Best Nutmeg Poems
I smell something so beautiful!
Many different fragrances are drifting toward me.
So many sachets of poetry are prettily displayed.
Such visual delights!
I stoop to relish one - a citrus blend
with sweet anise and cinnamon.
Ah! How fun this poem is with its taste of licorice!
And here’s one that is rather sensuous.
Its aroma is the clove,
clary sage, bergamot, and rose.
How luscious! I linger at this one for a while. . .
Now I lean in toward the scent of chamomile.
This poem soothes the spirit
with its lavender and jasmine blooms in it.
Oh, here is one not only sweet but spicy!
Coriander wafts my way
with cinnamon and ginger. Such a treat to savor!
Next I view a bowl
filled with myrrh and frankincense.
And what else?
Why, it’s the earthy scent of sandalwood
with a touch of patchouli for good measure.
My, this is an epic poem to treasure.
Right next to it I spy a tiny one -
a packet of herbs and other little things,
But oh, how sweet its fragrance
of nutmeg, citrus and vanilla. Indeed, I’ve found a gem.
And here is one completely fresh - a most creative blend
of lemon, lavender and pine. It is divine!
Now a strong scent of sweetness comes to me,
This time from lavender laced
with small petals Of germaniums, and again,
the wondrous cinnamon
that takes my mind far back
to sentimental scenes of childhood.
Balsamic and earthy is the final poem that tempts me
with cedar wood, spruce and fir -
another one with thoughts of life and nature
to ponder as I linger one last time. . .
Then I must leave this sanctuary.
Day after day -
how I love to fill my senses
with poetry potpourri!
May 1, 2016 for Linda's Poetry _______ (fill in the blank) Poetry Contest
(hope I did it right this time!)
Categories:
nutmeg, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Sometimes I can be really insistent: standing on one leg, brining my hands in prayer, dressed only in the four sides of the world, I remained silent and a nutmeg was my only food. Centuries passed, the lake on which I stood went dry and filled up with water again, ants erected an anthill around me but I kept staying focused, thinking of him. That’s how I gained his blessing. One fine morning, tired, anthropomorphic, he finally showed up and asked me:
why did you call me poet
what is you desire
and I said I want nothing
Categories:
nutmeg, desire, god,
Form:
Haibun
I HAD A LITTLE NUT TREE
I had a little-nut tree
Nothing would it bear
But a silver nutmeg
And a golden pear.
The King of Spain’s daughter
Came to list me:
She'd heard about my little-nuts
And simply wanted to see.
Her list was entitled “little-nuts guys”
And there were guys she’d missed.
Asked her if it was a crazy-guy survey
Or an anatomical-query list.
She said, my young man
I’ve never seen such a little-nuts display for free:
I’ll put you at the top of the crop,
You and your little-nut tree.
Well, I love to win contests
And be in a top position;
Nothing gives me more pleasure,
Far beyond the competition.
But I’d rather be on her crazy-list and be kissed
Just like Jack Nicholson,
Than on her anatomical-list
And studied by a freak-physician.
………………………………………………………….
NOTE
My apologies to all lovers of the original, traditional nursery rhyme.
Categories:
nutmeg, funny, parody
Form:
Light Verse
I love to spend my October afternoons walking ankle-deep in dried, curled leaves.
They cover the back country roads, the forest floor, and my own front yard.
But, I cannot bear to rake them away, or burn them.
The dead, gnarled leaves drift down around me like confetti.
Some are in shades of red and maroon and crimson.
The color of country barns you pass by, when you are going home for Thanksgiving.
Or, those crisp apples, waiting to be picked from the orchard's trees.
And, taken, to be pressed for cider, or dipped into warm caramel.
Some are in shades of yellow and gold and butterscotch.
The color of dried corn husks and stalks, bundled together to decorate porches.
And, the fields full of bright sunflowers, guarded by straw scarecrows.
Or, like the buses and the #2 pencils, waiting for the children to come back to school.
