Odiferous Poems | Examples

Listen to the Wind

The wind off the cold North Atlantic ocean
smells of piquant seawater on its breath,
agreeably pungent, brackish and moist.
The legendary Nor'easter off Newfoundland,
the bane of so, so many ships at sea,
is not a breeze with a soft, caressing hand.
It kicks and knocks and slaps and whacks and thwacks,
pummels and punches, pinches and pushes.
The stolid, sturdy imperturbable island
sits there and puts up with the abuses.

The northeasterly wind is very resentful
of its odiferous reputation.
At night, it simmers and seethes and smolders,
writhes and trembles, weeps and whines, stirs and sulks.
But, like the song says, the wind and sea smells
are "perfume to my soul". I stand alone on shore
and listen to the ocean's roar, wind's whoosh,
and my mind decompresses, destresses;
this is my peace, my serenity. I am home.

Leaves and Leafy Grassiness

We sleep on each other,
lick on each other,
run around and nip on each other,
we are wholly 'each other,'
personalities
hid
in the ruff and fur around our necks
and the snaggle of our teeth.

We wag in unison
heart-timers synchronized.
When out in the big smell
we seek every scent
that sprout's
from the muddy baths and the great
wafting sky-waves that call to our blood
to come join,
come lope and snuffle.

The trails of other's drives us crazy,
we roll in bundles of ecstasy,
squat, squirt and snap at the thick odiferous airs
then inhale the news from every rump
we greet.

Under our skittering paws
leaf and grass, spatter and scatter
as we charge into each other.

What are these leaves of grass?
Each one could be a page
in poem of sniff and scratch.
The wind threads through our snouts
and we shake our heads
until our brains rattle in wonder.

Old Walt Whitman forgets to mention us,
but deep within his far pacing musings
we are there like an itch.

When he pauses his pen to nap and dream
our breathy huff huffiness
tickles his toes.

The Ballad of the Plastic Freak

I’ve been sitting here so long,
My butts getting numb,
So I jump right up
And stick out my thumb.

He comes rolling down the street,
With the only smell of mention,
The noxious fumes; olfactory tension.

Now I’m not trying to make excuses.
But I Really needed to get to,
Lower Catoosas.

This dude with odiferous outlet
Was a goin’ my way.

If you think that was dumb,
Just listen to this:
It was a super-charged Edsel 
With slicks on the rear,

It had the characteristic stench of,
Cheap, stinkin’ beer.

When I jumped in the car
He shot me the Bird,
And laid on me 

These immortal words,
“Far in man…
Like what’s going off?”

I was stunned awhile
Had to catch my breath,
He looked at me with
A grin like death.

The smell was real,
The driver was not.
Like a bobble-head doll
On the dash installed.

I regained my feet,
Away from the freak,
“Thanks, but I’d rather  walk”.

A Terrible Start

I was off to a terrible start
A first date with odiferous fart
    'til she made it quite clear
     as her curfew drew near
That a fart's not the way to 'er heart!

Inspired by Jan Allison...

A Nose For Art

My dog is giving the sky
a meticulous tongue lolling.

Half way through the walk he dips
his pink lapper into a muddy puddle
then continues to paint the sky
to his liking,
'his liking' being
those odiferous bits of tainted earth
he uncovers with his wet nose.

I can see his work is having effect.
Just above our heads
the air has thickened, yellowing clouds
gather in a mellifluous miasma.
The heavens are ready to piss.

Internally we are both sunny,
it's just that his sense of art,
and its expression
is different from mine.

Dogshat and daffodils
and the world
always adding suitable hues
to balance the two.
Nature, like a Michael Angelo
always face up
building a sky-bridge
between them both.

Nevertheless, later today
I'll come back here with a ladder
and a bucket of whitewash.

A Brief Note of Thanks

When you comment on a poem of mine
I owe you a concise note expressing thanks
That you took the time to read me is so fine.

Reading a comment makes me feel divine
As I read them up and down the planks
When you comment on a poem of mine.

I get joy from my daily New Poems dine,
Discovering new poets entering the ranks
That you took the time to read me is so fine.

Once I read each poem, now I draw a line
So many are hard to understand, like pranks
When you comment on a poem of mine.

Others so complex like trying to factor in sine
Leading me in and out of odiferous tanks
That you took the time to read me is so fine.

I enjoy poems that satisfy like a fine wine
Relieving me of so much of my daily angst,
When you comment on a poem of mine,
That you took the time to read me is so fine. 

Written November 11, 2022

Olfactory Ode

Odiferous, a sad and sordid tale,
for naught remains but that which does assail.
The rascal takes one final, pungent swipe:
grizzled remains along the center stripe.


----------

H/T to The Sunny Side of Skunks by Gershon Wolf

A Canine Eloquence

Old Spice’ and wet grass carry years
of understanding between us.

If I break wind, you run to me,
body rapt and heeding,
every hair translating
a smudged paragraph into
volumes of memory.

Rubbernecking my attention
with a fixed gaze,
you are staring at my next question,
willing to
jaw with more whiffs of intimacy.
A jargon of us both
surfacing in her millpond eyes.

Silent odiferous idioms crest
upon her black nose,
a cloddish lingo,
but it outruns anything that could be said.

