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!)
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
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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?
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. ~
The bliss is real as I sink into each bite
Arterial consequences I won't consider tonight
Recipe easy: just eggs, cream and sugar
Though perfection with added nutmeg and butter
A touch of vanilla - oh, I'm in lust!
Double the portion size - oh yes I must!
Egg custard is the unglamorous name
Custard me again and again and again
Reaching for more, I don't know how to stop
Eggsactly - my craving is over the top
Mmm murmured as I'm finally sated
A dessert I conclude is very highly rated
Written: June 12, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: The sky exudes a serene splendor after a storm, a soft serenity that revitalizes the ruined land. By Poet.
*********************
Breathing the crisp air by a sunlit brookside,
where spring is nested in the snowy stride.
I felt the serenity of the world grow mild —
as if the highlands were nurturing a child.
The inn with its halcyon mosaic glow —
held the night as a lantern cradled in snow.
Stars danced slowly in the alpine breeze,
soft as lullabies sung by the trees.
Aged innkeeper’s hands shaped the bread,
as blessings warmed in the embers' bed.
Her tea — spiced cloves and heated coal —
was what I sought to soothe my restless soul.
Below, the river laughed in the sunlight,
a silver thread through greenery, bright.
Its whispers stitched the hours so pale,
until my breath matched its stillness, frail.
Evenings carried the scent of earth made anew,
with nutmeg drying in the morning dew.
Children raced down the "moss — soft" stone,
while quiescence poured deep within my bones —
I painted the sunset—equanimity and fire —
an artwork born from a lasting desire.
I named it for the tranquility I claim —
that gentle hour when gold meets flame.
Then, quietly and warmly, I stand again —
to dismantle walls in the familiar den.
Serenity, akin to a patient guide,
extends its palms in my mind, slow tide.
He thought he was a MacIntosh,
but he'd not have his buttons pushed.
Alive until his life was stopped,
he was peeled and sliced and chopped.
Alive to the moment he would die
and baked into an apple pie,
his last words shouted to his mom,
"Anoint me in nutmeg and cinnamon".
He beckoned a walnut from his shell,
crying, "You and I are going to fiery Hell",
but covered in a blanket of crust,
he went to Heaven where all pies must,
bathed and buried in vanilla ice-cream,
he was only a delicious dream.
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
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
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