Intentional Hybrid
Certain fragrances only become noticeable,
And stand out from the others...
When these unfamiliar scents are given attention.
Some may debate they leave better aromas.
And a few experienced may detect,
A mix of scents created by an intentional hybrid.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Scents And Memory
you leave behind a scent
that trails the sky
my nose has cast
a net that succeeds
to catch all things yours
you have joined the earth
and are now only bones
but your scents, your breath
lingers, trails the entire ground
and my heart that grows fonder
with each passing breeze
the roses bow and bow
in agreement to both of our meet
so many images caught
in this mess of net
flying from scents, earth and bones
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Pensive I Sit and Sniff Scents
Pensive I sit and sniff scents,
Of lavender and lilac...
Coming to invade my space,
From the other side of a fence...
Where my neighbors reside.
These days I try to find a way,
To quiet all of my anxieties.
And I didn't think I had that many,
Until I discovered...
I do!
And still I sit in a pensiveness.
Between thoughfulness and sadness.
And dreams that seem out of reach.
Although my 'spirits'
Are lifted by scents I sniff and wish to seige.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Jar's Story
from the start
the hands that shaped you
designed you to be empty
you were named
Jar,
someone so
beautiful and rich
takes you
away from your
maker
those hands
cannot hold you for long
because they are
empty and hungry
hands
and then she fills
you with perfume
and all those who attend
the parties of the
world
dip their fingers
in your scent
they crowd around you
and you are loved
not for what you are
but what you
can give
scents, scents,
all scents
you begin to miss
your original form
the beauty that you
possess
when you were
once empty
you miss the whisper
of space inside
your belly
the hush of the wind
that rests in
your heart
you forget the name
that was given to you
Jar is your name
but are not one of them
anymore
you are the scent
of their necks
hanging on their
jaws and navels
your contents
fill now their fantasies
your hollowness
they now discard
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Revered
They had no clue who they were!
And it was intentional.
They had no say in their destiny!
And it was intentional.
They were used to entertain.
And for social programs
Monitored and maintained!
They were treated as if they had no brains...
And THAT was intentional!
Stripped of titles and resources.
And it was intentional.
Treated with disrespect and like work horses.
And it was intentional!
Then one day a shift occurs...
And this process from them purged.
A reversal of fortune takes root and grows!
The oppressed no longer depressed,
By this suppression once imposed.
And it IS intentional...
No one mentions them now revered!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Paintings
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
your painting, it brings
brings me back all the years
still i can sit in that chair of
that long lost cafe and
have the privilege of a
tete a tete with friends,
imagined and real
of things we all cherish
the love of art and all the things
that it brings - scenes,
scents, and the time
we thought is lost
forever in time
Second Version
--
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
your painting, it brings
brings me back all the years
still i can sit in that chair of
that long lost cafe and
have the privilege of a
tete a tete with friends,
imagined and real
of things we all cherish
the love of art and all the things
that it brings - scenes,
scents and geniuses
overheated talents
that drove them lunatics,
madmen manoevring
with the coldness
of the arctics
volcanoes that explode
splotches, dashes
splashes, onto the
canvas of their dreams
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
paintings, they bring back
all the years nature plods on
against adversities to help
the artist pour out its best onto canvas
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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You Play Entirely By Yourself
You've created a game you play entirely by yourself.
Is this something done consciously?
Is this a game played with me you believe I can't see?
You've created a game you play entirely by yourself.
At first I thought you were sincere and honest.
I did not suspect you to be,
Someone who played with others emotionally.
I did not detect this from you at all.
Until you would say disrespectful things,
When I would think of you and place a telephone call.
I did not suspect you to be,
Insensitive and distant when you chose to be.
And had no regard for the feelings of others...
Until I caught you embellishing,
Something you did for someone claimed...
When I was the one who did it,
And you didn't mention me by name.
You've created a game you play entirely by yourself.
Is this something done consciously?
Is this a game played with me you believe I can't see?
Or is it that you are that experienced,
And the game you play and have created...
Only to you when implemented makes sense.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Walking Two
You walk me down the same path each time
showing me that other world you inhabit
a thousand sights and sounds
and smells
I am unaware of.
You look at me with wet eyes
eager to share your various finds
and the crisp morning air
aligns with my need to rise
for the tour
you want to take me on.