I Decided To Stay a Bit Longer

I screwed it on and it went right up the bank.
Hey! Said Crankden Cramden, was that mink named Hank?
The one who lost his head and needed a new one? I asked.
I think so said Bogland Bagomire, as he baited and basked.

I am irritated when strangers get in on my conversation of course.
So I gave him the bug eye, and got back up on my horse.
That is cheap cheese you are using for bait, Betty Beatercheese said.
I gave her the fisherman eye that said clearly “you’re dead”.

As if by magic Shabolina Pilford suddenly appeared in Rockah.
She said “tighten up the chain and wheelie for a block’ah!”
The self appointed experts began giving Shabolina weird advice.
You can’t ram the car son! A voice yelled, and not very nice.

I’ll jerk the keys! The son yelled at his father, Crankden Cramden.
That’s when I smelled the odiferous cat box, put there by Jamden.
Fonkland O’giglocard yelled “I thought you were going home to me.
I decided to stay a bit longer and watch this crazy nightmare comedy.

Gaseous Squeaks

I heard the echoes of each gassy squeak
Held my breath when I sniffed his stinky leak
He let out a few more
So I ran for the door
Before his toots made the entire room reek

Others came out, while pinching their noses
His flatulence poured out like fire hoses
Oh, what a horrid smell
Worse than rotten egg shell
And can't be cloaked by the scent of roses

Woe to the innocent who are around
When his odiferous vapors abound
Just get ready to run
When the son of a gun
Cuts one loose with a squeaky little sound



September 24, 2021
Fart-Tastic Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
******************

There Is a Poem

There is a poem
Dangling,
Unappreciated,
Just hanging there.

On our November,
A Thanking,
Loving,
Pumpkin.

Perhaps poor poetry;

But scrumptiously odiferous,
Dangling
Unappreciated,
But hanging there today anyway.

Happy Thanksgiving!.

Ode To My Garbage Guy

Charlie, my garbage guy, has an odiferous job to say the very least,

Tossing garbage into the maw of his truck, that roaring, ravenous beast!

But Charlie has been on the job for years and doesn't seem to care.

He goes about his job each Tuesday morn with unassuming flair!

Charlie is about six foot eight, 300 pounds and a tad broad in the beam,

But he's in such great shape that he could play for any NFL football team.

He empties the garbage cans on to his truck with practiced expertise,

And 'tis obvious he follows his company's motto, 'WE AIM TO PLEASE!"

Here's to Charlie and all his peers who see to the disposal of our debris!

Somebody has to do it and they have my thanks but it ain't my cup o' tea!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired

Making Moussaka For Neil

We begin at the beginning: a clove of garlic, too hard-headed
for its own good, combined with two large onions, their first denuding 
revealing fallow gold: the second layer, a pale green puberty,
then, the heartless blade of the knife slices into the virginal white 
purity of a cumulus cloud, which the shape-shifter processor
reduces to odiferous pearly drifts, destined tor the fry pan's
oil of olive from sunny Southern hillsides.  This bounty blends
with the underpraised, but indispensable tomato, staple
in the kitchens of Italy and Spain, then Crimini mushrooms,
sliced within an inch of their lives and browned in a skillet to bring
odor of earthiness to this angelic mix.  Six buttery ovals
afloat in their embryonic bath offer elixir of egg to the whir
of the beaters.  With infusion of feta, and one of mozzarella, it
marries with the mushrooms, and in lieu of vestal virgins, lies down
with the pasta.  We go now to oven.  Heat does its homage, then
with souls of the missing, we come to table, a chair placed
for Neil: napkin, plate, and fork, until he welcomes us
Home.  Hosts us once more.

        for  Neil Irvin Gray, 1918-2014

Hunger's Needle

Hunger's Needle

Acumen's voice smolders quietly
when deafened ears respond only
to discords of witlessness

Wisdom's heat invites comfort
its embers remain alive
its wake of constant resolve
lifts vigils of swirling persuasion
choking away illiteracy
ignoring cross or sickle waved ominously

Ever present

Creation's insight
remaining airborne in a void for those
with causeless breath being held
affecting not its surroundings
forever stale ether locked
roiling chasms of fear
exuding odiferous spoilage
rotting
polluting
repelling

Such misery holds steady
among repeated indulgences of flesh
the masses' quintessential reptilian skin
long overdue for shedding

But cling it must
this resistance to reflection and growth
feeling safe in unknowing
the rewards of philological pondering

Sign and verbal
touch and smell
eye and ear
an all-sensitive motion
making ready transference from literal
to ethereal possession

For some
a chosen distance is preferred
a huddled observation from
deep in the abyss of ignorance
self-importance perishing alone
amidst a cacophony of unresolved noise
while wisdom's whisper
continues to thread hunger's needle

Odiferous Air

What I’d like to be able to smell
is a breath of fresh air.
Compost, swamp gas or rectal release, 
that’s not something for which I care.

This constant burn in my nose,
I’m thinking it’s just not fair.
Give me a blast of clean air from someplace, 
it matters not from where.

I say, could that be methane or the cheese 
that emanates from your toes.
I’m normally not fussy but
it’s curling  hairs in my nose.

So if you are thinking of sharing a rectal blast, 
I say its’ cost won’t be free.
Because if someone vomits in your pocket, 
please attribute that to me.


*Dedicated to all those people who think "cracking one off" in public is funny!

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