The Perfume Bottle
The perfume bottle, sparkling clear and bright,
Gifted to me by my bride, with delight,
Preciously preserved across sands of time,
As a memory of our love still shines;
Inside the bottle lies a soft and sweet
Scent of shared love, a wholesome shining treat
Of vernal flowers, blooming fresh and new,
Handpicked for their fragrance and lively hues;
With a gentle touch, a thin spray seeps out
To outlast its whiff through the day, no doubt,
A tiny drop on the skin is not vain,
It rushes love memories in its train;
It streams tenderness of first loving days,
Revives in my mind sweetness of old ways,
Rouses a warm feel of fond affection,
A cozy feeling, verging on passion;
More than a perfume bottle, it`s love sign
That across flight of time does not decline,
Memory of first love held in the hand
That like rock, many a strain does withstand.
Huge pie in the sky,
visiting her grandparents.
A lofty and crusty bake
from ages ago.
The chill cellar held jars.
Fruits were homegrown,
handpicked, canned.
Humongous, it was not
an average-sized pie.
The gigantic pie, at least
to a child that remembers,
was gorged on satisfying
fat-purple-blueberries.
I can only imagine a taste,
to take a bite out of
1950’s life. My tongue
red and blue, savoring.
My memory only holds
my Great-Grandma
in a corner chair
in her daughter’s home;
and a couple visits
to our home
with her sister.
At least I remember that,
but paint me purple,
or let me go closer,
for her granddaughter
made me rhubarb pie.
That’s my mama,
whose Great-Grands
will only mostly recollect
what I surrender
from the past.
Now let's begin
This tale I'll spin
Took it on the chin
Never thought I'd win
Honeysuckle
Boot belt buckle
Scraped up knuckle
Raspy chuckle
Kicked my ass
Soft green grass
Still I sass
This too shall pass
Knew I'd lose
It was no use
I had to choose
Handpicked noose
Before I fought
Tied a knot
In the rope id brought
For justice sought
But then a sound
Shots rang out loud
Eyes search the crowd
Never been more proud
To my rescue
My only nephew
To my opponent says " I can't let you."
" I should be the one that gets to."
With those words I shut my eyes
Feel the lump in my throat rise
Purse my lips choke back my cries
Really though it's no surprise
See we all had a common flame
All three had tried to stake our claim
Yet all we did was bring her shame
Upon my lips her sweet name...
In my kitchen's grasp, where spices hop free,
Whispers of our memories, in each recipe.
Khichdi's humble grace, a bow to our roots,
In grains and lentils, tradition assent.
Herbal notes linger, a fragrant ballet, a scenic design.
As generations gather, in love's display.
Grandma's hands, a harmony of care,
Amma's gentle touch, flavors rare.
Papadums bloat, tales of old flames,
In every fold, history takes flight.
Black tea's warmth, with Tulsi's caress,
A sip of time, warm embrace.
Amma's pickle, a tangy delight,
Mingling with Khichdi, in consonance light.
Handpicked mangoes, memories unfold,
A dab of pickle, a story retold.
The Great Indian Kitchen's embrace, ceaseless love
pink basket, diving for eggs
this plastic okay
as long as they are all recovered
and don’t lay
like a wreck in the sea
pink basket, frog kick,
acrobatics and bubbles
amidst the handpicked
Easter eggs, beholding
treasures of the deep
pink basket, God’s eye
deep and wide, never
misses our whereabouts
neither our joys
or sufferings
the cross on land
never plunged
into the deep, but
the blood of Christ
counts all the loss
and the returns
are endless
pink basket, divers
give the thumbs up
everyone is okay
feeling blessed,
not one is lost
Handpicked, like coffee seeds or strawberries, ten eggs I kept
Like a tensed insomniac, for a long time I'd not slept
I found a change in the bloom of the dermis as days passed
There came out surprise-filled tint tots, elegance unsurpassed.
Red, green, blue, purple, and yellow, like a compressed rainbow
With perfectly blown balloons, as children merrily glow.
As seedlings spring up at night and glisten in the morning,
These soft talc and cloud agate gems appear without warning.
Standing erect and straight with sun-moon-stars-tinged, blazing eyes;
Robotic reflexes; peep, peep, peep, filling up the skies
Judgement quality of quantity like the honeybees
Psychic contagion is in them, like treasures in deep seas.
Symbols of resurrection, springtime splendours, and new life
A masterpiece of nature's craftsmanship after a strife
Scenes of Elysium, Coleus, and Jannah revealed
The mysteries of chicks, like the Milky Way, are concealed.
My shadow wears
a pink frilly dress
a sun hat with handpicked flowers
shoes that compliment everything
Her hair is like a noisy ocean down to her waist
beautiful and blonde
My shadow is a flower
always growing and moving on
dancing in the wind
But that's not me
Late summer
and the barefoot boys are scrumping.
They have scrunched-up themselves
into the green sap of leaf and branch,
as trees to be climbed, branches to fall from.
In the village shop
an ample lady sells apple pies,
she has apple cheeks,
and her twin apples are full and warm to the eye.
Orchards are prisons to be broken into,
they are owned by the owner,
the owner haunts the blind corners of our minds,
sometimes we feel him leaping upon our backs.
We scramble upwards,
never speak of it, ever.
Then we are among the hanging apples.
They glow, heavier than the sun,
yet we tug them down, shaking sky and stem,
taking them.