Some are in shades of orange and amber and burnt sienna.
The color of pumpkins sitting in patches, waiting to be carved out for Halloween.
Or, like the sun setting on a cool, September, Indian summer's evening.
Or, a full harvest moon when it rises, late, into the night sky.
Some are in shades of brown and chocolate and pecan.
The color of fragrant cinnamon and nutmeg, sprinkled within my Mom's apple pie.
Or, like maple syrup dripping from my pancakes, on a November morning.
And, those acorns, fallen from oak trees, inhabited by squirrels and owls.
Autumn lasts for maybe, three months, but to me it feels like only three minutes.
So, I take it all in while I can.
I look up through the branches,
where the golden sunlight beats between the rustling leaves.
My heart beats with warmth and joy at the sight.
Even though, the wind chills me to the bone.
A long winter will soon arrive, and the world will be nothing but white and gray.
Yet, the rich, unforgettable beauty of fall lingers within me.
Because, sometimes, when the snow finally fades away in the spring,
I can still smell those decaying, dead leaves.
Then, instantly, my mind returns to the autumn days that took my breath away.
Categories:
nutmeg, autumn, beauty, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Apple pie, fresh from the oven
cools on a rack, whiffs of cinnamon-nutmeg
aroma rise through the pastry vent
then drifts out through
the kitchen window opened an inch or so
mingling with a hint of moulder on the breeze.
The apple peelings still lay on newspapers
on the counter, deep crimsons mottled with yellow, green
mirror fall leaves of brilliant hues.
Is this a coincidence? Perhaps - but perhaps not -
possibly nature intends apples such colours
as a reminder autumn is close at hand.
The pastry, free-formed into an irregular shape,
rustic, like nature. Trees, some now partially stripped
of leaves, expose gnarled limbs twisting and turning
madly off in all directions. Showing its imperfections
yet is beautiful in its own way
silhouetted against an October deep azure sky.
Reminiscences of baking apple pie
snapshots in an album in the mind's eye
retrieving them, recollecting that day will sustain
when December's snowflakes flutter about,
when January's winds wail and
when February's blizzards drift high against the doors
Categories:
nutmeg, autumn, food,
Form:
Free verse
The Gift of Christmas
Some people say Christmas in this present time
Wanders lost
Through flashing ads and tinsel carelessly strung
On an artificial bough.
Some people say the Spirit of Christmas
Lives no more -
The simple Christ Child’s birth
Coldly mocked by glittering commercials
For diamond rings and robot toys.
Some say our plastic credit cards
Bring shame to one, who, born so poor,
Wore no fancy clothes
Or even slept in a cradle of his own.
Some say a Christian world forgets
The simple song of angel praise and shepherd lambs
In hustle crowds who only hum
Atonal harmony in green cash jingles
Some people say that Christ remains absent
From our Christmas celebrations
So lost we get in buying –
So drunk we get with wine.
Yet, I see his star rise up again
In children’s faith, eyes aglow with awe,
Reflecting wonder back into the darkest night
The miracle of the Christmas story.
I watch a callous world
Retell Nativity
Then remember little acts of kindness
From a neighbor, or a friend,
In homemade thank you cards
Of cookies, cakes or ornaments.
The Yuletide air overflows with scents of sugarplums -
Pungent cloves, nutmeg sweet
And aromatic cinnamon -
A gift of time given to baking memories
In sweet spice with children.
Music fills the world again,
To herald
Carols dancing in our hearts,
“Joy to the world!” the lyrics say,
“Joy to the world! The Lord has come!”
Each year I watch the world
Stretch out a loving hand of help
To strangers shivering in the cold,
To those who live alone -
To ones with rags for clothes
And families who face each day
Empty cupboard shelves –
Whose children would be strangers
To the joy of Christmas morn
If not for hearts and hands
Of women and of men
Who bring the Magi’s gifts to poverty again.
I see this cynical world
So closely guard the spirit of this time
A world of Santa Claus’ asks no gratitude
For countless days of aching feet
Crowded streets
And traffic jams.
