Long Whiffed Poems
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There's nothing quite as inviting as
the smell of some good ol' home sweet home cookin'...
especially your favorite meal being prepared!
That aroma of well-seasoned soul food
being cooked by your significant other
who knows his or her way around the kitchen...
Doesn't it smell better than any fragrance
you've ever worn or whiffed? Doesn't your hunger
intensify exponentially as you walk in?
Those spices! Oh, those spices!
"Something smells delish! Honey, is food ready!?"
[your thought bubble]
Doesn't your mouth start watering then?
You feel the urge to make a beeline for the kitchen
To sample a morsel of yummy deliciousness
And you're likely to come back...
like Oliver Twist wanting...
some more? Well, maybe.
Submitted for...
STRAND SELECT W any form,any theme' Poetry Contest (Winner: Honorable Mention)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 02/21/2020
Date written and posted: 12/06/2018
I hardly brew coffee alongside the metaphor of
English mornings blended with summer’s febrile breath.
But, on this occasion, I did....
It was a stifling moment on television.
The social media was abuzz with the hiss of
Integrated journalism. I hated this moment I failed to believe myself
Upon the altar of this recent toponym. BREXIT.
The name plinks with resounding voices, exerting that energy of
Political consciousness.
Lexicographers must hasten it into the dictionary
Before the return of Christ.
Must be cooked in the crucible of NOUN and
Heavily spiced in VERB.... And then, play host to nimieties.
It’s plainly a matter of exiting the circumference of a common, dancing market,
Where freedom of movement spins the web of twinkle-toed arachnids.
My coffee whiffed with the Brazilian hegemony
Upon the Indian scheme of teas and secular drams of rum,
And Iran’s love for green tea.
Summer’s mornings are difficult, I must remind you.
Waking from the posts of work and a bivouac
Stretches the eyelids beyond groggy eyelashes
With the haste of a speeding dawn.
But the TRUTH remained salient and voluble:
BRITAIN HAS VOTED TO LEAVE THE EU.
And it’s not a hypnagogic matter.
It has no business with amphigoric journalism.
It’s a British-fried piece of truth.
Are you kidding me?
I find it totally execrable when people say what they do not know,
Rather than ask what they do not know.
Sunday Times spread its pages to annex some truth.
So did The New York Times and Washington Post and the
Community of tabloids – all tried to
Squeeze out the sprinkles of the matter from collapsing firths.
There was no trace of Churchill in this BREXIT fiesta.
Even de Gaulle exuded remedies of a fractured Europe; he remembered
The WAYWARD WAR, whose frenetic winds blew us no good.
My coffee, black and gold, with the supple bubbles and yellow froths,
Welcomed the degree of weather forecasting.
Will it rain?
Will there be isolated thunderstorms across the EU?
Will BREXIT brew some heat? Slanting showers?
What Celsius does a degree reach before there’s a
Pandemonium?
DID YOU MEAN POUND-EMONIUM?
HAVEN’T YOU HEARD ABOUT THE CRASH OF THE POUND?
"Pipeline: Hawaii's North Shore where Championship Surfing Meets are held, remains the deadliest since records began in the 60s."
Golden shores surfed duo gift essence new threshold,
History made two by sea,
Footprint holds their granule sunk traces, queues the bold,
Long woods wee came two by sea,
Boarders store their sea tools drift faces, cue behold,
Fantasy dreams two by sea,
Reckon calls pair home schools feet races fuel's the sold,
Handily swims two by sea,
Loop unfolds those who rules hunk intense corkscrew rolled,
Gone absentees are two by sea,
Fathom pulls remain cool surfaces, two consoled,
Breathing-free crawls two by sea,
Jettisons beached dual shift places cruise controlled,
Rest at ease lays two by sea,
Ponder hauls twain unspool whiffed graces schooled withhold,
Bended knees pray two by sea,
Covered boards bros no fools--but in case, 'Win the Gold',
*Pipeline be? Two if's by sea?
*HMS; Anapestic tetrameter.
A poet at the supermarket
At the supermarket, yes, we have one near Faro. I met a poet.
The mall is nicely built and has two bell towers.
From time to time, they chime to remind us why we are
Here, not sit on a bench in its courtyard looking up to
The sky is seeing mind-blowing cumulus configurations.
The poet I met had a white beard, wore an old black suit,
a tie with red wine spots on, a black beret that whiffed
Of garlic, I think. You could see that it wasn’t really there.
His eyes scanning the ground, he bent down, picking up.
Half-smoked butts of cigarettes. Ok, not so rich
So what? Haven’t you heard of a poor poet before?
They are not all idle sons of the rich, and with a university.
Degrees in literature. A notebook in the side pocket and
Two pencils in his breast pocket; so he was a poet, ok.
