Long Cologne Poems
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In love's filled cauldron of flesh and bone
romance is wrapped in fragrant cologne...poet
To inhale love's fragrance
from the breath of our lives
when we filled love's measure
holding the hands of love
and found our love's treasure
To inhale love's fragrance
from our eyes of desire
when moments became still
and red roses were shared
that made the heart standstill
To inhale love's fragrance
and silently persuade
with a sensual kiss
under an evening's sky
to embrace fevered bliss
To inhale love's fragrance
when our hearts calmly burst
to fill our lives with love
and hold tight forever
beneath the stars above
4/4/22...Romance
contest Form M-Monchielle
sponsor Constance La France
The airport is packed, and the lines are long,
Reminiscing about the days when standing for hours was nothing when you were young.
A volunteer comes and pulls a few away to go to the next one—
Times like these used to be so much fun.
You finally cross and head to the nearest bench,
Lollygagging on your phone when a voice bellows something in French.
That voice, that tone—your eyes meet the gaze,
Your heart skips a beat, and you look up, amazed.
A chance encounter with an old flame—
The flame you tamed still feels the same.
Smiling broadly, you’re pulled into an embrace,
The smell of his cologne lingers in place.
A surge of memories brings a flush to your face;
You manage to squeak, “What’s the chance of meeting in this place?”
He is returning home to France.
You’re playing in a match of chess in his hometown—no chance of romance.
“The flight is long; let’s get together for old time’s sake.”
Your mind is saying, This could be a mistake.
The torch is still smoldering after nearly forty years.
You think of the last goodbye and the tears.
His hand reaches out to a strand of gray hair.
He winks as you take in the salt and pepper in his hair and try not to stare.
Tomorrow is not promised, but today is.
You link your hand in his; you can be his Miz.
Walking side by side and flying high,
A complete one-eighty, and you sigh.
You feel lighter; the future is brighter,
His hand holding on tighter.
A poem in the making,
Your reasoning is out the window—it’s an awakening.
What was meant to be will be.
You both agree to a degree.
You’re soaring as one and free.
Life comes with no guarantees.
Love tests itself in turbulent waters
Neither in the colour of lipstick
Nor in the scent of cologne
Or in the eloquence of speech
When the river of life churns
With its ups and downs and twisting turns
Stand firm and be ready to learn
Though you may suffer quite a burn
Many a great men have humbly fallen
In their own way and in their own calling
As did Peter when at once he knew
Thrice denied and the cock crew
Others have cursed their fate or mate
Run to fortune tellers or charm sellers
To seek out the reason for the wrong
When in truth they are not strong
Love tests itself in turbulent waters
Neither in the colour of lipstick
Nor in the scent of cologne
Or in the eloquence of speech
Part 1 Diagnosis
I. Surgery
Surgery—
Today cuts yesterday—
the calendar blade.
You carve the year's new initials.
The beech—scarred—
keeps its reverie-venant
in smooth wood.
========
II. The Future, Uninvited
The future isn't knocking—
inside already, thumbnail
at the doorframe's paint.
Wood smoke. Bergamot—ash.
That cologne of Occurrence—
you still holding
the empty shot glass.
==========
III. No Reset
The heart does not reset at midnight—
the liver does not forgive.
Neurons fire their exhausted patterns:
flinching—craving—glass
in hand again—shuddering like the heat-pump
kicking on as you almost—
almost—
sleep.
Your face in the mirror—
steady—
waiting to see
if you'll
disappoint it.
==========
IV. Rings
Rings on the counter—
like your mother's plant
left years on the sill:
Live Evidence—
no one bothered to move.
The kitchen smells of nothing yet—
that early sadness of resolutions
you haven't—
not yet—
betrayed.
=========
V. What Continues
The self does not reset—
continues—
playing song in an empty room.
We drag it all:
rage swallowed at the feast,
the lover whose face we can't recall
the Ledger—
left blank
the moment we said fine—
Meaning—so far—from Fine—
I’ve forgotten—what Fine—looked like.
===========
VI. Threshold
Fear crosses the threshold—
checking your phone at every red light
eating over the sink
so it doesn't count as hunger
chewing your cheek until it tastes of copper
the way you say sorry
before you've even spoken—
all of it followed.
That stray you fed once—
you woke up one morning
and it had become you.
Or you had become it.
Now when you look in the mirror
you can't tell
if you're wearing its face
or it's wearing yours.
Either way, you've stopped
asking which one got fed.
Good dog.
In the edifice of memory, we slowly blend...
a citrus scent of tangy orange peels
with freshness sniff of cinnamon cakes.
an ephemeric smell of wet shampooed hair
with a spritz of cologne ruminating the spray.
an evening brew of chamomile soothed tea
burbling in resonance with expreso sunrise.
a whiff of sandal lingering in bath towel
with an ambrosial soul, in lavender incense.
that seductive night with a jasmine garland
delighting feminine fragrance in a rose pool.
perfumed petals wafting on gentle breeze
with a nostalgia of infused wet petrichor.
In the castle of these redolent remembrance
transfusing our breath, inhaling an invisible
It's love at first smell, an odor that's too near
diffusing pheromones of aromatic souvenirs.