You're my nature guide
and I
the student
who never graduates
learning each day
from my nature dog.
You pause
each bush
of intriguing interest
and you leave behind your scent
I guess to establish your ownership
then leaping along
to the next perpendicular
wondering why I don't
join in leaving behind
my own
pee mail.
And I think to myself
that just maybe one day
at night perhaps
I will
just to see
how you'd
react
cause I know
you'd never tell
and we'd both walk away
in the stealth of night
comrades
leaving behind our combined scents
for other dogs
to know
don't mess with
us
we have left behind two scents
on this bush.
Woff, woff
and we then move on.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Digging 2
To-day I think
Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;
Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;
The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.
It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Sabbat's Dance
Raven Wing nights
Watched by Cold hearted orbs
Secret chantings
Driven Arcane musings
Whispered Winds
fetching hot earth scents
Building Passions
Awaiting the Will an Word
Creation's
Creating
Created
NOW!
Spring Quiet
Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;
Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.
Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:
Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;
"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.
"Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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In This Vast Garden of Variety
If it was not for left stench,
Of your presence...
The freshness of flower scents,
Would be more inviting...
In this vast garden of variety.
But you choose to come,
And leave a reek!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Play, Book, Poem Or Song
Sometimes little snippets
from our life gone by
can fire our imagination
and make our words fly.
A certain song can evoke
a memory of yesterday
and we will remember a bit of life
that has gone away.
Different scents and aromas
can do the same thing too
and make us travel back
to the days of our youth.
The harshness of any pain
we may have suffered yesterday
time has diminished it slightly
as it moves along its way.
However, with each memory
and inspiring thought,
from it grows into words
for a play, book, poem or song.
9 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Money Green
Money green.
The color of it most effective,
When the having of it...
Produces impaired vision,
Experienced by those getting a bit too close.
And the having of money like that,
Manicured lawns are seen...
Getting the best of devoted treatment.
Money green is noticeable.
Nothing about it is hidden.
Or exaggerated when mentioned.
The ones with money intend to outshine,
With the receiving of attention given.
In a separation clearly seen as done,
Between those who have it!
And the ones who AINT got none!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Scents... ' (or) Tea - Baby
S
C
E
N
T
S
I So, Love The Scent, of A Fresh, Cup Of Tea
Like, I Love The Smell, of A Fresh-Bathed Baby
Both, Are So Very Delicate, Soothing & Sweet
Both, Are A Unique, Fragile-Moment Complete
And With Rose Petals and Soft Lavender Scents
And Apple-Blossoms, Honey and Fresh Peppermint
All Come In Lotions Or Talc-Powder For Baby
And In My Teacup, These Aromas Are Tasty
I So Love The Scent of Steeped-Leaf Tea
And A Fresh-Bathed, Gurgling Baby
Come, Sip A Cup of Tea With Me
While I Hold & Sniff The Baby
poem by MoonBee Canady
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The Fourth Amendment
THERE IS always something
to say,
something that you may not
want to hear
and break the drums
of your ear,
the truths are always covered
and sealed
like pressurized champagne
which when finally
opened
in a surprising bang
bang
all attention is caught
to the scents of life
the smell of vapor from
the pine trees
the sparkles of champagne
on the glass
that you hold tenderly
and slowly
sip
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Babies, Moms, Memories and Aromas
Babies, Moms, memories and Aromas
Young baby, helpless and wee
Head reposes on mom’s shoulder
Nestled in soft arms comfortably
Smells the hair of the one who holds her
Mom’s fresh shampoo scent, becomes imprinted deep
A comforting, soothing essence… in
The child’s vast, and unfilled memory keep
Takes up permanent residence
Small, chubby fingers twirling ringlets of hair
While the singular scent of her mother…is
Being tucked away, with loving care
Memories and scents stacked atop one another
Sweet baby powder is the smell on the palm
Of the hand That gently pats the child’s back
The odor re-enforcing a reassuring calm… and
Promptly being added to the child’s memory sack
Mom’s own smell, sweat mixed with soap, sweet and pungent
By the child is inhaled and sequestered forever within
Memory’s medicine, to be used as an unguent
And in her memory, applied by her mother’s hands once again
Baby oil and baby powder, a heady mixture...
