Best Smell Poems
A smell permeates through the house
I’m convinced it must be house mouse
I hunt high and then I hunt low
But the source of the smell it won’t show
I get down on my hands and my knees
The dirt and the dust make me sneeze
The pungent smell makes me feel sick
Burn scented candles right down to the wick
Now I have a sad look on my face
The origin of the smell I can’t trace
Get some cheese and lay it on a trap
Wait for the jaws of the trap to go snap
But the cheese remains where its put
The jaws of the trap don’t snap shut
Found hidden in the huge laundry box
An old pair of my Pa's cheesy socks!
Smelly socks are confined to the bin
Now I can say to my guests 'do come in'!
13th January 2015
Fictional write for Humor Contest!!!
Sponsor Carol Eastman
~awarded 1st place~
brilliant sunshine smell of cinnamon laughter... white stones and tree trunks
*Christmas Jamacia
My computer has a ‘smell chequer’
Alas it doesn't seem to work
For when I make an error
I just look a complete jerk
I know that I can smell
I can do that pretty well
But when I make an error
It often is a terror
I’m wary typing duck, I know that F is next to D
Because if I do a swear it could be a tragedy
If I’m typing the word shots I need to take great care
Because I is next to O and of this I am aware
So make sure you use your ‘smell chequer’
I am sure you will agree
Your poems will be ‘prefect’
You will get it ‘write’ like me
Jan Allison
25th October 2014
I light a candle for you this lonely night
Vanilla scented footsteps from the past.
The smell of your sweater a poignant delight
I wonder how long the memory will last.
Lavender scent to ease the empty pain
Potpourri of emotions in the smoky air.
In honeysuckle flames I see you again
Inhale the smell of aftershave in my hair.
Lose myself in pipe tobacco and peppermint
Barbeque fumes from a long lost yesterday.
Chocolate laughter that tease and hint
Of watermelon wars in the dusty hay.
Coffee memories that taunt and tease
Lost conversations in the smell of brandy.
Dusty morning air after a hard freeze
Your body heat so sweetly handy.
I light a candle for you this lonely night
Vanilla scented footsteps from the past.
Somewhere deep inside it's very tight
I wonder how long is grief supposed to last.
smell that aroma
fresh cut cedar in the house...
santa will come soon
*Christmas
Smell the roses
When you’re in an awful hurry and haven’t time to spare
And everything’s a worry you’re rushing here and there
While all the jobs are piling up, there’s dishes in the sink
You haven’t time to wash a cup, you haven’t time to think
Stop... and smell the roses, that well worn old cliché
For sure as little apples, tomorrow is another day.
Just breathe in,
violet meadows,
lavender’s relaxing elixir,
passive perfume permeates
the olfactory,
ah...such sweet slumber!
It's been a little and some more
Since i seen the sea
As the tide was out upon
my previous visitation
So i left without the smell of
salty air stimulating my sensibilities
Until i had to convince myself i
was actually there in the first place
So stupid me i filled a glass with
half water then half salt beside
my bedroom table
And smeared my face with coconut
butter sun cream
In the hope i would remember
what the sea looked and smelt
like
To tide myself over till the
next time
Blackpool isn't clouded over
by the north western light's
of Southport
And i can remember what life
actually feels and tastes like
Before the ghosting mist and
fog obscured the view
Oh windmill stationary blowing
forlorn out to Irish sea
Shipping Forecasts
3 Legs of Man
I wonder if Jan is looking back
in nostalgic contemplation as
am i
They scoop me up, I smell so good. Others come, and stand in line. People shifting, impatiently.
They pay money, as cash registers sing happily. Wide pleasing smiles appear when they reach for us.
One starts eating me before she returns to her seat. She sets me on the ground in a stall for a bit.
Picks me up, washes her hands, and dives in again. Her hands are cooler now, but I do not care.
It feels wonderful to be appreciated. My smell has permeated the theater now. Others are running
Toward the cash registers, eager to give their money, so they can begin diving into my relatives.
