Odours Poems

Melancholy syphony

Melancholy symphony
Last night presented to me
Look to the future is what was said
Leave the past behind as it is dead

Enjoy the elements the earth gives us
Even the rain and sun that we got in August
September is the month of the equinox
The past firmly shut in a box

It may creep out and side swipe you
Remain strong push hard is what you must do
Don't let those ghouls take control
Your the one atop the grassy nowl

Positivity and share the wealth
Begin your life you have good health
I find writing stanzas does me good
Taking a walk in the wood

See the trees leaves changing colors 
The woods giving you different odours
Won't be long till the clocks fall back
Getting up in the dark feeling all black

See the geese flying south
Military precision opens your mouth
As they cackle on their flypast
What a sight shame it won't last

Get balance in your life
Be decisive involve husband or wife
This will bring your family harmony
Hence listen to melancholy symphony

The Gigantic New Man

Really do you believe

The wheel of time turned and turned

Lives into cross and man into Christ;

That is this day of amazing sculpture

When the sun of a anew era is rising

On the horizon…

He is getting us a new gift of a new ‘Geetha’

A Geetha, which roars about Revolution

And Martyrdom…

Today this heroic new Era shattered the

Chains of prisonership and changed man

Into a gigantic force….



That force that man is aggrandising the

Frontierless sky, as if the steps he laid

On earth is not enough.



Iron coloured dawns and gunpowder odours

Are awaking, itching for war, sleeping

In the muscles and drumming an Era’s

Slogans and ideologies… the trash and

Rubbish, all that of that era vanished

With the pages of history…

Man rolled in terrific emotions, is being

Washed off to new shores,

As like the orb of sun oscillating between

East and West; between the shores of

Light and darkness.

That very new and hefty man

Is dashing against the sky from the

Old dilapidated caves of

History and dragging untruth

To cross-

Seshendra Sharma

Delicate

“Delicate” is such a gentle word
Conjures up thoughts of aromas
Of freshly baked bread
Meandering through kitchens
Of years gone by
Simpler times when the world
Witnessed less turmoil
Greeting each other with love
With a friendly smile a tip of the hat
Ladies smiling demurely
Filling the air with a scent
Of lavender conjuring up odours
Thoughts of distant lands 
Sweet scents of lavender and lilac
Nothing but a delicate joy

Hang On Loulie Hang On

Where’er you may be let be, said Loulie
Who cannot control her flatulency
Wherever she roams 
She plays her air drone
Allowing foul odours to flow freely.

Loulie’s mother is three times a lady
Though her lovely daughter drives her crazy
She put up a tent
With all good intent
To keep her home as fresh as a daisy.

Young Loulie was quite frightfully perturbed 
Found that living in a tent was absurd
She could get no sleep
Cold hands and cold feet
And disturbed when her explosives emerged.

Loulie truly tried her best to hang on
Missing her bedroom and mostly her mom
She filled up with wind
Like a bird on wing
Loulie floated off to where sun ne’er shone.

Autumn Stroll

crumbling
leaves drift with wind
naked branches shiver
crisp scarlet, gold carpet is laid
onwards

misty
fog fills the air
masking grey gloomy skies
brisk breeze blows pinecones into
puddles

odours
of faint wood smoke
like an earthly perfume
infuse dawn's dewdrops on iced fields
ahead

hungry
blackbirds hover
searching for sweet berries
blanket of dark clouds cover sky
home time!

Where I Make

Where I Make

When the weekend comes, this is where I make,
With camping gear, canoeing on the lake,
Dipping the paddle as I contemplate.

Between the banks and shores of rocks and trees,
Breathing in fresh air, relaxing and fishing,
Just enjoying nature’s stress therapy.

The sun’s rays glare down to redden my skin,
But the water soothes the burn when I swim
In the birthday suit that I was born in.

Near to day’s end, I erect my shelter
And gather kindling to start a fire
And savour the smell of cooking odours.

With wood burning and the night descending,
I listen to loons laughing and wailing
And the male frogs croaking during mating.

Old Sol appears much larger as it dips
And even bigger at dawn when it lifts.
Inside my sleeping bag to sleep I drift,
And tomorrow will continue my trip.

I Love Thee Not

I love thee not but only when
in morning time the daisies sway,
and blackbirds trill and do convey
that dusk turns dawn to strive again;
like fragile boats that go astray
in wild and roaring boundless seas,
bit by bit all unknowingly
to sense thy touch my nerves decay.

I love thee not but all noontide
when hopelessly sunshine I chase,
and go all out yet can't erase
my timeless angst that burns inside;
from all the ends and every place
thy gentle odours slowly creep,
and seduce me to fall and sleep
remembering thy sweet embrace.

I love thee not but every night
when splintered hopes I blend anew,
and pleasant thoughts all raw and true
do strike my breast to paint and write;
through moon and stars with vivid hues
thy sweet face enhances the sky,
and bit by bit through lows and highs
I better in my dreams love you.