Rush away, no basket or sacks -
none yet have discovered the art of thinking.
Racing into the dry-husked cornfield,
hearts thumping ribs,
pockets tight and bulging,
hoping that they may be handpicked
by the choice hands of dream-girls.
Charging onward into the first flush,
apple-full, apple hauling,
we rush
headlong,
into the too readily harvested,
all too fleeting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Scrumping' = Stealing apples from an orchard.
God’s elect are chosen few,
Handpicked by the divine,
Their path is set straight and true,
By the Lord’s holy sign.
Bathed in love and righteousness,
They shine like stars above,
Their hearts aglow with godliness,
Guided by the Father’s love.
Their lives are filled with purpose,
Their steps are ordained by grace,
For they have been elected,
To serve in a sacred place.
Though they are just human,
They carry a divine light,
Their words and deeds are holy,
And they are ever in sight.
God’s elect are called to greatness,
Their hearts and minds are pure,
They serve with joy and gladness,
For they know their reward is sure.
So let us all be inspired,
By those whom God has called,
May we be counted among the elect,
And stand tall and strong and bold.
Subtle shapes of imaginations that craved on the fierce,
Merged colors of hopes that brushed on the dreams,
Hidden words that uttered on the sheets,
Melodies of nightingales and dances of peacocks;
Man is an art, who's breaking art;
Subtle hand craved imaginations died under the regular machine art,
Merged handpicked colored brushed with dreams halting in a dark room,
Silent unwithered words burning inside our hearts,
Melodies of nightingales hushed in the bushes,
Dances of peacocks stilled in the gloom;
Broken arts are nonetheless arts,
'Tis hidden treasure buried in the race,
'Tis broken arts hid the miseries of fate,
Broken arts found in the voyage, living in ease.
Oh' my dear artist struggling to save thy dream
Do it for thy sake, not for this dramatic realm
Thy dreams can be found in the voyage of art
Thy art is not broken, it's a masterpiece buried for the sprint.
Dearly beloved,
On that day, my love
We will be one forever
A connection no god can sever
Deep down, I know
There is one for all
And so of course for me
You breathe the same air I breathe
When we meet
The winds will change direction
The sun will hide away
And the night will be ablaze
When we meet
I will know and so will you
The stars will spell out our name
The heavens will sing and praise
The day I was born, so were you
Handpicked and placed carefully
Miles apart, but in heart
We were meant to be one from the start
Love's a miracle
A truth beyond understanding
We were born today
And we shall die this day
On this day,
I wish us both a Happy Birthday
A moment of gratitude to fate
For bringing me to that gate
Asking for directions
After a long day
In a foreign land
Now my hand in your hand
5 September 2021
A Poem to your spouse on his-her birthday. Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Funom Makama
The reflection of what you see
To me, it deflects the purities that my spectral lenses catch
Matching with every insecurity of
Impurities overflowing as water through a gutter
Cluttering me from seeing my self-worth
Birthed from times of weakness down the road most of us have treaded
Yet,
a worn path others have made it down.
The thing about a mirror
Is it’s easy to break
It’s the shattered pieces we’re afraid to pick up
Those individual shards made to make up what’s left of your reflection
Your identity
The sharp fractures of what’s left from the whole cheval
Though it now reflects a peculiar perspective.
The intricate things that were once overlooked.
Crafted and handpicked by your own hands and not of that of another constructor.
Cuts and nicks
Pains and pricks will cut deep as you assemble your speculum
A Curriculum self taught to teach you your worth
Birthed from pain to be made whole.
liberté retrouvée
Long after the joys are gone
The bitter sweet memories remain
Of our unforgettable companions
And the exotic, exciting locales
The few precious moments of real joy
We savored in freedom and abandon
Away from an unfriendly world
That had vowed to keep us deprived
As though the good things were not
For us and our kind: its laws onesided
Its earth apportioned, laurels conferred
On those handpicked to repress and rule
Over unfortunates seized and shocked
Hearts atremble, their lips are locked
And hearts branded with fear and pain.
We're thankful at last we're free again
To bring back the moments of joys past
It’s cruel to ask us about our past.
Do we interrogate you? Do we probe
you to reveal the long buried,
demand to know each dirty secret?
We (by which I mean everyone
old enough to own their own wrong turns),
don’t need to reveal those things,
lessons really learned are not repeated.
We just hold up a few
handpicked moments
to illustrate how we won through,
or perhaps merely began
our own path back.
Truth is, we messed up.
Here’s the thing,
this life of yours
is already a broken record,
an old tape, just blather on a cellphone.
a dusty path most everyone has trod before.
It’s a missed call and a dead end.
A swamp that you will have to spend
the rest of your lifetime backing away from.
Give us a call when you’re ready
to dig your way out,
then we’ll talk.
My dear Miss Peach how lovely!
Your table boasts so fair
You've chosen the finest bubbly
Best porcelain plates and crystal ware
Your handpicked guests are perfect
They know just what to say
They are prefects without defects
With no real opinions per se
Your parties are full of boasting
With braggarts, blowhards and egos
Pomposity excels in what they are toasting
Meaningless, pointless placebos
So Miss Peach I beg you not be stilted
Or try in your best elegance to change
What manner you provide is boring and gilded
And matters not to bourgeois talk wearisomely deranged
October 20, 2020
Completely Your Choice (30) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
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