Their love returns a hundredfold,
Through smiles and gasps of childlike glee,
To nestle beneath boughs of evergreen
When the dawning light opens up the givers joy
Spreading across a silent world
A message sprung from hope’s own heart
Born with a baby boy.
12-2-22
Contest: Christmas Spirit Poetry
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Categories:
nutmeg, christmas,
Form:
Free verse
Once glorious, but now rusting buildings, lined every dusty road.
Somehow everywhere clung the smell of cow dung.
My heavy bag, a giant rucksack,
Most of it I shipped right back.
I thought there wasn't much glitz or glamour,
And fought rough in a bit of a clamour.
Tuk-Tuk's going tut-tut, the hawkers piercing eyes and traders raise the price.
Welcome to Mumbai!
First, I met Tony, who promised to show me,
All the sights and sounds and where stuff might be found.
He exerted Rupees and expertly duped me,
But for a guided tour, I'd have expected to pay more.
My first "queue" for train tickets,
I was newly in the thick of it,
Could they organise a straight line?
They're walking on the train line!!
The infusion of livestock into the traffic,
My confusion and shock, all of this madness,
Each to their own, but, who the hell planned this?
But first impressions are often misleading,
Best get some rest, a wash and a feeding.
An open mind, that beliefs, often null and blind,
Just might find, can lead toward the fuller life.
From the mountains to the Thar desert,
Everywhere, I found was rather pleasant,
Lived like a king, paid like a peasant.
The colours everywhere and flowers worn in hair,
The spices on display and price you have to pay,
Surprises me to say, she'd grown upon me more each day.
And I had five months to travel through,
I bid a sad goodbye India, I'll see you real soon.
On scented breeze, she'd whispered to me,
As her saffron voice caressed my ears,
She hinted with ease and flickered desire,
While cinnamon curls lingered from her hair,
and nutmeg sweetened my dreams.
Categories:
nutmeg, travel,
Form:
Free verse
A stuffy nose leads to runny nose, frozen toes and thick as jelly mucus
sitting in your chest not allowing you to rest, mucus really sucks because there is nothing you can do but suck on lozenges and say aw nuts -
sitting on the couch all afternoon
watching cartoons run across your living room
listening to geese fly by
thinking is it time to lie down and rest
just take a breath and maybe two.
My lungs feel like they have ingested glue
they huff and puff to no avail
so off to the kitchen I go to warm a big huge heaping bowl of...
touch of magic, toad tongues stew, a pinch of nutmeg, thyme for two - what are some homemade remedies that work for you?
Categories:
nutmeg, encouraging, work,
Form:
Free verse
Stepping through the pine and holly wreathed front
entrance of the homeless shelter,
as a Christmas Eve snowfall decorated the city,
I carried a fresh turkey,
I heard joyous singing of adults and children as
the warmth of the lobby with a splendid bright
Christmas tree filled my spirit.
There was also the voice of a baritone man
with such a generous hearty laugh.
I became momentarily distracted by a t.v.
on low volume playing the vintage animated
"Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer" movie.
When suddenly a scent of peppermint and
nutmeg delighted my nose,
a flash of antique-red and faux fur white trim
with a long curly snow-white beard swirled
that sparkled with ice crystals.
There was a thumping on the roof,
and a resounding jingle of many bells.
I felt Christmases of long ago were here again,
a six year old me meticulously placing decorated
sugar snowmen cookies and hot cocoa by the
burning fireplace for St. Nicholas to pause and
enjoy,
I was soon asleep after laying down in my bed.
I know I just saw him there at the shelter,
the children weren't sleepy that Christmas Eve,
there appeared so many presents under the tree,
as their parents drank coffee finishing up servings
of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.
We can see Santa Claus year-round in so many
people,
you can feel him in someone's hug,
in the benevolence of family, friends, and
some strangers.