Grinding you in the coal black mortar of my expectations,
I know your substance is not one to powder under impact
And yet I work here, feverish, to prove my trepidations wrong
I grind you, harder against the walls, and you never powder,
You are shards of glass, getting smaller and smaller,
Cutting through the walls, straight into my skin
I cry out in a thousand minuscule pains,
As you enter mercilessly into my bare flesh
Tinkles flair as the wind blows upon the incisions
I sparkle in the night of our plight,
Terrorized by the horrors I have constructed,
Toying with you… you…the finesse tool to my agonies
You gained control of me like a mimed puppet master,
The binds I had tightened upon you asphyxiating my sanctuaries,
Tied along you, and twined around me
Silent, smiling, seething…
You begged me to scream
Your glass shards icing into my pupils, through my brain,
And out into the recesses of all my verbalized fears
I shove the remaining shards into my fleeting sight,
A hawk screeching, being stabbed in the eyes by its own feathers
Expelling blood and tears …matter and might,
All I wanted to do was finally see you…
To take in the scent of my grounded version of you
So long though had I whiffed in the potent poison you always were,
Too long, as it no longer has the same effect my nostrils numb for…
color awe
so crystal as to hear an
enigma
whiffed fragrance
a strangeness to scarcely taste
obscure scenes
light is sown
feel the warmth that follows miles
minds do smile
-----------------------
"An individual whose conscious awareness is such that a sound becomes fused with a sense of color and taste; for whom each fleeting impression engenders a vivid, inextinguishable image; for whom words have quite different meanings than they do for us—such a person cannot mature in the same way others do, nor will his inner world, his life history tend to be like others'."
from:
Luria, A. R. & Solotaroff, Lynn (translator) (1968) The mind of a mnemonist: a little book about a vast memory. Jonathan Cape
languid doldrums, swaying lanyard, sails hanging loose
dreary small drums reverberate, neurons dumbing down
nerve ends fuse, sunlit shadows depict my numbing frown
feelings grind dull, thoughts stranded in the dangling sluice
sudden intermittent draught, strengthening breeze
mind and body free-falling, spontaneous pressure
sinews stretch, skin on skin, pulsating probing pleasure
senses tingle, tickling laugh, lengthening squeeze
breathe in deep, sniff olfactory aroma drift
gustatory tasting plates licked and tongued
erotic amalgam squished and belly-bunged
nostrils flare, exotic pungent odour whiffed
cavort, canoodle, drooling lips, flavours of the beast
rhythms rise where delirious frenzy can often be
harmonic screaming near the edge of cacophony
weave distorted images, dream-dancing above the feast
fleers, seekers, washed-up innocent sinning on the beach
subdividers and King Canute howling at the wind
viral loads onboard, invisible invaders grinned
collective cowardice casts the truth spinning out of reach
The sailing ships above my head,
unimageable shapes navigating through,
as I walk the lonely stretch of the beach.
Memories stir chapters of the past.
I always wondered what my life would have been
if I took a different course, then the one I took.
That day the colors fanned out and whiffed
of redolence unmistakable that Spring had arrived.
The sound of the train had wakened me up that day
from thought as I waited for him at the station.
A considerable distance, listing to recurrent rumbling roar
of the train's vibration snaking on the rail score,
metal wheels rhythmic clatters over the rail ties the closer it neared.
He stood still for a minute before he stepped off the train.
He was tall, alluring sculpted body, in a dark brown suit
and Stetson hat, short lace up Oxford shoes; a gentleman.
He was a man I had met while in the service.
We spent a couple of weeks enjoying each other’s company,
but the joy of it wasn’t enough.
He decided to reenlist again, applied for Officer Candidate School.
I didn’t see him again.
His image still imprinted in my mind.
3/8/2023
Written: November 24, 2023
_____________________________________________
Seraphic sand is sapped on the seashore
As swirling waters swallowed the load roar.
The roiling river rapidly ground to an oar
Shore seaweed—pure praise to restore.
A skylark beat the cords, its wings galore
Brilliant sky; rapt gasp wails fading before.
Moon sashayed stars as it whiffed implore
Tides will come and flee—still nevermore.
Upon heavens, a moon casts a silvery hoar
On the whiffed coo, as the seas' soft afore.
Whispered tunefully while purling in abhor
I walked around tiptoes, humming a chord.
Until the sun rose with a blazing core
used their citrin cord to snag the spore.
Whilst walking by the sea at the very crack of dawn
An early morning saunter on this special Christmas morn
Something caught my eye just as I meandered by
It was different, it was still, had it fallen from the sky
As I got a little closer to this tangled mass of weed and shells
I noticed an aroma as I whiffed some very smelly smells
But undeterred by a sound I heard, I swiftly soldiered on
Approaching the mass rather tentatively, nervously humming a song
Removing the tangle of seaweed and shells revealing a shape like a corpse
So still it lay, had it passed away, the shape was so bent and so warped
A red flashing light gave me such a fright, in it's chest as it beat like a heart
Then turning its head, a smile on its face, gave thanks for my helpful jumpstart
I recognized those deep blue eyes, as I asked him how long he could stay
Walking hand in hand, oh how we laughed; to my home we made our way
Eating jam and cream scones, with strawberries too, enjoying his afternoon tea
Then we watched with delight way into the night, his film, for he was ET
So with utter delight, talking into the night, we had wine and a bacon baguette
Raising a toast to my Christmas day pet; this magical day I will never forget
But time to go home, for he is ET, his spaceship returning to fly him up high
I will treasure forever these 24 hours, waving goodbye with a tear in my eye
26th December 2018
Competition: Christmas Pets
Sponsor: Dear Heart
2nd placement
Contest Name Podium placing promise(3)
Sponsor Brian Strand
3rd Place
Contest name 'A CHRISTMAS GIFT MEMORY '
Sponsor BJ Legros Kelley