I hear my brothers and sisters laughing as they happily crack and pop. My dad smells so tasty!
My mother is smacking in delight as someone gulps her down. Ugh! A kernel one says.
I watch him spit my kernel cousin Jake onto the carpet. I feel sad as I watch a dustpan get him.
It would feel terrible, rejected like that. My family is a proud bunch. We are excited that
We are more popular than the stars and shows that brought this crowd here in the first place.
If you hear the sound of rat-tat-a-tat
It's not a woodpecker or a chattering cat
Tis George F. Latulence an aristocrat
Playing ping pong with his gold crested bat.
A competitor and show-off he deems to be
Dresses each day in his noble finery
Pantaloons his normal fancy day wear
His ancestry, finery, regalia, style flair.
He never shares glory or plays with a partner
Winning trophies for himself, what he is after
Agile and swift, rarely points he would miss
The downside came, when you did get that whiff.
To gain advantage, a parp he would do
Clenching bum cheeks, in case he followed through
High class energy foods for his body to sustain
But his parping was every one else's nose bane.
George on first serve, parped, as he hit the ball hard
Swiftly attacking, George butt did bombard
In that spilt second threw off his opponent
Point gain to George, aided by his flatulent moment.
Silent and deadly they all came out fast
Odourous gas from George nuclear fueled ar$e
If one made a noise he'd give a loud grunt
That was his bum burping cover up stunt.
Knew there was trouble when audiences pulled faces
Some even fainted, brave stayed in their seat places
George didn't care, just wanted top podium status
His methods and thinking obnoxiously atrocious.
Audience faces were different shades of green
People were swaying, some even vomiting.
He called it his ping pong, parp-crafty-art farts
Next point to win, final round about to start.
The ball went to and fro like a speeding fast bullet
George, with match point, he was about to secure it
Hitting an ace, made a spark, that caused a boom blast
Left the audience with mix feelings of relief and aghast.
Breaking news of his death headlines did broadcast
Even able to download from what's called a podcast
George F. Latulence died from a blast from his ar$e,
He blew up one too many, too dense and not sparse.
May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke
Written 07.10.21
As I walked into a family restaurant,
My nose got tickled all of a sudden
By a familiar aroma that entered my nostrils.
It transported me back to the years long past,
When I was a child at my far away home
In my mother’s kitchen on a Christmas day.
The smell of chicken stew and *‘appam’
And the intoxicating taste of steaming tea,
Raided my memory with deep nostalgia.
The spicy aroma of her kitchen still haunts me
And how I miss her culinary talents!
Amid this smell, pops up her smiling face.
When I catch such scent, how my mind runs to my mother.
Though she is not with me now, what sweetness is there
For those memories that tie me to my mother
And wish those smells should never fade away.
It gives me the feel that she is with me, so close.
When the smell of Jasmine wafts through the air,
It always brings memories of our first night,
When I timorously entered my husband’s room,
Carrying the delicate texture of a dream,
Lending romance to the still night.
His bewitching presence and endearing words,
Filtered down into my mind, making me feel
Both of us being lodged and lost in a fairy land.
When we mingled and melded into one,
In a spark emitting sensuous indulgence,
Never thought we would be together all these years
Drinking from the same cup, the bubbling wine
And the bitter, acidic potion of pain, alike.
Holding on to those honey dripping memories,
I re-live those heavenly moments.
Is it not strange that "memories buried
in the wavering wash of time" are stirred,
that lie ash laden when olfactory senses activate,
the neurons of our brain from time to time!
* Appam- a Kerala( Indian) delicacy.
bucolic perfumes
dance on unbridled sunrays
colours of freedom
AP: 2nd place 2025
freshly mowed backyard
like a farmer's acreage
during summer's heat
Subtle smell, linked to a knowing
Each fragrance is unique
Our awareness slowly blooming
Although we do not seek
How still is our stillness
If not one with oneness
Unified consciousness
Show and tell
Subtle smell
20-September-2021
Quietus
I still see her ghost.
She's at the woodstove cooking and baking.
Perfumes still roam the air.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026