In giving of time or charity in food, money,
an embrace,
someone comforting you,
a pet cuddling you,
I know I saw him,
and so do many of you-
in the Christ Child we have peace. ~
Categories:
nutmeg, 6th grade, 7th grade,
Form:
Free verse
Two cans Apple pie filling
Half cup brown sugar
Half spoon cinnamon, nutmeg
Half spoon all spices
Two cups milk
Done!
For crust mix bisque and milk to
Make dough and roll it.
Cut circles by five inch lid
Deep fry and heat oil
About four minutes
Dust sugar
Yum!
Don’t like cooking? Then buy it
All say it’s tasty
But mind to eat properly
Lest it is messy
Pie makes one merry
Delicious
Pie!
If fed up with apple pies
Try other fillings
Apple crumb with cinnamon
Tastier tart cherries
Seedless dried grapes
Even beef
Pies!
+++
October 14, 2014
Form: Epulaeryu
Dr. Ram Mehta
Third Place Win
Contest: Plentitude of Pies by Sheri Freshonke Harper
Categories:
nutmeg, fruit,
Form:
Epulaeryu
We don’t so much as beg, “Mom can I?” no, just stand idle, lean on one leg,
pick up and set down pieces with the care of an egg the quietest
until we know it fits into the slowly growing frame,
and sneak , click it in, every once in a while
or we seek out edges, set them in a pile
sort by color and sort by texture
until “would you please bring me?” from a parent sends us off
after we bring mugs of Tom & Jerry’s with a dash of nutmeg, or plates of cookies
back the fastest
we find a reason to sit, no one says anything
this is our one large family present, one thousand pieces spread across our table
we are entitled such are our wiles
unnoticed we fit in to the family picture, puzzle hour after hour until the day
or hour or errand came and we steal away and see who could hold
out longest
hiding the piece that fits into the thousand pieces last
or is forever
lost
Categories:
nutmeg, family, kids, fun, games,
Form:
Free verse
My Grandmother's Hands
My Grandmother's hands told many tales
Of scrubbing steps and broken nails
Hand-washing clothes in enamel sink
Red football socks turned white towels pink
When not baking cakes at the old gas stove
Rag-rugs with old scraps of material she wove
Pantry shelves filled with powdered egg
Homemade rice pudding sprinkled with nutmeg
Sea-coal burning on an open coal fire
Bread on a toasting fork burning like a pyre
Grandma plumping up pillows from beneath granda’s head
Applying ointment to sores caused by being confined to bed
Hours spent at auctions bidding with her hand
Buying an incomplete bed wasn't what she planned
Back home in time for tea, crumpets and homemade strawberry jam,
I can still recall the smell of it, bubbling in the pan
Switching tv channels with a flick of her wrist
That’s how we did it back then, when remotes did not exist
Working hard all of her life, meeting everyone's demands
Every line and wrinkle told a story
On my Grandmother's hands
Categories:
nutmeg, age, grandmother, meaningful, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
A Seasoning of Scent
Each season wears the scent of its own seasoning
A signature perfume – wafting spice that beckons
Awakening
When my memories come out of hiding shadows
For misty autumn Sunday mornings when a bouquet
Of frying bacon and brewing coffee play tag
To rush up the stairs to look for dreamers missed by the dawn;
Titillating the deep recesses of amnesia
With a sachet of floral elegance
Gathered up in spring days of sweet Daphne’s mood
As apple blossom aromas drift on vernal billowing -
A lilac scented ballet and spring rain on dry earth
Or linen sheets dried on the line –
Alluring incense of roasting turkey or simmering stewpots
Rushing through icy nights of early twilight
When falling leaves give up their essence -
Aromatic balm, fanned by cinnamon and nutmeg,
Flavoring ambrosial apples
In teasing allure of fresh cut pine and fir –
Bayberry candles drifting invitation
To frolic through captivating potpourris
Of holiday cookies from the oven
Teasing from waiting anticipation
The smell of new fallen snow
Or bergamot’s balm on a winter afternoon
When hot cocoa memories sashay through recollections
Embossed in flashbacks of new mown grass
For the boys of summer or watching clouds
Bathed in tones of copper – wet dogs and towels
Sending up a strong whiff of summer
Fanned by salt spray remnants, barbecue grills
And ozone’s thundering incense –
The anamneses of dark chocolate to entice a lover’s heart
Drawing me back into a sacred aura
Elusive, unidentifiable, beckoning me with bouquet of grace
From the eternal perfumery
3-25-21
Contest: Favorite Scents
Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke
Categories:
nutmeg, memory, seasons, senses,
Form:
Free verse
Far within the forest deep,
where Pixies play and the Willows weep.