Teaching Practice

Teaching Practice has highs and lows.
Highs smell like such strong aroma,
Lows are odours bearing no woes.
No wonder it’s no diploma.

Experience has its own drama.
Highs were blissful chapters of prose.
Lows led me to a fake coma.
Teaching Practice has highs and lows.

Received drawings of a pink rose,
Sang songs for kids’ panorama,
Obviously, the line would unclose.
Highs smell like such strong aroma.

Yet I’m pushed by my dilemma,
While I'm lightly pushed by one’s ‘blows’.
Wish there's no scream of a llama!
Lows are odours bearing no woes.

Yet, I’ve learned how each student knows
How to tell water from soma.
Wake up! There’s no need for star shows.
No wonder it’s no diploma.

Therefore, this journey’s a comma,
Rather than the end or a close.
It’s why I’m proud to tell mama:
“I love them kids. It’s cause of those,
Teaching practice has.”


Date posted: 05/04/2023
Name of Contest: Double The Fun Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May

I Recall One Summer

I recall the river Wharfe, black crows caw
Swaying meadows dance to opulent breeze,
To wander within summer’s clothes she wore
And merging clouds the canopy to tease
When rain on nature’s cloak does gently please.
I recall fields of jade in sun lit dew
The summit of the Beacon’s striking view,
To taste the odours of woodland rambles
Witness the swallows beneath skies of blue
While wood mice wait of fruit laden brambles.

Entered Dizain Poetry Contest
Sponsor  Sotto Poet
Theme Summer
written 22/10/2022

Spring In Mariupol

The birdscarers have been at work in Mariupol.
Not with firecrackers in barrels
But shells and rockets.
There is no birdsong in the trees in Mariupol.
The birds have left.
There are no trees.
The trees are splinters.
The flowers that bloom are Pion shells,
Blossoming red among apartment blocks.
Spring recoils at Mariupol.
An ashen winter has corroded buildings,
Left bleached and blackened skeletons;
A winter made in munitions factories
And spread broadcast like cancered seed.
There is no perfume of spring blossom in the air;
The smell of burning drifts across the rubble and
Sweet, sickly odours hang heavy.
There is no birdsong in the trees in Mariupol.
The birds have left,
All but the carrion crows.

Dark Desire

Dark desires nonplus,
each life breath tests us,
moment to moment ~ 
lust odours ferment.

Our mind-body urge
self-blocks the bliss surge;
darkness shrouds darkness,
distanced from oneness.

Fall from grace our shame.
Stupor is to blame.
We’ve a lot to learn ~
see how instincts burn.

Regret and remorse 
corrects our life course,
becoming mindful
of the divine pull.

01-May-2022

My Witness

Got into that a mirage
Unmapped in all its grounds
Where no lifeline could exist
Cautious distrust kicking in
An area where sorrows spread
That the beings had spoonfed
A stipulation of a well-crafted hat
Intruding two thirds of real hope
In that frame of mind pinpointed.

Walked through such a path
Paved long enough to the unseen end
Beautiful flowers emerging from sides
Just strongly pouring attractive odours
The fragrances to be sold at no price
That anyone would like to pass through
An amusement of natural adorable sprays
Leaving some marks to get questioned
By the look it expresses over the context.

Seek beyond the best feasible option
Uncharted below infinite water flows
To what the superiors would believe
Self opinions triggering mass faith
A sense to be named as uncommon
That no light ray felt to beam
A true meaning of being fake
Crashing all the Joules by others
To this little significant dot.

My Love

My love,
Your beauty cheers up the mortal eye;

In your eyes, I behold the morning light
the city of gold, the harbour bright;

You're fairer than morning, lovelier than daylight
More awesome than the stars that stray at midnight;

Your neck is adorned with jewels so rare
Your skin like the sun, so bright and fair;

The smile on your lips is the feast of the mind
and your bountiful care I can never deny;

Your body is made with fadeless bloom
and from it comes these fumes of nice perfume;

Your body is soft, full if odours sweet
Your eyes so seductive, I can't resist;

You care like a darling
and walk like a diva;

You sleep like a baby
and love like a mother;

My love, if only you could understand
that I love you so much, I can't withstand;

By grace, I'll wait till the final year
and I only wish to meet you there.

Telltale Tattle

Scats scattered in field
tell who or what's been there.

Footprints lined up 
like string of daisy chain 
stick figures in rogues gallery
outside the window,
tell who's been where, and when.

Outside the grass is indented, sticks snapped
leaves out of place, leaf litter rustled,
Inside the room wreaks of disturbance
tells me someone has entered, 
someone has been in there.

Odours lingering and lolling a
bout in still dank room air
tell whose been doing what, in there.

There are no secrets
hidden from telltale tattles,
forensic.

Sweet

The foosty smell of her unworn silks
tries to mask her scent
but my nostrils hunt angrily
tip-toe passed the odours
that try to mask her essence.
When that trace is finally found
i linger there
in daylight tendrils
trying to remember
what the taste of happiness
was like
but all those memories
only fracture the broken
parts that lie
in piles
somewhere deep inside

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