Best Mustiness Poems
Online shopping, now the norm
from the comfort of your home,
with scroll of wheel and click of mouse
pages of goods you comb.
Convenient, yes- maybe, but
no matter what they sell,
the thing I miss the most of all
are all those lovely smells.
Our hardware shop- a heady mix
of metals, wood, and seeds
a bakery at dawn, fresh bread
to satisfy your needs.
The bookshop: that's my favourite,
new ink on a new page
that changes as the years go by,
the mustiness of age.
Tobacconists had pleasant blends,
nice smells in their raw state,
but turned to smoke just make me choke
long since quit, that I hate.
So many shops face closure now
not so much 'when' but 'if',
so get out there and pay a call,
buy things- and have a sniff.
I pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered my
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited my senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of my
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at my feet
I switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
She demured in invite
I wish I could close my eyes and hear you
sing to me...and ring to me
to do that I guess,
I think, I will get snug in bed
...and sleep in a slumber that's all awake
I will yet dream of a wanted man...
dark haired and warm beyond belief...
He holds the singer's weight in his arms
her songs on her lips......
he stealing them with brute....
her sweetness stowed deep...
in caves she holds.......
he dives in to steal....
her muskiness and mustiness is all invite
.....as hood slithers in.......
fingers grab the butter scones..
that receive seat cushions when she sits.......
soft and soft....presses are loved.....
deep impressions redden in blush........
and deepen yet............
this is like woohoa............
so deep and good......
She cooes : oh! wow...absolutely beautiful
...rich and electric
thank you, dear honey and darlin...write on
those deepening lines
that work screwing in my brain like fine
here are blown kisses unending....
His crescendo builds..
drums beat in temples of face..
and temples of deep passion and faith..
oxygen rushing in fast....
how long is it going to last
...........stiff limbs soften and scrape...
as the effort takes the shape......
hawk hawk.......field is ploughed.......
and earth eggs sought.....
they arrive
and a poem is born.
My Love, my Fullness now, is unrestrained!
My Joyful Heart now heats the very air!
I gaze upon your Image, and the pulse
Of Life increases, banishing despair!
I never thought that woodenness had entered,
Could not believe my heart was full of dust,
My breast and brain on lonely pleasures centered,
Could breathe out only cold, dry motes, and must.*
But when the moment lapsed, your sweet eyes twinkled,
And I could see Sun in your very smile…
When I, with Sun-flakes, glistening, was sprinkled,
I knew no possibility of guile
And all the world departed into silence,
And ceased, were sin, iniquity and violence.
*’mustiness or mold’
re-post inspired by Constance form D contest
THICKER THAN WATER
I pushed at the open door, no sound
just darkness inside. Dust filtered my
nostrils, a mustiness of lost years
inhabited my senses. A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell, the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories of my
living hell. A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at my feet.I switched on the light,
"Hello son I knew you'd be back;He's gone..."
He pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered his
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited his senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of his
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at his feet
He switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
I pushed at the open door,there was no sound,no noise,just darkness all around.Dust filtered my nostrils,a mustiness of lost years inhabited my senses.A loose floorboard creaked as I headed for the stairwell,the aroma of her Chanel provoked memories of my living hell.A tear of self-pity congealed in the dirt as I switched on the light."Hello son,...I knew you'd be back...He's gone..."
...and then...
I pushed at the open door, no sound
just darkness inside. Dust filtered my
nostrils, a mustiness of lost years
inhabited my senses. A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell, the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories of my
living hell. A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at my feet.I switched on the light,
"Hello son I knew you'd be back;He's gone..."
NOTE this is a repost of my original prose, to illustrate there is only two real differences between prose and poetry.Visual presentation and the fact that poetry is written to read aloud.
Scent rising
'The mustiness of damp autumnal days
ebbing away as newilife
Springs forth from hibernating soil
As spores spread ring on ring,
concentric ever increasing,
Encircling the shoots birthed from cold earth.
Crepuscular rays land on ground
Long cold from winter's clutch
And warmth ensues, the heady scent of
another spring.
I pushed at the open door,there was no sound,no noise,just darkness all around.Dust filtered my nostrils,a mustiness of lost years inhabited my senses.A loose floorboard creaked as I headed for the stairwell,the aroma of her Chanel provoked memories of my living hell.A tear of self-pity congealed in the dirt as I switched on the light."Hello son,...I knew you'd be back...He's gone..."
I pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered my
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited my senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of my
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at my feet
I switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
1.ENTERED IN 'Chaptor ' 1 Matt Calari Nov 1 2022
2. entered in Constance la France ' Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance' Contest Dec 5 2022
To gormandize upon the fungal billowing
of its noisome mustiness,
beguiles many to munch upon its earthy reek.
A creamy white meatiness enchants taste buds
to pillage pale fetid delights,
while a gluttonous well-being
permeates through every orifice.
Before they were banned from overhead storage
Durians ruled the sky.
Air sickness or a stomach churning turbulence
were deemed more desirable than
than those choking emissions
wafting from their pulpy substance.
High above the Indian ocean
passengers overcome by the funk
demanded parachutes.
Some renounced their white privilege
or fell to their knees to pray for breathing masks
to drop.
Even when disembarked, cabs would not carry them
fearing the lingering grip of clammy odors.
While still in their departure lounges
hardened Limburger eaters grew pale,
trembling at the thought of flying unprotected
from that most redolent of fruits,
the mighty all-pervading Durian.
THICKER THAN WATER
I pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered my
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited my senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of my
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at my feet
I switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
NOTE this is a repost of my original prose 2010 to illustrate there is only two real differences between prose and poetry.Visual presentation and the fact that poetry is written to read aloud.
The Visitor
He pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered his
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited his senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of his
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at his feet
He switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
The old book lies open
as if it finally gave up
trying to hold its spine straight.
A faint mustiness rises~
not unpleasant, just honest.
Someone left wildflowers on the page,
thin stems crossing the margin
like they wandered in
and didn’t bother to leave.
A few petals rest on the sentence
that once meant something important.
Raindrops cling to the blossoms,
small bright beads
that look as though the sky
paused long enough
to add its own commentary.
The words underneath don’t complain;
they simply share the space,
letting the flowers speak
in their quiet, wordless way.
For a moment,
the whole thing feels accidental
and perfectly right~
a story meeting what grows
without needing permission.