Packed up again,
Cedars and crescents in my carry-on,
A heart and soul in my suitcase…
The mattress on my bed is bare, save for a straw hat
Resting in the middle of it and a bottle of cologne
There are scrapes on the wall
And bits where the paint came off
The floor is littered with baggage, hardly a place to step
But the room feels empty… yet again
I’ll put my home under my hat
And take one last look at the faded curtains
Hanging over my windows
1:03 am
Last call on my cell phone: Grandpa
Last call on my cell phone: A leather pillow and apple vinegar
Last call on my cell phone: A school bus in the rain
Last call on my cell phone: A hug, a kiss and another suitcase
Last call for Mr. Bakhash… Please proceed to Gate 43…
Last call…
The airports are all the same
Frantic people, too busy to look back…
Confused children tailing their parents
Overpriced coffee, stale sandwiches… all too familiar
Heathrow, Starbucks…
Heathrow, Laptops…
Heathrow, iPods…
Heathrow, Crowds…
Heathrow, Empty
The airports are all the same…
Empty
Los Angeles, Frankfurt, Paris, Dubai, Beirut
Empty
For a date at eight she bathes at five.
In tons of bubble bath,
Barricades her boudoir door,
Eau de cologne marks her path!
Her lingerie must be 'just so',
A froth of frills and lace.
Down with the curlers, up with the hose,
The womanly task of 'fixing her face'!
Donning a frock spun out of dreams,
With a skirt to swish and sway.
Into the slippers, shining and new.
Did Cinderella feel this way?
What gala affair now summons our queen,
Embassy tea or debutante ball?
Oh no! It's a matter of much more import!
Her very first date awaits in the hall!
Composed by my wife, Vera Selena (Osburn) Hinshaw
© All Rights Reserved
Lake of beauty there in France
Invitation for romance
Of course you know what I'll now say
I want to go with you someday
We don't know French but no big deal
We'll learn together, so much appeal
There is in doing things with you
And I still hope you want me to
But if you don't I understand
And I'll still write odes by my hand
To let you know that I'm still here
Expressing love through words, my dear
And if one day that well runs dry
Just look for me up in the sky
A little plane can create art
With it I'll draw for you a heart
And loop-the-loop over your head
In yellow smoke, a feather bed
Of lilac clouds and Vera Wang
Ascends from you, those scents will hang
And blend in with my best cologne
Acqua di Gio descends down
A fragrant zephyr fills the air
Together, forever floating there
my carnivore self is displayed out in the open
I tear a bovine’s tendons and muscle with gusto
my teeth coming up red and bloody;
it is the human way, is it not?
my mouth, throat and gullet gulp away,
unaware of the undigested meat already in my colon.
I plan an organized kindness parade, not caring about cows
Or pigs, unless I am anticipating bacon and pork roast.
I seek direction from no one; feeling all-powerful.
I am a carnivore, am I not? This is validation enough.
My cologne is a combo of unrecognizable floral mixes.
I look pretty, therefore, my killing ways can be forgiven.
Later today I can do a bit of wind surfing or fall off my skates.
My concentration is no longer on my food, but on life.
Why am I never satisfied? Where does my depression originate?
My dendrite stream never realizes I am picking up on animal psyche.
In a subconscious way, my body is reacting to their misery.
When they get brain smashed, so they can be carved into steaks.
I lick my lips, enjoying Heinz 57, wishing I can figure out what is wrong.
My soul knows, but cannot share it with me on this plane.
Will I understand post death when I see my own cadaver?
Will my corpse make me realize how uncivilized meat eating is?
Will I be depressed as I head toward heaven?
Or will I be heading to a lower place?
Daylight swerves around the road
Shouting from corner to corner
Morning comes alive
The traffic starts rolling
And people start flowing
I walk briskly up the road
And walk along Market Street
The layover vendors are just waking up
And some of them are escaping the night rush
A big broad woman hanging over her stall
With yam, banana, pumpkin and everything in the mix
shouts at the man behind her
As if she has somewhere urgent to go
“do you have any cologne?”
And the man calmly uttered,
“Mi no use cologne”
The body sweat drips form her face
And her grouchy voice sets the tone for the day
He looked at her with a subtle grin
While he tries to take in everything
She speaks loudly above the stench
And looked desperately for early morning shoppers
I walked down the bare empty street
With no emotional feelings
Just recuperating from yesterday’s pain
That made me feels a bit lame
I did not see anything to console me
And the pile of garbage lined up on the street
Was enough to disgust me
I kept walking along Market Street
With no single thoughts running about me
Only the morning I could see running in front of me
And I could hear a distant song
beckoning me to come along
The market people start to set out their stall
To catch the early morning shopper
They too were reminiscing over last night’s sales
That kept them waiting all night
It’s Sunday morning for heaven’s sake
What were you doing up so late
The angry man ferocious yawn
nearly blow up a terrible storm
The Chinese wholesale store
Lined the street from door to door
There is no local business here anymore
And it is very hard for the locals to sell their clothes
Oh I am thinking too hard,
no it’s just that I hate to see people suffering
They were selling in the market all night
And it’s not the price you want to pay
To earn you’re living all day
People come and go but the regular people
Shouts are part of the daily show
Come and shop with me.
Buy all you can from the people you meet on market street.