And then...

 

Change is like that strong smell

of cut grass or chopped wood

that stops you still.

Patterns, a symbol can be

an illegible sign, 

at first glance.

Or a certain light at sunset, 

or dark that whispers

Where am I coming from?

You are always going

Somewhere.

Next to nothing seems impossible.

I am next.

Painting by Orazio Gentileschi, 'Portrait of a Young Woman as a Sibyl' (c. 1620-1626) from Google Art Project via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

A-scent

A vile

Odor repels

something sinister

kept safe by scent

Just so

A vial

of perfume

Lingers long after

the liquid disappears

as pen on paper

fade

In residue resides

A verse

Contains a moment or more

than matter, intangible yet

Solidified somewhere

such as Here

Averse

to keeping a poem

Imprisoned eternally

Ascent is always

Released. 

Painting by Francis Philip Barraud (1824-1901), 'Prisoners of War' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Cat got my nose

I lost another
poem last night.
It wasn't more than
a fetus
or a couple of lines
strung loosely together.

It never had a chance,
much less a second thought,
until now when
I was sure
it would be there
when I was-
ready for it.

I could assume
it was never important
and would not amount
to anything
significant.

Yet, a feeling lingers,
like scent
from another-
                      who was here?

Passes thru

The train rolling through town

sends in its signal 

                   with the intermittent whistle which warns

of something more than arrival, delivery or destination,
crimson, or even hot steal.

It smelt of cinnamon and sueded leather,

Bark and skin, the warm coat.

Two young men, 
                         friends since childhood, 
Skype and catch-up on nothing new.

They live close to each other, 
                         only one hears the train first.

The little girl that left the boy 
                         in the woods to get lost herself
was kind enough

to think of bread for later so she could come back

to him, but he was hungry and took care
                         of himself.

She cries about choices to another boy.

She was the wolf that howls at the passing train, sirens song,

a puppy in a dogs coat.

Tracks made for trains are best for drawing lines, 
                        demonstrating the forging of space

between then and now,

                                    here and there

one nose

smells first

and hides in his skin.

The other clearly hears
the passing scream left behind
on warm steal lines
                        without a second glance

he knew there will be another
                         soon enough to catch up.
He takes off his coat.  
No longer in a hurry 
he thinks in all directions,
and decides to walk
without destination.




Photo credit by Carol M. Highsmith [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Aromatic Aura

How fast does smell travel?

Why must we try to identify the source?

What if----like light---

the colors- have not blossomed

yet in us?

The smells  seem too obscure to identify individually,

as in comparing puce or magenta and tastes of rust.

We take in the deep red rose delightfully-

We pull the yellow little weeds sourly-

Sort of sorting…

Is there a clear line where the scent drops off?

As in event horizon,

Sort of, Danny D. would offer.

And scatter or spray,

It works the same way

At the atomic level

What does it Do?

Save face.

The rock has not the same

fears.

Making sense of it,

We had to take it all in-

side.

There was no place safe

to hide from the smell

we all know too well

already.


Painting By Francisco Iturrino (Santander, Spain, 1864 - Cagnes-sur-Mer, France, 1924) Born in Santander, Spain. Dead in Cagnes-sur-Mer, France. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Nocturnal trees

See these
These are nocturnal trees.
Smell them.
Smell them
in deeply. Take thier scent away. With you.
They are not disturbed easily.
They are the kind
with night vision
in tones of chlorophyll

if you trust inklings, as in sense,
hints like notes of new saplings, young.

And it is simply our symbiotic nature,
a pair, apparently, a part.
These people.
These trees.
The leaves.
Branches, hands, bark
wave with symmetrical measures.

They, they, all day,
stealing each others breath away
naturally. Dancing. Aglow in green envy.
Tiny white feathers fly
the falcon feasts naturally
the tree is happy to night.



Painting by Caspar David Friedrich, c. 1819, Two men contemplating the moon, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A city called Home

If I were blind the first question would be
Where,
then Am I?
If I were to listen I could not tell our places
apart
Your city sounds no different than my home.

When I close my eyes
                to turn up the volume,
when I strain to listen in
               the sounds become deafening.

I can hear your train
               passing through.
I can hear the rushing waters,
through my fountain
                or your pipes.
I can hear conversations
                not for me,
laughter, underlapping rise and
fall
of voice-
a plane passes also
                not for me.

I can smell the cafes, the local fare,
I can smell the clothes and bodies,
I can smell the trash and perfume spent
for no good reason.

The pots and pans,
footsteps, traffic, coming and goings
of whims from my window
it tastes exhilarating.

Smiles, and dings, rings,
jewels, tones, excuse me's
and gotta go's
seem exhausting.

Everything
I could ever need,
under one roof,
safely knowing each footstep
                      to the door, down the hall
                      to get the mail
                      to get back inside
                      (where I hide)
called my place,
or your City
Where
        I am right at home
taking in
the blind view.

Scratch and sniff

We rose                        Sun hid
I have smelt                  falling stars
pungent peopled          drapery for day
leaning up                    steadfast
petals out                      rooted repetition
for dew                        digs deep
                   Sinks in

                   (either way).






Painting by Winslow Homer, Woman with a Rose (1879), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Your Gues(t)s

There,
where you are
I can see me
being shown
around by you
native trees and path
ways you cross
while I notice
the shade of the sky
unable to grasp
the name
the word
the color
or any delicate phrase
to turn
to say
the way the crisp air
nibbles on my nose
before piercing my ear
lobes with sugar frosted
sentiments thick with lust
lingering over us
like clouds
getting there
some time
where ever
There
is.



Image by Carl Moll, watercolor c. 1901-1902, Stroll in the gardens of Votivkirche, Vienna [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Panthera poema

Crouching in the shadows

its form blends into the pitch.

Pads perching on pillows,

lightly as an idea as not

to break a thought...

Whose scent fills in the breathing air,

sourcelessly seeping like smoke

with out fire. The spilt perfume vial,

wafting with ripe open stamen

acid breeze that chills your nape.

Of carnal mists and earth dusts,

pores choking on essence

smoking roar that singes

leaves, flashing green torches

smoldering for three days-be four-

Envy eyes curious to find

fresh tracks laid and lining

the way to walk without a 

sound, reason. Knowing 

you know it's there.

Indivisible pre-occupation with you,

incensed and bemused by notions

elusive to all traps set, over-gliding

to terminal reality

true never twice.

I prey the stalking, we share,

means we smell the same.

Image by Singer Ron U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

“...understand the nature of that illustrious vernacular that Dante claims to be tracking down like a perfumed panther, 'whose scent is everywhere but which is nowhere to be seen.' (DVE I, xvi, 1).”**-Umberto Eco (From the Tree to the Labyrinth, p 297, Harvard University Press, 2014).

** “It was thought in the Middle ages that the panther had a richly perfumed breath and left a trace of its passage wherever it had been. But, for the hunters who attempted to trap it, it was practically impossible to locate. So they would smell its perfume but never success in catching it. This explains how the panther became a metaphor for poetry itself.”-Umberto Eco