Long Apothecary Poems
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The Green Fairy visits me
From an apothecary jar
And gives me a Commoner’s taste of heaven
Libations for one and all
In close proximity
Not from afar.
In smoke filled rooms
Of curling delights
I see diamonds
Reflected in all the lights
And Illumination
From the green glow
Possessed by the café’s glasses.
All is forgiven and forgotten
Within those walls of shame
There is a warmth and a comfort
To all its dismay…
As night turns toward midnight…
And midnight runs toward day.
There is no real obscure focus…
No magical hocus pocus
No real concentration of veritable belief
That the green fairy hides behind.
As absinthe begins and then continues on
To rule my body and my mind
And spirits me away
To a life of shortened days
But hours lengthened by the devotion
To The Green Fairy.
Copyright Christine A Kysely 2010 November 26, 2010
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
Historic flood
There are a few unread books on me
bookshelf and they will stay that way
I needn’t everything in print.
My depression hangs in the landscape
streaks on dusty window panes tell me
the obvious: clean me now!
I wait for the pharmacy to open after
the lunch break, hope it is not full of women
talking about pills, illnesses and diets.
I’m not watching TV today I need not
to know more about the storm everyone
talks about, I have seen it worse.
Soon I will be stopped by a hero telling
me he was in New York during the histrionic
storm which made the governor famous.
The apothecary should be open now
better hurry and don´t worry
what the afternoon newspaper prints.
An idiosyncratic apothecary,
neo pop corollas line its grove;
The price and results may vary;
Heinous hues hang extraordinary,
the bourgeoise see a treasure trove;
An idiosyncratic apothecary;
Chartreuse poppin’ pills be wary,
a champion’s golden boxing glove;
The price and results may vary;
Bating mediocre alive to bury
immobile in the web they wove;
An idiosyncratic apothecary;
Citrine and amethystine they carry
promise calm, balance, and love;
The price and results may vary;
Naïveté of the Sucker is scary,
silk subterfuge we do not speak of;
An idiosyncratic apothecary,
the price and results may vary.
High up here,
amid this cold and alone,
my tools might best be
forgiven if they've
long-since forgot
that they deserve better.
But the only lips my teacup
have known are my blurburing two.
The only ink my brush has known
has been that scolded into some
sorrowful form on this not-mulberry rock.
The only skin this robe has known
was that of this persistent perpetrator.
It's yet to feel a worthy monk; the only sage its known
is the sage I've crumbled into my pestle
in pitiably inchoate mockery of an apothecary
when my knee went turned and grew as big
as my dreams.
The only ears or heart my poems have reached
up here, in this thin air,
have been,
has been my own -
Source and resting place of my
ignoble offerings.
I forgive my cup.
I forgive my robe.
I forgive my brush.
I forgive my flesh.
It never knew better.
It always deserved better.
It never knew better.
PERFUMER
Nectar from the Father, God;
Sweet honey from mother;
Apothecary, Apothecary;
Honeysuckle
Aloe sally mighty God, Perfumer;
Balsam balm bedellium;
Clams sweet fragment cane;
Cinnamon, frankincense, galbanum gum
Henna, myrrh, spikenard, gnocchi, saffron
Honeysuckle
Aloe sally mighty God, Perfumer;
6/12/10
written words James Edward Lee Sr.
Winter’s hoar…frost..
has bled the maples
Crimson, marks
the torn throat of morn.
Summer’s sullen forays
have scared the natural
blush of Fall.
Would the wood recover
from the toxic fumes of man?
Radiant the sun which bombs
the atmosphere, a blight of cancer
upon the uncloaked skin…
Mutant and mutating man
warring harbinger of doom.
Where sand and soil
and microbes had cleansed
the refuse of man waits…
clogging the arteries of bipeds
overflowing into the roots of forest
Unarmed
Rooted
Clinging
to the seed of an apothecary life.
Feeding on the vials unturned
draining into the Fall finery
a mottled military camouflage
sickly green, to burnt brown emerges.
And all that’s left of life
bleeds with the maple.
Crimson, marks
the torn throat of morn.
The storm recedes, its rage now spent,
Leaving the earth to emit a scent,
A dank, damp, earthy smell of wet grass,
That breaks the drought, from its parched impasse.
In the quiet there after, all is still,
Thunder's rumble quelled to distill,
Sound to liquid, rage to peace,
As hopes of rebirth and new life increase.
The scent of rain is a heaven sent smell,
Wafting up to dispel a lingering spell.
It's a therapy from nature's apothecary,
Dispensed from a dry-grass prairie.
Imbibe the aroma of the heavenly scent,
To flush the stench of discontent,
From your life's toil and strife.
Imbibe its smelling salts, revive your life.
Her man was woven into love spell
By another woman, not of her smell.
Bewitchery, she will not tolerate
To the perfumery she’ll calculate.
Apothecary had the perfect answer
An exotic earthy whiff from vetiver!
Happy she was her man found her erotic -
But, alas, it was only episodic!
She spritzed the air with essence of rose petal -
Then a reminiscence of the betrayal!
Love and romance the attar generated
Very soon enough it evaporated.
Memorable scent of basil she wore next,
Pleasurable things her man not to forget,
In vain, it was she who cannot forget -
In her mind fresh the err her man had make,
Scent of her rival made her green with envy,
Scent of betrayal made her very angry,
Desperate but hopeful, she went to a lone edifice;
Temperate and humble, the scent of water brought her peace.
7/14/14
My sleep is disrupted, badgered
by incessant wordplay,
a thesaurus of woolgathering
in semi-conscious dreams.
I keep a voice recorder,
bedside, to record the tidbit morsels
Lest they're forgotten
when I awaken and make bread
from the crumbs dropped
on my passage through the night.
The poet's worst nightmare is that
the crumbs will be eaten by crows
or carried away by ants in the night,
so the way back to recall
the thought trail is lost
and the poem will never
see the light of day,
and will never be crafted.
Any loss of these dream-let gems
is so frustrating and intolerable
to a poet, forever on the hunt
for magical meaningful words
beyond the hocus-pocus
of abracadabra in dreamscape thoughts,
and images, that pop into my head when dreaming.
Come on down to Pleasant Pharms:
Apothecary quaint with charm.
Motto here is 'Do no harm'
Sometimes we sort of miss…
Grab some psychedelic fungus,
Mushroom that are quite humongous
On the trails right here among us,
And colors when you piss!
Don’t need any antidote, see
Mescaline’s here, and peyote.
Howl the moon like a coyote,
Then go chew off your arm.
Drop some acid; be discrete.
We’ll hide ‘em in a blotter sheet.
Perforated little squares, neat!
They say no long-term harm...
Come on down, don't be a stranger!
There’s no clear and present danger,
Just neural pathway re-arrangers
Down here at Pleasant Pharms.