An olfactory delight to store in a child’s mind
Another memory to sequester and treasure
Mixed with mothers scent, unique and sublime
Many years in the future, this child now all grown
Will be reminded by scents of the present, and will measure
Her mom’s sweet scent, mixed with her own
And locked in her mind’s vault, to treasure….
Forever and ever
poem by David Whalen
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The Cupboard Of Loveliness
The fragrances of yesteryear
So fascinated me
That everything was crystal clear,
As if my destiny!
Collecting perfumes one-by-one,
Became my great desire,
My joie de vivre, my scents of fun,
As seller and as buyer...
Exquisite and ecstatic friends,
As if my second skins.
Companionship that never ends -
They cause my constant grins...
They magnify, they edify,
They sanctify my soul,
They rectify, electrify,
They somehow make me whole...
No wonder, then, I must enthuse,
Promoting such perfumes,
Such that I help my friends to choose
The blessed and best of blooms.
Designer perfumes blow my mind!
Pure bliss and happiness!
They're Heaven-scent and so refined,
God-given loveliness!
Denis Martindale, copyright February 2011.
Peter Sherlock, UK Shopping tv pre-scent-er
Dedicated to Peter Sherlock's ever-so-famous
'The Cupboard of Loveliness' which could just as
easily be called 'The Cupboard of Love Finesse'.
Fragrances stimulate, envigorate and celebrate
all that we sense as being beautiful and sensual.
Our transformation can be such a revelation that
others will want to share. Maybe there should be
a perfume called, ' What's That? ' because that's
what people ask us when they want what we've got!
How many buyers say they're buying perfume for
somebody else, only to sample the perfume and must
keep it all to themselves? Millions, that's how many!
poem by Denis Martindale
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They Are The Ones That Others Envy
I have issues with people who leave people...
Begging on the streets with nothing to eat.
Or treat others like they're not even human equals.
And then look disgusted like they are diseased
No human being can teach a cat hygiene.
Nor can you teach a grown up to be clean.
Nobody should be teaching who to respect.
That should be a given and not a pick to peck.
I have issues with the snots with turned up noses.
As if they have scents of champion roses.
Ooo I can't believe these people are the ones who stink.
And-they-believe,
They are the ones that others envy?
Who made them runner up for fresh sainthoods?
Who showed them evilness was anything good?
Who gave them rights to think they beam like light?
And who told them they approve the Sun that rises high!
Yes I have issues with the snots with turned up noses.
As if they have scents of champion roses.
Ooo I can't believe these people are the ones who stink.
And-they-believe,
They are the ones that others envy?
They believe,
They are the ones that others envy.
And they believe,
They are the ones that others envy.
They believe,
They are the ones that others envy.
And they believe,
They are the ones that others envy.
I have issues with the snots with turned up noses.
And they believe,
They are the ones that others envy.
I have issues with the snots with turned up noses.
And they believe,
They are the ones that others envy.
And they believe,
They are the ones that others envy.
And they believe,
They are the ones that others envy.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Night Ritual
I can feel the river flow
in my night-time Tsunami's
washing over me
and I am bathing myself
cleansing in my secret thoughts
elevating my gentling soul
amid the ritual of it.
It is the grounding sense I gain.
I feel the centering
that thoughts, mind and soul bring
the yogaing,
the quietude
where the vortex
swings into orbit
and quiets itself
all around me.
It may be in the combing of the hair
the bathtub scents
the gentle rustlings
of the bed room sheets
the candle light bent
toward your glowing face
all these
are the gentle anticipations
the barefeet paddings
the night time scents
which mean the most-
no almost the most-
to me.
Your arms reaching
are really foremost
and I take their meaning
and lie down beside you
in the all Consummating Night.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Sold On Ridiculousness
There is nothing like feeding the mind by reading.
Or paying attention by listening.
And connecting these elements with observation.
There is nothing like it!
There is nothing that addresses comprehension,
Better than what has been mentioned.
But then again...
There will be those who will waste debate,
To satisfy themselves and their pretensions!
With discussions about the quality of the approach delivered.
And IF it 'twas handled with appropriate etiquette.
As relating to the current season.
And whether or not...
The credentials of the messenger impressed.
'All that just to pay attention to something? '
I've seen some folks sold on ridiculousness!
Based upon what color they were...
And how they were dressed.
'I'm willing to bet that's how this mess was created! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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