Of all the senses,
they say that smell
is most closely tied
to memory;
like Proust with
his madeleines;
like blackberries
in July,
in the park where
my mother watched
with patient indulgence,
as my brother and I
propelled our
small bodies down
the shallow hill
in riotous limbs
and giggles; and
in the waning heat
of early evening,
picked blackberries
for pie in the shade
of the bay trees;
fingers dyed purple
with sugary blood
and bellies filled
on stolen ripe flesh.
Our heads grown
sweetly heavy
with the feat of
a day well met.
We didn't know yet
of the things that would
break us.
Only vines,
pregnant with
sun-warmed fruit;
my father's hand
around mine.
In the glow of
golden hour, we
thought the day
immortal.
Categories:
madeleines, childhood, innocence, memory, nostalgia,
Form: Free verse
in old school days
i used to eat
paste
that we were
supposed to
use for art
works such
as a stick
figured
snow man
who's hands
were made of
sticks but i
got stuck on
eating the stuff
but can't say it was
like purposely
putting
a tube of glue
in a paper bag
sniffing until
passing out
for in simply
taking a taste
while copying
Picasso
was
truly Proustian
for my mind
took not
by smell yet
was propelled
to a time
when i was ill
and Mum was
making oatmeal
taking a taste
spoon fed
takes
me back
to an earlier
time when i was
in a highchair
unaware if all
but being
fed pablum
by someone
so i suppose
this wasn't
a mind opening
experience of
remembrance
of things
past
Categories:
madeleines, muse,
Form: I do not know?
Many memories of my mother
making moist mellow macaroons
marshmallows and Madeira cake,
minuscule madeleines, marvellous,
mum measures, marinates, melts,
more majestic meals.
My matriarch makes,
marmalade,
marzipan,
muffins,
mincemeat,
meringue.
mousse.
My meritorious mom mixes, merges, mingles,
melon,
mango,
mulberries,
Mandarins.
My maternal materfamilias, masterminds
Mealtime masterpieces.
Categories:
madeleines, food, fruit, mother,
Form: Alliteration