There lies a pond with lilies pink,
that within the night, the stars do wink.
Those that the pond loves and feels,
has respect for the Magi ways, will reveal,
to the one who gently sips,
the wish it will grant from whispered lips.
Not far from there, within a glen,
resides a lovely lass named Rose-Lynn.
With hair the color of brandied wine,
adorned with sweet Hydrangea entwined.
A fey woman-child, our Rose-Lynn be,
who walks between dreams and reality.
Born to the woodland Fairy folk one night,
from a Star Flower in the moonbeams sight.
Raised on honey and Humming Bird eggs,
sprinkled with stardust and nutmeg.
Her skin as pale and smooth as Thistle milk,
she wears a dress spun from soft spiders silk.
In the forest she spends her days,
her laughter like bells, while she plays.
Though she loves the life she's given,
it is the wind in her hair, to which she is driven.
She watches the birds while they fly,
as they dip and weave, she gives a soft sigh.
As she watches she wishes with all her might,
that she could join them in their flight.
One day she chanced to find the cool pond,
that called to her to look upon,
its surface that reflected the world around.
Rose-Lynn curled herself, next to it, on the ground.
Rose-Lynn heard her name sweetly spoken,
as though a lover, offering a token.
It bade of her to gently sip,
and whisper softly, her fondest wish.
No sooner had she sipped and whispered thus,
the ponds surface was rippled in a wind gust.
Upon the surface settling once again,
there was a new reflection of Rose-Lynn.
There from her shoulders were wings, snow white.
That would enable, Rose-Lynn her flight.
The voice told Rose-Lynn, the wings would be hers,
all she need do was to whisper one word.
Rose-Lynn stared at her reflection,
at the wings pure perfection.
She didn't need to take time to guess,
with a smile, Rose-Lynn, whispered "yes".
Paula Swanson
For the contest: Reflection
Sponsored by Constance "A Rambling Poet"
Placement: 1st
Categories:
nutmeg, adventure, fantasy, imagination, nature
Form:
Rhyme
I remember now. Something was heavy, a winged
dragon that refused to fly from my chest
My eyes were secret mirrors, or a doomsday judge.
I remember morning as a flighty horse,
or like a new school year,
that first careful sentence written on a page.
Time became a sequel. Roads were rootless trees
racing by - Fog an x-ray – the night, annoying as a fly.
I had a misconception and her assumptions followed
every stray dog. I quivered hollow with a frantic yellow zest.
I ate from a dish of nutmeg.
I woke to the sound of dying frogs, impossible spiders
trapping rainbows in their webs, the nebulous orbit
of knick knacks in the room, my reach
too small for a mother’s heart.
Her seeds had such an element of surprise, her
plum lipstick, the zing of frayed nerves
she mocked death with a cup of sunshine
she kept an artist’s palette - adding
color to existence
Too late, the impossible demand on angels
Each bitter thought the baroque decomposing
of an empty optimism
My keyless lock - emotion
Premiere Contest number 12
Contest Judged: 9/24/2016 12:01:00 AM
Sponsored by: SKAT A
Placed 9out of 10
Entered in the Best Poem worthy of a Trophy
I have entered this poem because it came from
out of the ether. Some poems just do.
Deeply felt almost not understood but felt on a visceral level.
N/A’d
Categories:
nutmeg, abuse, child, sorrow,
Form:
Free verse