashes fell,
Spacing her walk.
With smoke closely trailing.
The sun quickly set.
There's no where in the world I'd rather be.
An empty room filled by you.
A hint of spice mixed with something sweet.
The steadiness of warmth no matter day or night.
To relax and fall into deep sleep.
The smoke dancing through my dreams
In wait to be lit again
So, now, you all are positive
Ted Osprey is a fugitive,
That his last name is not Osprey:
A smart corruption of Godfrey
While his 'Ted' First should have been, Fred;
Some would rather he's called 'Red'...
And you're also quite positive
He was no clean operative,
Rather working for evil men
Soon staying in a house, next den...
Clear, Godfrey is now on the run:
For having turned on three his gun,
Because if he did not 'just gone!'
And would be mourned by nearly none.
The choice is yours to Fred murder
Or take this complex thing further:
And while I await your answer
In Fred's house incense and censer.
In the cathedral of my thoughts, words rise like incense smoke towards the vaults of the unknown,
And I, a pilgrim through the labyrinth of my own consciousness, seek to catch moonbeams in a net, to weave from them the mantle of the ineffable.
Ancestral voices resound from the depths, speaking of art that conquers time and space,
I let myself be carried by the wave of verses, like an angel's feather in the divine wind, floating beyond the boundaries of nature.
I am no longer myself, but the cosmic eye that sees, the universal ear that hears, the eternal heart that feels,
The veil of Maya melts away, worldly tales scatter in the wind, leaving only the pure state, the sacred essence of living.
I read poetry and become poetry, the analytical mind melts like candle wax before the divine flame,
Only I and the primordial Word remain, in a cosmic dance, in a mystical communion with hidden meanings.
I am passive and awake, like a holy lake reflecting the stars, yet ready to receive divine revelation,
I listen to the echoes of words in the caves of my soul, feeling their vibration in every atom of my being.
I wait with humility for the poem to find me, to inhabit me, to become my temple and altar,
I am a seeker of supreme truth who has abandoned his ego at the gates of poetic paradise.
I open like a chakra to the touch of cosmic energy, receiving epiphanies and ecstasies as celestial gifts,
In this openness, the silence in words finds its echo in the eternal silence deep within my being.
I am "I am," my divine essence, beyond the veil of illusion, beyond ephemeral masks and roles,
Words are merely sacred mantras, keys that unlock the gates of perception in the sanctuary of the reader's heart.
And thus, in the uninterrupted flow of divine consciousness, poetry and poet merge into the primordial One,
And the melancholic magic of existence is born from the cosmic dance between sound and silence, between form and void.
Eager her love's palms cupping, my warm breath..
Gently kneeding, fragrant fingers caressing dreams
Curtains drawn a mirror turns she speaks they arrive
Beautiful ladies adorned in silks perfume; natures bliss
Slowly removing her hood flaming red hair mesmerizing
Heights fiery eyes crystal sapphires about turquoise tides..
Spellbound this garden their flavour her aroma; enchanted.
Praise My God.
Rise up and shout for joy.
Make everything worthy of Him.
To sing a song and praise Him.
The scent sends a sound to my mind of Him.
I am thinking always to make the day go round.
The smoke is spirit and not the flesh, and here
I stand above the rest.
So, burning incense cover me now,
that I may know my Lord some how.
Solitude of Iris Incense Nightfall
Still solitude drips saffron in sunsets
Twilight tinsel tames tangerine tempests
Lilac lullaby lilts lulling lyric –
Diadems of daydreams dulcet delight
Offers ochre cheerful companion of calm
Unruffled ultramarine universe
Ebb of eventide in ebony escape
3-29-21
Contest: Solitude in Seven Lines
Sponsor: JCB Burl
Seven lines. Ten syllables each
If my head wasn't glowing hot
like jade dragon incense
I'd drink half that handle of Jack
And lament the endless repetition of history.
The calousness with which
Men go to their deaths
Loving others little,
but loving themselves so much.
This reality is the broken heart of the poet,
given eyes which won't shut
Given a mouth which can't be heard
and always that love
which can't be returned.